5 YEARS EARLIER

The first time Peter woke up was when he felt a violent jolt. Something, on which he seemed to be carried, slammed loudly against another hard surface. The siren went off, and the ambulance (he figured as much) started moving. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were filled with led. And, when he finally managed to widen them a tiny crack, it was all a blur. He tried to focus, but people were moving too fast. They were doing something to him. Touching him. He felt pain everywhere. Would they STOP poking already?

"Hey, I think he opened his eyes," he heard woman's voice. A face came into his view. Did she have blue eyes? All he could make out was colors. And a bright light. Right into his eyes with a flashlight. What the fff… "Sir, can you hear me? Can you say your name?"

He started saying Peter Quinn, but he couldn't hear his own voice. He felt his lips moving, but not really the way he wanted them too. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and it made him gag repeatedly. Someone forced opened his eyes one after another. The flash light again. Do these people have no shame?

"Pupils equal and reactive to light," he heard the same voice speak very close to his face. "Sir," he felt a soft slap on his cheek, "Sir, can you open your eyes again?"

Peter gave it a try, but his muscles didn't work. He was very cold. Shivers made his pain worse. And it was very hard to breath. He felt sharp pain in his left chest every time he would draw in air. And after each breath, he had this violent urge to take another one. There was not enough air. There was something on his face. It smelled like new plastic. He raised his hand and tried to remove it.

"Wow-wow-wow…" he heard in response, and the plastic thing was back on his nose. "You need the oxygen, sir. Don't take the mask off. Jake, what's our eta? We might need to tube him. The sats are down to 85 with rebreather."

Sirens. Loud voices outside. No air. There was not enough air. He was choking and he couldn't take enough air in. He felt the muscles tighten around his throat and around his chest. He never thought breathing took so many muscles. He tried very hard, but it wasn't enough. One breath led to another, and another, and another… and it wasn't enough. He had to get up. To sit down. To get out. He needed more air.

"Trachea shift to the right. BP is down to 75 palp. Sats are 68 and dropping. It's tension pneumo. Get me an IV set," Peter heard a man's voice, rising above the equipment noice. Then he felt a sharp pain in his left chest and a loud hissing. He drew in a deep breath. "Damn, he's bleeding everywhere. Sats are going up... 78… 81… I think it's a flail chest. What a mess. Get me number 8 tube and some tape."

Peter felt someone's hands on his face. "Sir, I am going to put a tube in, to help you breath."

He managed to open his eyes a tiny crack again. "Carrie," he tried to say, but no voice came out. His throat felt like it was stuck in a middle of steel press. The hissing of the oxygen mask made his voice inaudible. "Carrie," he repeated, when the mask was removed and he saw a man, right above him, leaning over his face from behind, "Is Carrie Mathison ok?"

"Please try not to talk, sir."

Last things he remembered was a sharp pain in his jaws, as someone thrusted the back of his cheek bones forward, and a cold sensation of metallic blade in his mouth. Then it was back into darkness again.

The second time he regained consciousness, he was outside. The sky above him was dark and he could make out some stars. It was very cold and he was covered with layers of blankets. There was a loud noise. Not sirens or people. It was mechanical, rhythmical and very-very loud. Helicopter pad, he figured. His breathing was easier, but it felt weird. Every time he took a breath, he felt air being pushed into his chest. It made him want to cough, but, as he did, something started beeping loudly next to his ear. He tried to move his head to the side to see what it was, but his neck was firmly strapped into cervical collar. There was a machine to the right side of his head. It made clicking sounds and with each of them he felt air pushed into his chest. Portable ventilator, he guessed, Fuck me.

People around him were basically screaming at each other, to make their voices rise above the noise of the helicopter blades.

"He needs surgery. He is not stable for transfer," yelled one of them. He was dressed in green scrubs and a heavy coat on top of them. Probably an ER doc.

The man he was talking to was tall and slender and wore merely a suit. In this cold. Peter would have had recognized him anywhere.

"He will have surgery," Adal yelled back. "But not here. We're moving him now."

"You will be releasing him AMA. And that's not just against medical advice. You're really risking him not making it to… wherever you're taking him," the doctor insisted, gesturing to something behind the gurney. "He has three chest drains that are filling fast. He needs blood transfusions and immediate surgery."

"He will get both," Adal put a reassuring hand on doctor's shoulder. "This is Chris Jason," he pointed to another man in a dark suit, standing nearby. "He will come with you and take care of the forms. We gotta go."

Peter couldn't make out the rest of the conversation. The helicopter was too loud. He saw the doctor leaving with a man called Chris Jason. Then his gurney started moving.

"Wait," he started saying, but his throat hurt from the effort and no sound came out again.

Dar Adal came closer now and saw that his eyes were open.

"You can't talk, Peter. You got a tube in your throat."

He started giving instruction to the transport team, but Peter grabbed his arm with his right hand and pulled him closer.

"Carrie," he moved his lips in a silent plea. "Is Carrie ok?"

"Peter, I can't hear you. And we really have to move."

Peter squeezed his hand so hard, it made him slightly bend his knees and scream out. Peter's hand opened his palm and Adal felt his finger scratching something on his skin. He looked down. Half a circle. Another half a circle. Over and over again. He looked at Peter's face again and saw him trying to raise his head, his blue eyes opened wide, demanding answers, his lips silently moving around the breathing tube. He leaned closer. His ear was almost touching Peter's mouth. He didn't hear a sound, but he could make out distinct clicking of two letters.

"C...r… C…r…"

"Carrie? Are you asking if Carrie is ok?" he screamed over the helicopter noise.

Peter squeezed his eyes, saying yes.

"For God's sake, Peter!" Adal angrily shook his hand free. His face still mere inches from Quinn's. "Yes, she is fine. Kean is fine. They are all fine," he turned to the medic. "Give him a sedative already, will you?"

Peter blinked several times and looked straight ahead. His eyes tearing from pain. His head dropped back to the gurney.

Dar firmly grabbed his face and leaned closer.

"You know what?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I wish she wasn't. For once, I wish she didn't make it out. I have been scraping bits and pieces of you from more continents than most people get to visit in their life time. All in the name of Carrie-Fucking-Mathison and her missions. Every time you just have to rush head first into another mess of hers."

He stopped talking, but remained close. His hand on Peter's face. His eyes dark with genuine anger.

Peter felt dizzy. The sedative was starting to take effect. His eyelids grew heavy, but he forced them open. He raised his head again, giving it the last of the strength he had, looked deep into Adal's eyes and made sure his lips were easy to read this time. "FUCK YOU," he mouthed, and it all went dark again.