Title: A Touch Of Your Grace

Fandom: Homeland

Pairing: Carrie/Brody, Jessica/Mike, (implied) Brody/Jessica

Rating: T

Word Count: 7,376

Warnings: the usual suspects. Infidelity, violence, occasional bad language, ptsd/cer, alcohol abuse. Title taken from "What About Now" by Daughtry.

Synopsis: He can feel her whole body trembling, like it's physically exhausting for her to say these things and stand up at the same time. A trip down the rabbit hole to wonderland isn't complete without a little madness.

A/N: So this is set immediately after the end of 2x06 in Brody's office, but from the grocery store thing onwards, it's all after 2x07 and 2x08. In case you've forgotten, 2x06 ends with Carrie storming into Brody's office and asking him if he knew what was going to happen in Gettysburg at the Tailors.

"They keep telling me not to trust you," She mumbles through tears, "Saul and P-peter, and I keep telling them I don't but deep down I just do even though you keep acting like this entitled, narcissistic asshole and then stuff like this happens and you make me question everything I think I know about you because last time I trusted you I ended up in restraints in a hospital bed having fucking ECT while taking fucking lithium for a problem it turns out wasn't my problem. And you did that. And I still. Fucking. Trust you even though everyone tells me not to, and even when you give me reason not to. Even when you treat me like shit and act like everything I say must have this big ulterior motive but you don't have that right, Brody. You just don't."

He can feel her whole body trembling, like it's physically exhausting for her to say these things and stand up at the same time.

"You are not a monster. I already told you that. But you're also not just a victim of circumstance, okay? You don't get to be angry with me when I ask you to prove yourself. Not after what you did to me, and especially not after what you almost did in that bunker."

"Been waiting a long time to say that?" He asks. He doesn't mean to sound flippant, but it's all he can think of to say.

"You have no idea." She mutters, stepping backwards out of his arms and wiping the traitor tears from her cheeks.

"I apologise for storming into your office." She says shortly, folding her arms across her chest and not looking him in the eye.

"I got the general gist of it but what- what happened in Gettysburg?" He asks tentatively, hoping he's not about to set her off again.

She rubs one hand over her face wearily. "A group of men walked in there dressed as a SWAT team and just… blew everyone away. Five guys from forensics and two of our investigators."

"And they're all…" he trails off with an awkward wave of his hand. He doesn't need to finish the sentence for Carrie to know what he's asking.

"Four of the five forensics guys, one of them is in the ICU, one of the investigators died, the other is still in surgery."

"Quinn?"

"In surgery."

They're both silent for a second, then he says the only thing he can think of to try and make this less… just- less. Not so raw and painful and intense.

He's got a lot to answer for.

"You wanna go get a drink?" He asks her casually. Her eyes fly open.

"With you?" She asks with raised eyebrows. He shrugs, wearing a half smile as if to say who else? "Fuck no!" she replies with a short laugh.

He can't help but laugh with her.

"No, you're right. That's probably not such a good idea…"

"You and I don't mix well with alcohol when we're together." She states unnecessarily.

"Right. You get into bar fights with Neo Nazi's or have me arrested or we end up fucking."

"Me? I wasn't the one who started… like two-thirds of those things." She protests and he laughs, taking a step towards her.

"You're the one who started all of them!" He protests, raising his hands as if in self defence.

"Oh you are not putting all this on me. You kissed me."

"I did not!"

"I think you'll find you-" He kisses her. "-did." She finishes when they pull apart.

It really does feel like pulling apart though, like they keep being thrown together by magnets, or gravity or divine intervention or something.

"You know you're not really arguing your own case here…" She murmurs.

This is her favourite part about being with him - don't get her wrong, she loves to kiss him, she loves to sleep with him, and she loved waking up with him, but still one of her favourite parts - is the moments right before the lightning strike kiss, when the electricity in the air crackles, and they teeter on a will-they-won't-they knife edge right before the floor falls out from under them and they just don't stop falling.

The way he's looking at her just makes her want to lock the door to his office and let him have his way with her, this way, that way, anyway he likes.

Give her some credit, she absolutely, categorically does not do anything of the sort.

Except the part where she really kind of does.

The next morning when she's in the shower washing the scent of him from her skin - but not the finger shaped bruises on her thighs, because those won't fade for days (she doesn't mind if Jessica doesn't mind the mostly accidental - and rather sizable, if she recalls correctly - love bite bruises across his collarbones and the base of his throat) - it occurs to her they always seem to fall down this particular rabbit hole whenever one of them is so far beyond emotionally exhausted that the other is the only one who can hold them up. When they're both borderline certifiable and just craving the touch of someone who understands - when they feel like they're the only two people in the world who could ever, will ever, understand each other this completely and surely.

That being said, a trip down the rabbit hole to wonderland isn't complete without a little madness.

"This is rather domestic for us, don't you think?" He observes casually as she grabs a bag of pasta off of the middle shelf.

"I didn't say you had to come with me." She points out, checking the pasta off of her grocery shopping list. Her therapist likes her to have a stable routine (as stable as a CIA Agent can have), so now she makes a shopping list each week and visits the grocery store every Tuesday.

"Next week my schedule is jam packed with meetings so I figured if I didn't see you tonight it would be at least next Sunday until I could see you again." He shrugs, twining their fingers together on her shoulder. His arm is thrown around her shoulder so she's sort of tucked under his arm. Comfortable and safe. Not two words one might put together for their dangerous, volatile relationship, but they both felt it then.

She's pushing the shopping cart round with one arm now, and he's almost certain that this position isn't exactly conducive to speedy grocery shopping, but he's somehow given up fighting this urge to be closer to her.

"And you just couldn't wait six days to see me?" She asks, but her voice is light, teasing.

"Six days is a long time compared to how often we usually see each other." He reminds her and she smiles, before looking down at her list.

"Okay, I need my hand back, the potato chips are on the top shelf." She says, moving to tug her arm free, but he doesn't let her. Instead he tightens his arm around her shoulders a little and pulls her around, so they're both face-to-face. Literally. There's maybe two or three inches of space between their lips, but the rest of their bodies are pressed completely together. He's literally pressing her against the shelves in a grocery store. She'd stop him if the thought even crossed her mind. Which it doesn't.

"Sergeant Brody we are in a public place!" Carrie says with a faux-snooty accent. He laughs and leans down to kiss her.

"Well then, you better hope we don't get caught…" He mutters against her lips, reaching over her head with his free hand and snagging a couple of the share bags of chips. He doesn't bother to look at the flavour, just chucks them in the cart before pulling back completely so that they're standing a semi-(but not really)-respectable distance apart.

She slides her hand into his as they continue to walk down the aisle, and he knots their fingers together. Safe and comfortable.

"That was impressive - you even managed to choose decent flavours!" Jessica hears Carrie laugh as the two of them continue to walk in the opposite direction from her, leaving her stood over her own shopping cart with a horrified expression on her face.

Holy shit. Holy- just, what the fuck was that?

She remembers him swearing to her they weren't even working together - that she'd been kicked out of the CIA after she went nuts. Except he calls it "her nervous breakdown", like that somehow makes it better. Like that shouldn't have been a clue. He's always defending her.

She doesn't even want to know what kind of excuses he'll come up with for this - she literally witnessed him kissing her and holding her and laughing with her and acting like he was Carrie's husband not hers, and yet she knows he'll have some excuse, some alibi, some- something to say that will inevitably leave her feeling like a fool.

Things are tense at best over dinner. Brody is absent (as usual) and Dana and Chris can tell something's up with her, Jessica can see it all over their faces.

"How was your day at school, Chris?" She asks.

"Fine." He mutters, pushing his peas around his plate with his fork.

She takes a deep breath. She will not yell. It's not her children's fault that her husband is cheating on her after all.

"What about you, Dana?"

"It was great. So interesting." Dana replies disinterestedly, looking about as cheerful and enthusiastic as her brother.

"Sorry I'm late. I got held up at work." Brody calls as he walks through the door and throws his keys in the dish on the counter by the door.

"No problem. Your plate is in the oven." She says with a tight lipped smile.

"Everything okay?" He asks, looking confused as he shrugs out of his jacket and sets it on the back of the sofa.

"Peachy." She's still smiling (sort of), but for a brief second her eyes are warning him to watch out for dark alleys late at night, lest he find himself on the wrong end of a knife. Then it disappears and she looks normal as usual and he scolds himself for being paranoid again.

"I'm gonna jump in the shower, I'll grab dinner when I get out." He says, turning away and walking down the hall to their bedroom.

Has he ever brought her here? Jess wonders as she watches him go.

Ten minutes later when he hasn't returned she stands up, "back in a second," she says over her shoulder. His dinner is going to be ruined. Why should she care? Working late my ass, she thinks as she pushes the door open slowly.

He's facing their wardrobe on the other side of the room so she can see his reflection in the mirrored doors. He's pulling a shirt over his head so he can't see her. But she can sure as hell see him.

Brody is covered in scars from his time in captivity, of course he is.

But the patchwork mix of fresh and fading dark red bruises on his upper chest sure as hell aren't from the war - at least, not from the one he fought in Iraq.

She feels physically sick.

Let your dinner burn, asshole. See if I give a fuck.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this but - he's cheating on you again, Jess." Mike says a week or so later, and Jessica stops washing the plate in her hands. She just stares straight out of the window.

"I'm sorry. I had to go over to the CIA today for a meeting and I saw them together in the car lot. They were kind of all over each other. It was pretty sickening actua-"

"Stop." Jessica whispers, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Just stop."

He falls quiet, and sets down the dish he was drying and the towel he was using.

He waits for her to speak but she doesn't say anything for a while.

"I'm sor-"

"I know he's sleeping with her again." She interrupts, once again shutting him up.

"You- what?"

"He's been fucking her for weeks. Since before he caved and told me he was working with the CIA, I think." She's still not looking at him.

"Then why are you still with him?" He asks Jess blankly, not understanding why she would stay with someone who seemed to revel in humiliating her like this.

That does get her attention, and she spins to face him, her eyes flashing angrily.

"He's my-"

"Husband, yeah, you've mentioned it." He says bitterly, ignoring the surprised and slightly hurt expression on her face.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, taking off her rubber gloves and folding her arms defensively across her chest.

"You know damn well what it means, Jess. Brody used to be my best friend but, he's changed. The war changed him. Eight years in captivity changed him. Finding out about us changed him; he treats you like shit for no good reason and you just sit here and take it!"

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" She shouts, throwing her hands in the air.

"Leave him!" Mike fires back, "Leave him and be with someone who isn't asking for anything more than to love you and be loved right back!"

They both stand still in stunned silence.

Finally she shakes her head and turns back to the dishes. "I think you should go."

He barks out a short, bitter laugh. "Whatever, Jess. Just- call me when you figure this shit out. Until then just leave me the hell alone."

Then he turns around and storms out.

She doesn't even notice she's crying until the tears are dripping off her chin.

It was an easy mistake to make, all things considered. He's so rushed off his feet at work he wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. The phone line rings and rings until the machine voice in his ear parrots the usual voicemail message to him, and he starts talking after the beep without much consideration.

"Hey, Carrie, I'm just leaving the office. I know we said we'd try and get up to the cabin this weekend but Walden wants me at this gala thing on Sunday and we have to leave to head down there on Saturday afternoon, so I was thinking we should head up there to the cabin tonight - I'll call Jess and tell her Walden's given me a proposal to look over or something, and then I'll be back tomorrow in time to leave for that event. You can call me back if you like, but either way I'm heading to your place now so I'll see you soon. I love you."

Jessica stands in the middle of her bedroom fresh out of the shower, clad only in a bath towel and dripping all over the carpet. She barely even notices she's still holding the phone to her ear long after the message has ended. She presses 'two' when she does realise, and listens to the message again. And again. And again and again until she's so pissed off she could happily throw the damn phone at his head.

He loves her.

Her husband is in love with someone who isn't her.

Leave him! Mike's words echo around in her head, Leave him and be with someone who isn't asking for anything more than to love you and be loved right back!

The worst part is he sounds so happy - so free - in a way that she hasn't heard him sound since before he was deployed to Iraq. Brody loves Carrie, and Carrie makes Brody happy.

So why the hell is she still here, making herself miserable?

Why the hell shouldn't she be happy for once?

She drops her phone onto the bed and turns to her closet. She pulls open the doors and rifles through her dresses, looking for the gorgeous (if slightly daring) blue one that Mike had always said he loved on her.

When she leaves, she takes a bottle of wine, and doesn't take her phone with her. She can't imagine he'll call anyway.

"Do you really think that's a good idea? Because it seems like a really fucking bad idea to me." Carrie protests, folding her arms across her chest.

"It's done. The arrangements have been made. Saul, Quinn, Brody, You and a small team of agents will be flying to Iraq tomorrow night in time to for him to meet the troops tomorrow night. Give them a speech, boost morale," Estes states firmly, no chance of him changing his mind, "they've been over there for ten months, they need someone to inspire them, remind them why they're doing what they're doing. Someone like Brody is the perfect candidate for that."

She tries to protest again, but is silenced with a wave of his hand.

"Enough. Make sure he's ready, make sure he's prepared. Make sure he doesn't run off and make sure they don't assassinate him. I don't want any surprises, Carrie, you got that?" He asks, and she nods her head obediently, biting the inside of her cheek to make sure she doesn't say something stupid.

She turns to leave, but is stopped by Estes' voice.

"The two of you are still close, correct?"

She doesn't want to turn and face him and start a whole discussion, but she also doesn't want to lose her job.

"Yes, sir."

"Try not to spook him too much when you tell him."

She gapes at him, and thinks about protesting, but he's already looked away from her (a wordless dismissal), but thinks better of it. If anyone's got to tell him about this, it should be someone he trusts. It can only really be her, then.

She told him almost immediately. She couldn't face spending a night at the cabin with him only for him to find out another secret the morning after. It would all just feel like some kind of hideous parallel to their last visit up there.

He takes it well, all things considered. That is to say, if you consider punching a hole through the bathroom door and then drinking half a bottle of booze found at the back of one of the kitchen cabinets well. Honestly though, she was expecting a flat out refusal. It had taken no small amount of persuasion on her part, but he eventually conceded.

"I hate myself for making you go back." She murmurs, staring out across the lake from where they're sitting on the cold, hard ground.

"Don't do that to yourself. It's not your fault." He protests vehemently. They're both sobering up now, so stands up and offers her his hand to help her up too. The second she's close enough he pulls her against his chest and kisses her fiercely, swallowing all her apologies.

They spend the next hour or so taking their fears out on each other and themselves so fiercely it's almost brutal, all the while trying to pretend they don't notice how dysfunctional and unhealthy and addictive their love is- has always been.

A little while later they're lying together on the old mattress in the cabin, clad only in sheets and sweat and each other, pressed so close together he can feel her heart beating against his chest.

"Tell me, tell me." He pleads, his fingers sliding up her leg and over her hip, pulling her closer still against him.

It takes a second for her brain to catch up with everything else that's going on, but then she remembers.

Is this real? Or are you just handling me - keeping me close?

"Real, it's real," She huffs out against his neck, "I can't- I can't handle you."

He stops kissing her for a second as she pulls back and lets out a sad, little laugh.

"I can't handle any of this." She says, shaking her head. He leans down and presses his face into her neck, dropping soft kisses against her skin - against her pulse point like he's reminding himself it's there.

"Me neither." He admits quietly.

But apparently logic and truth and reason are no match for real, unstoppable, debilitating love, because then he kisses her again and again and again and just doesn't stop until their minds are full of white noise and each other's names and they can't remember how to breathe long enough to form coherent sentences and her fingernails have left a set of half-moon shaped bruises in his shoulders while he wonders if the sounds she makes when she falls apart and comes undone for him, with him, because of him will ever fade from his mind.

He hopes, he prays it doesn't.

The following weeks and even their journey to the military base in Iraq is all just a blur, but when Brody finishes his speech to the troops, (to rousing shouts, yells and whistles) something's off with him. She can just tell. She can always tell.

So she watches from a distance as he interacts with the soldiers, and as she watches she realises what it is. He's jealous. On some level, he misses this.

Not this being part of a war, or being here in Iraq, being this kind of soldier. Having a relatively clean conscience. (As clean a conscience as a soldier can have, at least.)

She knew that his being here was going to be a bad idea - she'd just assumed it would cause a wholly painful reaction. She'd assumed he'd be completely removed from the situation - physically there, but mentally thousands of miles away. Instead he seems to be more present - he almost fits in here. Sometimes she forgets that before he was a congressman, a CIA asset, an almost-terrorist, a prisoner of war, he was like these men here. Just another soldier willing to die for the cause, for the country. He's hyper-vigilant, how could he not be? But now she's more worried than ever about what he'll be like when they return to the states. He can't imagine it's going to be good, whatever happens.

"You okay?" She asks as the five of them head for the hired hum-vees.

"I don't know." He replies, shrugging his shoulders, "I can't keep my head straight."

"Not much longer now, we leave the day after tomorrow." She hopes her response is in some way at least a little reassuring.

The back of their hands are brushing together as they walk, but they can't risk linking their fingers, palms pressed, not with all these people around, no matter how much comfort it would provide.

They make eye contact for a second. It's not long enough really, but it's apparently a second too long for Quinn, who clears his throat loudly (for their benefit) behind them. They both immediately look away and allow a little space to drift between them - removing temptation and all that.

They've just climbed into the car and started driving away when Saul gets a message from one of his contacts requesting an urgent meeting.

They send Brody back to their accommodation with the two CIA Agent guards, before heading off to meet the asset.

"You okay?" Carrie asks as they pull up closer to the building where they're staying.

"I'll be fine." He reassures her, "Do me a favour and come back in one piece?"

She smiles and wishes she could kiss him. She knows they can't do that here, not surrounded on all sides by Agents, so instead she covers his hand with her own, squeezing for a second before she lets them take him inside.

When they return to their accommodation later that evening, after a meeting that turned out to be nothing more than hearsay and rumours they didn't already know, the guard on the door to Brody's room looks bored - until he sees them.

"He hasn't left once." He responds to their unanswered question.

"Not even to get a drink or go to the bathroom? We've been gone for like four hours." Carrie points out, a low sense of dread and suspicion forming a knot at the back of her neck.

"Uh, no. He's just been in there the whole time." The guy says, looking concerned suddenly, as if it's just occurring to him that it's a little weird, too.

Carrie feels like all her blood just ran cold.

Surely… surely he hasn't…

Carrie and Saul exchange a look and Quinn rolls his eyes at their inaction.

"Wait the fuck are you waiting for? Just kick the fucking door in." He urges, but Carrie's sure they didn't lock the door, she should be fine to just open it. Except, when she tries to turn the handle, it won't budge.

"What- who locked the door?" She asks, turning to face the three men in the hallway.

Quinn looks puzzled, and gestures to the guard, "I told him to do it before we left. Didn't want him running off to meet his old buddy Nazir."

A horrified expression slides onto Carrie's face. "Here? You locked him up whilst we're right nearby the area where he was captured? Are you a complete fucking moron?"

"This isn't helping anything. Unlock the door." Saul says, trying to calm them both down before it escalates any further. The guard unlocks Brody's door, and Saul, Quinn and Carrie all pile through the door.

He's not there.

"Fuck. FUCK!" Quinn shouts, throwing his hands in the air. Then he turns, quick as a flash, and punches the chest of drawers stood by the window, like they are personally to blame for Brody not being where they left him.

There's a sharp intake of breath from across the room and all three of them spin around.

The desk that used to be in the corner of the room is now pushed closer to the centre of the room. Carrie holds up her hand to the other two, signalling them to stay where they are.

She walks slowly forwards until she reaches the side of the desk.

He's there, curled up in the corner behind the table and pressed against the wall like she remembers watching him do the first day he was home from captivity. A Conditioned Emotional Response, a psychiatrist had told her when she'd wanted to understand him better, long before they ever met outside of a working capacity. CER is so much worse than PTSD, the man had explained, shaking his head, it's when the mind is virtually reprogrammed to expect trauma and abuse. Many sufferers never recover.

"Brody. Brody, it's Carrie." She says, her voice soft in an attempt not to spook him.

"No," He hisses, pressing his face against the rough wall, "Not you, not here. You have to go before they get back."

"You're safe. No one's coming to get you." She says gently. Saul and Quinn don't make a sound behind her.

"I'm not kidding, Carrie. They'll …they'll hurt you. To destroy me. You have to go, please."

He still won't look at her, and the whole scene is just breaking her heart. They never should have brought him back over here. Who's fucking stupid idea was it, anyway?

Whoever put the idea in David Estes' mind is definitely getting a piece of her mind (and maybe her fist) when they return to the US.

"You're not in Nazir's bunker, Brody. You're in an apartment block with me and Saul and Quinn and two other American agents. You're safe, and we're leaving tomorrow." She slowly, slowly, slowly, kneels down so that she's just a couple of feet away from him. She can feel Quinn and Saul's eyes on her as she carefully approaches him.

He shakes his head rapidly, over and over, like an exaggerated version of the tic he has when he sleeps.

"No, no, no. Go, Carrie. Please, please."

"Look at me. No one's coming to get you. No one's hurting me." She pleads with him. She really wants to touch him, show him some kind of physical sign that she's telling the truth, but she knows what could happen if she touches him. She's known too many soldiers' other halves who've gotten hurt - sometimes badly - by trying to touch them or comfort them in some way. She decides he might respond better if she warns him first.

"Brody, I'm going to put my hand on your arm, okay? It's just me."

She slowly edges her hand towards him, barely grazing the skin on the back of his wrist with her fingertips at first. She carefully makes the pressure a little heavier until she's just resting her hand normally against his arm.

His eyes blink open, and she takes that (plus his lack of an outburst) as a good sign.

Then he twists his head slightly, so he's still pressed against the wall, but he's looking straight at her.

Then he shuts his eyes again, like he's ashamed or embarrassed.

"I didn't- I was just… I thought." He cuts himself off and swallows forcefully.

She turns her head so she's looking at Quinn and Saul between the table legs. She raises her eyebrows and flicks her eyes in the direction of the door. The universal nonverbal signal for; get the fuck out of here right the fuck now. Also shut the fucking door. …Thanks.

Saul nods without a word. Quinn looks a little more reluctant, but Saul nods again, this time at Quinn, who rolls his eyes and leaves with no further protest.

They leave the room, yes. But not the immediate vicinity. They've both been in military intelligence long enough by now to know that someone with PTSD - especially as severe as Brody's - is liable to lose control and lash out over much less than something like returning to the warzone he fought so hard to escape. So it's purely with Carrie's safety in mind (nothing to do with their own lingering suspicions about him, nothing at all) that they each hover on either side of the door way, listening silently.

"I've got to get out of here, Carrie." He mumbles, barely audible.

"We're leaving tomorrow." She replies.

"You were gone for days."

"…no, just a few hours."

"Right. Sorry I just- I thought they had you. I thought you were going to die."

"I'm right here." Through the crack in the door, Saul can see them. She's resting her chin on one of his knees, which are still pulled up to his chest, and he has both hands tangled through her hair and linked together at the back of her neck

Brody shakes his head and lets it fall back against the wall.

"I really fucking hate this place."

She's quiet for a second before she turns her head and kisses the palm of his hand.

"Me too."

They're both silent for a minute, and Quinn and Saul think it's probably safe for them to leave - until Carrie speaks again.

"When we get back, let's go to the cabin."

"Because that went so well last time." He points out sarcastically.

What happened at what cabin? Quinn mouths at Saul, who shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. He doesn't know the details. He doesn't really want to.

"Let's sleep by the lake - under the stars. I feel so claustrophobic here."

She sounds so young when she says that, so innocent even though they all know she's far from it.

There's another pause before-

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Saul watched with a mix of intrigue and mild horror as Brody smiled at Carrie like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on, then tipped his head forwards enough to kiss her gently.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I'm glad you're here." He said to her, pressing another short, gentle kiss to her lips.

"I'm glad we're going home tomorrow." She replies with a wry smile.

Saul has heard enough.

Eyes wide open and maintaining a professional distance my ass he thinks to himself as he heads for his own room.

Carrie's no angel. Brody is more than acutely aware of that fact. The first time he fucked her he was drunk and looking for an escape from his mind, his life and his marriage. The second time he fucked her he was also drunk, and still running away from all the same things, but this time he felt like he was running towards something tangible. Something that could help. By the third time (third time lucky, right?) he was already falling for her, and by the time it was over and they fell asleep in each other's arms, he was well and truly head over heels for her. Addicted to her, really.

She's no angel. But they spent a lot of time apart, and during that time his life was slowly but surely circling the drain, he was miserably depressed and still experiencing symptoms of PTSD and still married to a woman he no longer knew. Because of the combined efforts of all of those things, he's put her - Carrie - on a pedestal. Built her up to be some kind of beacon of hope and light and love and all that's good. Like if he can just get things right with her, he can somehow right all the wrongs of his past.

Regardless of what she's done or what she's been through, right there, in that small, dingy room in the apartment in Iraq, she's his angel.

When they go to bed, they don't bother to get undressed, they just kick their shoes off and climb into bed fully clothed. They lay in the middle of the twin sized bed on their sides, their legs tangled and their bodies pressed against each other from their feet to their shoulders. Her head is tucked into the crook of his neck and their arms are wrapped around each other like they're each trying to protect the other from the world beyond the walls.

They don't trade kisses or words, just breath and body heat until slowly, finally, the sun starts to rise.

A little later that morning everyone has to be up early, in time to catch their flight back to the States. Saul and Quinn are sitting at the small kitchen table, both typing on laptops, whilst the two other agents watch something out the window and occasionally take notes.

No one comments when Carrie and Brody walk out of his room together - it's not like it's a surprise or a secret.

Now that everyone's awake and ready, they finish packing up the few items they brought with them and load everything into the back of the car, wasting no time in getting a head start for the small airport nearby.

They've been driving for a little over twenty minutes when they get stuck in a traffic jam and the most ridiculous, improbable, absurd thing happens.

Abu Nazir walks out of a shop a hundred feet or so ahead of them, and turns to shake a man's hand.

"Is that-" Quinn starts, pointing up ahead, "Is that who I think it is?"

Everyone looks up in the direction he's pointing.

"Holy fuck, that's Abu Nazir." Carrie mutters and they all sit still, like they're watching him and waiting for him to turn and see them. Like he'd immediately know they're all American Agents.

"What should we do?" One of the seemingly-nameless agents asks no one in particular.

"We should take the shot." Carrie and Quinn say at the same time almost immediately after the agent speaks, but Saul chooses that moment to speak up.

"We need authorisation for something like that - we can't just assassinate him in broad daylight."

Brody knows they won't give the authorisation - certainly not in the middle of the morning in the middle of a bustling market, and definitely not to a group of people they already have problems trusting.

He can see the frustration playing across Carrie's face as she realises what he does, as she realises this means Nazir will escape again - until it's slowly replaced by a strange calmness he doesn't usually associate with her.

She waits until she's sure he's watching her, then moves her hand across her side like she's scratching her back. Only Brody, who's sat close beside her can see that she didn't. She undid the holster holding her gun.

She's silently giving him permission to do something that violates US Federal Law, United Nations Treaties and Civil Rights Documents as old as the nation they live in. She's silently giving him permission to do something he was trained to do. She's giving him a choice. She's returning the control that was stolen from him all those years ago just a mile around the corner from the exact spot where they're sitting right now.

He's a marine. He's a Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. He's an expert marksman. All he'll need is one shot, and shooting is really just muscle memory. One shot to end all of this, right here, right now. He won't miss.

It feels like time is running in slow motion as he resolutely doesn't look at the weapon at Carrie's side. He doesn't want to tip off anyone to what he's doing. Saul and Quinn want Nazir dead, of course they do. But he knows they'll probably also want to question him, interrogate him first. As long as Nazir is alive there's a chance he could escape - return here to put together another plan to attack the USA. As long as Nazir is alive, Brody will never be truly free, and nor will the people he loves.

He swallows forcefully and takes a deep breath. Carrie's watching him out of the corner of her eye, he can tell. She nods, barely perceptible unless you were looking for it. He replies in kind, then shuts everything out.

He lets his mind go blank, and feels the same numb calmness seep over him that all armed forces recruits are taught to find within themselves before a shoot.

Then, lighting fast so no one stops him, he snatches the gun from Carrie's holster, flicks off the safety and just… shoots Nazir.

He's aiming for the point right between his eyes, and maybe he hit exactly there, he can't tell from here. What he is sure of is that Nazir's dead. He's on the ground, not moving, with a pool of blood surrounding him and a bullet in his brain.

It's so simple, so straight forward and easy that he can't quite get his mind to accept what he's just done. Because if Nazir is dead - killable - then he must be just another human being. He's not the monster/super-villain his mind has built him up to be. He's a man. A mortal man, built from flesh and bones and muscle and blood and sweat and water and chemistry just like everyone else.

His hands aren't even shaking.

Then all hell breaks loose. The people surrounding Nazir jump into action, looking for the culprit and it's pretty obvious it's someone in their car - it's the one with a fucking bullet hole in the windscreen.

"What- what the fuck? What?" Quinn stammers - Brody's never heard the man sound anything less than petulantly arrogant, and he tries to take some kind of satisfaction in it, but he can't seem to remember how to feel anything.

"Drive- fucking drive!" Saul shouts at the agent behind the wheel, who speeds into action a moment later, sending them hurtling away from the scene and through the market.

No one in the car speaks as they race through the streets, houses and shops and market stalls whizzing by too fast to identify any of them.

He's staring at the bullet hole in the windshield, waiting to feel something - anything about what he just did. He just killed a man - perhaps the most wanted terrorist on Earth - and he doesn't feel a thing.

"Brody." He doesn't respond. Her voice sounds frighteningly far away, and he wonders if maybe his mind is catching up with his body and only just realising what he's done. "Brody, give me the gun."

He turns his head to look at her. She looks concerned, tired and almost… proud? He blinks rapidly at her and then shakes his head.

"You said something." He says dumbly, and now she looks more than a little worried.

"I need you to give me back my gun." She says slowly, deliberately.

Why is she looking at him like that? Like he's a frightened animal who she's trying not to spook. He's fine. Everything's fine. Why would it not be? He's completely fine.

He slowly clicks on the safety, and then her hands gently cover his own, carefully taking the awful thing out of his hands and sliding it back into the holster on her side with one hand, keeping her spare hand in his.

He's glad she does - he needs that point of contact to keep him here, in reality, instead of locked in his head, trapped in a flashback.

He's never had a problem with guns before, but now he kind of feels like he never wants to see or touch one ever again.

Still no one else speaks.

He's still completely, totally fine. He's fine.

He leans back against the headrest of the seat and shuts his eyes. He wishes, more than anything right now, that they were alone. Just the two of them, so he could talk and scream and let himself feel this without the eyes of the other judgemental agents watching him, more out of perverse interest than care.

"I shot him." He says quietly after maybe a half hour of silence. "It's over. I shot him."

Has he mentioned how he's absolutely fine?

"Yeah, you did." She says, just as quietly, twining their fingers together.

Her silent way of saying I'm here. You're not alone in this, Brody. I'm right here.

"I shot him." He says again, then he feels her soft fingertips on his cheek, and he realises with a jolt she's brushing away tears. He's not crying- he refuses. Especially here.

I'm fine, he thinks to himself, willing it to be true.

"You aren't. Nobody expects you to be." She assures him gently, and he realises he's been mumbling it under his breath. He clamps his mouth shut, biting down on his lower lip so hard he tastes blood.

He lets his head settle back against the headrest, hoping they'll just get out of here as soon as possible.

"When we get back I'm telling Jess the truth." He says quietly, relieved the engines on the plane are so loud no one else will be able to hear them talking.

Carrie raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth to protest, but he obviously realises what she's thinking because he shakes his head.

"Not about this," He says, gesturing around the military plane, "I meant about this- us this."

She has absolutely no idea what to say to that except; "Are you- Are you sure?"

"I'm fucking sick of being unhappy. Nazir's dead, which means I don't have to make nice with Walden anymore which means I don't have to worry about my public, political image or whatever, which means I can resign as a Congressman and get a divorce and figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with the rest of my life." Then he catches the way she's looking at him, "What?" He asks, and she takes a deep breath.

"Brody, you just- you just shot Abu Nazir."

He stares back at her as if he doesn't understand why this is relevant. "You're not sending me to jail are you?"

She laughs shortly, shaking her head. "No- no jail. But I suppose I'm just wondering if you're okay."

He smiles sadly at her.

"I'm not," He shrugs, "but I will be."

She unconsciously matches his sad smile and settles her hand against the back of his hand, gently stroking her thumb back and forth across his fingers. His smile becomes a little less forced at the gesture, and he turns his hand over, twining their fingers together.

A ghost of a smile crosses Brody's face as he thinks back to their conversation that night in the motel (which suddenly seems a hell of a long time ago).

"So about that future you saw for us…"