Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (19/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (19/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
The rest of the day crawls by. It’s hard to stand still; somehow, no matter where she goes, Quinn always feels like she’s walked directly into a wall. Breathing hasn’t gotten a whole lot easier since the bomb was dropped, and no matter where she goes, the tension seems only to increase. She’s learned not to stay too long in any one place, especially if that place contains Puck-who is prone to smashing things with very little warning-or Tina, whose habitual bouts of sobbing leave Quinn more jarred than sympathetic.
Strangely, the people she feels calmest around are Santana (and, by natural extension, Brittany) and Kurt.
She doesn’t understand it-how the boy most severely wrecked by Mercedes’ death and the girl least interested in extending friendship could prove so solid-but she’s not above seeing it as a sort of blessing. Distracted by her own need for action, Rachel certainly hasn’t shown interest in sitting or talking it out, which bothers her considerably more than she’d like. She’ll settle for taking what she can get.
Even if “what she can get” means sitting numbly in the basement, watching Santana whale on a punching bag for a scarily long time.
The dark-haired woman is stone-faced, sweating, moving with a purpose completely lacking desperation. She’s a machine; it’s equal parts impressive and frightening to watch her sway, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she assesses the bag with all the emotion of a guided missile. With each swift strike delivered, Quinn cringes, remembering bruises still fresh on her own skin.
“She likes control,” Brittany comments, so near to Quinn’s ear that the smaller blonde jumps. The healer has stretched out, legs reached for miles in their disheveled sweatpants. Her face is as pale as ever, but her gaze bears a strange relaxation under the melancholia. Quinn frowns.
“That sounds…healthy.”
Blue eyes flicker, betraying an adoration beyond anything Quinn has ever seen. “Totally,” Brittany agrees, skimming right over Quinn’s cautious sarcasm as they watch Santana slam a kick into the heart of the bag.
It’s hard to understand, in this moment, why these people seem so irrationally incompatible. Brittany, with her kind features and easy smile, should not by any rights be found within state lines of Santana Lopez and her thousand-yard scowl. Brittany is gentle and sweet, and so clearly damaged by every single thing that goes wrong in the lives of these ridiculous people, and Santana?
Well, Santana just crashed her body into the bag hard enough to speckle the blue mat beneath her feet with plaster.
And yet, though it makes no sense, though Quinn would rather not try to work it all out in words, it’s impossible to deny the connection here. The way Brittany stares after Santana is clear enough, but even more so is the way Santana stares back. The quirk to her lips, the shadow of unshakable fondness playing around her otherwise steely jaw. And, most importantly, most vibrantly, the loyalty.
Quinn has never seen so much loyalty in her life-stalwart, unflinching, impossible to ignore or shatter. It’s there, beneath all Santana’s bluster and snark, and it almost hurts to witness because Quinn cannot comprehend the sheer depth of emotion resting there in dark eyes.
It seems petty, when one woman is dead and the lives of so many others have been thrown into grief-stricken upheaval, but Quinn can’t help it. She’s envious beyond cause of these women, of what has settled so permanently between them.
They watch for a while longer as Santana works herself into a higher and higher frenzy, gaze darting between her target and the blue-eyed dancer with a distressing rapidity. It’s as though the bag has become something bigger than a training tool-as if it has dared to threaten Brittany’s very existence, her presence on this earth. As if Santana is the only thing standing between it and the destruction of the one thing she so obviously holds most dear.
It strikes Quinn that perhaps Mercedes wasn’t the only person in danger today. From the sound of each bruising stroke Santana delivers, she suspects there is more to the story-more, she figures, that Santana will not be sharing anytime soon.
When enough time has passed (though, admittedly, Quinn does not know how “enough” can be measured in such a situation), Brittany raises her eyebrows and reaches a hand steadily into the air. Santana pauses, chest heaving, beads of sweat dancing from her forehead.
“Come here, baby.”
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and Quinn has never seen Santana move so fast as in response to the gentle command. In the next heartbeat, the dark-haired woman is sprawled beside them, arms coming around Brittany in a fierce hold. The tall blonde relaxes into the embrace, sighing contentedly, and for a moment, the air feels lighter. Quinn’s lungs seem to remember what it feels like to breathe normally. Some of the stress smooths away from between Santana’s eyes.
And then they hear a crash, one that means Puck has kicked another chair or dented another wall, and it all rushes back again like a taxicab without reliable brakes.
Santana catches her eye, thumb sliding across the back of Brittany’s hand. “How’s the brainspace, Goldilocks?”
Quinn shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Not a rocket science level question,” Santana points out sharply. “You flipping the fuck out or not?”
She is. Of course she is; it would be inhuman not to, wouldn’t it? A woman-barely out of girlhood, even, no older than Quinn herself-is dead. Dead-stone-dead, no future, no reconciliation dead. It’s not romantic, as Quinn has always unintentionally thought of death. It has nothing to do with angels or heavenly choirs or pearly gates and everything to do with tears and guilt and frustration.
And she didn’t even know her.
So, yes. She is freaking the fuck out. Looking at Kurt’s slowly rocking frame across the room, looking at the mat upon which Mercedes sat and spoke only days ago-she is freaking the fuck out.
What other choice is there?
“You don’t have to worry,” Brittany says softly, reading Quinn’s silence with disturbing accuracy. “We won’t let that happen to you.”
“Don’t go making promises, B,” Santana warns. “Not now.”
The tall blonde’s face darkens. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t know,” Quinn cuts in quietly. “You can’t know.”
“I do,” Brittany insists. Santana sighs-not angry, Quinn notes, or irritated so much as straight-up weary.
“Babe, you can’t-“
“I do,” Brittany repeats stubbornly. “We’ll keep her safe. We have to. No matter what.”
“I appreciate that,” Quinn assures her, trying to smile. Santana grunts.
“B.”
“What?” the healer snaps, fiery enough to cause the other women to recoil. Santana stares up at her, face almost comedically blank. Quinn pulls her lower lip between her teeth, suddenly uneasy. She gets the nasty feeling she’s about to witness something novel, something utterly without precedence, and honestly, she thinks she’s had about enough of the new stuff for one day.
“B,” we can’t go around preaching certainty,” Santana says at last, slowly, as if the way Brittany is staring her down has undone even her legendary confidence. Quinn finds the very idea thoroughly disconcerting. Brittany, for her part, continues to stare at them both in her determined way.
“I am.”
“You’re not,” Santana snaps desperately. “Babe. Look. If I could have saved…you know I would have. But things are not that clear-cut. We have choices to make. All of us. And they aren’t easy, but we make them. I made mine. And you know nothing in this world would stop me from making it again, no questions asked.”
Something passes between them, something massive and powerful, operating through the mere vehicle of their joined gaze. It lasts just long enough to prickle the back of Quinn’s neck; she glances away, shifting uncomfortably and wrapping her arms around her knees.
Then, slowly, sadly, Brittany smiles.
“It’ll be different, San.”
“It won’t,” Santana replies, more stubborn than ever. A pale hand ghosts down the side of her face, slender fingers etching runes into taut skin. Quinn can see the strong woman rail against the proffered comfort, tensing her whole body in a struggle to clutch to her argument.
Brittany, it seems, is at least equally obstinate. “This is important, San. You know that.”
Dark hair swishes as the woman’s head jerks left to right. “It comes down to that decision again,” she hisses, “you or her, I’m not taking a second. I never take a second. Don’t…don’t you dare ask me to.”
Quinn is reasonably positive she has not been present for such an awkward conversation in her life.
As if sensing the thought, Santana captures her gaze, defiant and not the least bit apologetic. “You understand,” she says resolutely. It is not a question. Quinn nods.
Brittany shakes her head at the both of them, like they’re children who just can’t be made to understand why two and two make four. “It’s important,” she repeats solidly.
Santana’s fully geared to retaliate, to-Quinn thinks-physically pin the blonde to the floor and hold her there until she comes around, but before she can move, a slim shadow slinks across her face.
“Lovers quarrel, ladies?” Kurt asks as lightly as he is able-which, Quinn notes, implies all the subtlety of a brick wall. Santana clears her throat.
“’Course not, fairy boy.”
Something pulls around his eyes; Quinn suspects it is as much of a smile as they are likely to coax today. “Delighted to hear it. Mind if I join you?”
Quinn gestures weakly even as Santana shrugs and orders, “Plant it, Just Jack.”
The boy folds himself upon the mat, knee brushing Quinn’s. In another situation, she thinks she would shy clear of the contact, but not now. Not with his grief so tangible, his whole body weighed down with the force of it. He seems a stone sinking swiftly into the world’s darkest swamp, a soul edging on decimation. He is broken, battered, and all Quinn wants in this moment is to sweep him into her arms.
The maternal instinct distresses her. She settles for laying a palm, graceful as a feather, atop his knee. Sunken blue eyes meet hers, unsettled. He does not pull away.
“You eat anything yet?” Santana queries, leaning back once more into Brittany as the blonde curls around her insistently. He frowns.
“Puck has been marginally more preoccupied with wall punching than bread making.”
“Point,” Santana allows. Brittany drops a lingering kiss against the side of her head.
“Is…” Quinn hesitates, instantly itching under the abrupt turn of three sets of tired eyes. “Is he going to be all right?”
Strange, how she has so suddenly come to care for a man who, two days ago, struck her as little more than trailer trash.
“He’ll live,” Kurt rasps. Brittany winces.
“He hurts,” she adds quietly, nuzzling into Santana’s hair. “He hurts more than most. It’s worse for him.”
“He’ll live,” Kurt repeats coldly. Ignoring him, Brittany curls one hand loosely across Santana’s stomach.
“It’s worse for him,” she notes again, “because he doesn’t know how to handle it. Process it. Because he blames himself. Because he feels alone.”
“He’s being dramatic,” Kurt mutters.
“Bitch looks good on you,” Santana jeers. He smirks, a twisted expression.
“It works.”
Quinn shakes her head, frowning. “How can you do that?”
She really should stop speaking up. These looks she’s getting-disbelieving, irritated, and, in Brittany’s case, encouraging-are overwhelming.
“Got a problem, Marilyn Monroe?” Santana snipes when she pauses, reminding herself to breathe. Kurt cocks his head, cheeks pink with the birth of distaste.
Oh, what the hell. “How can you be so callous about it?” she presses. “He’s a human being in pain. How can you all sit around and badmouth him for putting off dinner?”
She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when Kurt coughs out a tortured, hoarse chuckle. She supposes she shouldn’t surprised by anything these people do.
“Sweetheart,” he begins coolly, “please don’t take this amiss, but what the hell do you know about it?”
“I know you’re not the first person in the world to lose a friend,” she replies snappishly. “I’m sorry she’s dead, Kurt. I’m sorrier than you realize. But you-all of you-are going about this in the worst way. Harping after one another. Breaking your hands. Disappearing. I mean, God-where did Rachel even go?”
“Out,” Santana replies evenly. Quinn punches the air, annoyed.
“Out. Someone is always just ‘out.’ What the hell is wrong with you people? You’re a bunch of kids. You should be finding jobs, going to graduate school, getting married. What are you doing here-running around like you’re Batman or something, killing time until time kills you. And now that one of you has been killed, what-you crack? Into factions? You pick each other apart, walk to opposite corners of the room, hoping you’ll just get over it? It’s ridiculous.”
“And what would you have us do?” Kurt demands. “Hold a funeral? Throw some flowers on an empty grave? Sing a few hymns and then put it to bed? We do what we can-the best we can. That’s all. How lovely for you, that you come from a world where everyone accepts misery and injustice with a nod and a wink, but here? We do only what we can. That’s it. That’s all. Regardless of your classic judgments.”
“Guys,” Brittany cuts in. “Stop. This isn’t helping-“
“Oh, I think it’s helping plenty,” Kurt snarls. “I think this is exactly what we need right now. Little Miss Know-It-All here needs a good dressing down, in my opinion, and with Rachel out of the way, I think now is just the ideal time.”
“Out of the way?” Quinn retaliates. “I’m amazed she stays here at all, with all of you assholes attacking her all the time. I mean, give me a break; you follow her, you let her call the shots, but you act like you can’t stand her. What is that all about?”
“That isn’t your business,” Kurt sniffs. “Rachel is ours. She is part of our world, a world you still know nothing about. Let’s break it down, princess: you have been here a week. A week of sitting here in the basement, twiddling your thumbs, eating our food and sleeping in our beds while we bust our butts to save yours. Please, tell me where you get off telling us how to do what we do. Please. Enlighten me.”
“That’s enough,” Brittany tries again, unfurling her limbs from around Santana and moving as if to crawl between them. “That’s enough, stop it-“
“It won’t be enough until she gets it,” Kurt says coldly. “Stay out of this, Britt.”
“Don’t go there, Hummel,” Santana warns, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t even think about it.”
He closes his mouth for a second, carefully guiding a wayward lock of hair out of flashing eyes. Quinn takes the opportunity to breathe, feeling as though she’s on the verge of a complete and utter meltdown. Kurt is hurting, she rationalizes, and lashing out. It is childish and aggravating, but not nearly enough to provoke her like this.
Or, at least, it shouldn’t be. She should just sit back, close her eyes, let it go. But somewhere between the first arrogant utterance and the look on his face when he mentioned Rachel-like he knows her the way Quinn never will, like Rachel belongs to him in some vibrant, permanent way that bothers her to an intolerable, genuinely weird degree-she could feel her self control ebbing away. And now…well, now…
It would not be entirely beyond reason to suggest she’s losing it.
“You just might want to make a note of this, darling. Your holier-than-thou attitude is going to get you killed,” Kurt says finally, glaring at her like Mercedes’ death and Puck’s lack of sanity and Rachel’s inability to sit still for five minutes is entirely Quinn’s fault. She grinds her teeth together.
“Is that another prediction?”
“Call it an experienced recommendation,” he advises. Her jaw tightens.
“And this experience-would it happen to be of the personal variety?”
“Fuck this,” Santana mutters, grasping Brittany gently by the arm. “We don’t need to sit here and watch this headbutting crap.”
“Wait,” Quinn hears Brittany murmur. “Wait, I think something’s wrong.”
Wrong is too simple a term, and even as she hears Santana growl a retort, Quinn can’t focus on the words. Kurt is sitting there, looking smug and wasted, at once a little boy and a self-righteous man, and Quinn wonders why she ever pitied him. Wonders how she ever thought to touch him without strangling. Wonders how his tears ever touched that deep-down miserable place she thought she buried long before coming to New York.
Because Kurt Hummel is a jackass.
Kurt Hummel is a fool.
Kurt Hummel is the enemy.
Wait, no, she tries to backpedal, that’s not right, that’s not what I meant. Kurt isn’t the enemy. What enemy? If anything, the enemy is the person who brought her here, the one who is responsible for all this death and pain and the barumping staccato of Puck’s feet against whatever chair scurries into his path. If anything, the enemy is-
Ra-
Rayne, she forces out through what feels decidedly like a wall built into her brain. Rayne is the enemy. Rayne is responsible.
It’s illogical and impossible to understand, but each time she thinks his name, it is an effort to smother another one.
A more familiar one.
One that comes complete with big brown doe eyes and a rarely-flashed megawatt smile.
Oh fuck, oh no, oh-
It’s coming again. The thing, the thing inside, the thing that is her very reason for being in this basement to begin with. It’s coming, and it feels just as large and furious as last time-maybe more so. It is massive and shadowed and even as she clenches her fists and lowers her head, she can feel it slithering in through the cracks. She can feel-she can feel it-
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Santana hisses somewhere around the edge of her mind. “I so don’t need this shit today.”
It’s bigger. Oh sweet Jesus, it is so much bigger this time. Last time, last time was all about fear and the destruction of personal boundaries, but now? Now, it’s…
Hungry.
Angry.
Going to win.
She rocks forward, planting her forehead against her knees, eyes slamming shut. It’s too late, she knows: they’ve seen, judging by the wary expression on Santana’s face and the abject fear on Kurt’s. They’ve seen the change, and Quinn doesn’t have to look into a mirror to know. She looks-
She looks like Death.
She is Death.
The word Kurt used the other night-Silencer-resounds in her head, over and over again, playing over and around less defined abstractions. Things like violence. Things like hatred. Things like despair.
It’s growing by the second, magnifying and stretching ravenous jaws, and all Quinn can do is wrap herself in her own arms and pray. Pray that it goes away, pray that it fades, pray that it does not get what it wants.
“Jesus fucking Mary of fuck,” Santana shouts through the fog. “Hummel, what the fuck did you do?”
“Nothing!” he exclaims. “I didn’t-“
“She’s going off,” Brittany intones, low and frightened. “She’s going off, and I don’t know-“
That makes two of them, Quinn thinks desperately, two of them without a singular clue. She can see herself, somehow, without ever leaving her body behind. She can see the way her muscles ripple under ashen skin, the way her eyes glint like obsidian arrowheads, the way her mouth snarls like a perverse knife.
She looks unholy. Inhuman, despite being in full possession of human limbs and a human torso and the shape of a human face. Her skin is not human. Her rage is not human. Everything Rachel once drove into her head, every inch of “some are born a little different” flies from her mind, replaced by the terror of godlessness and the sheer power of…
“We can’t hold her,” she hears Kurt whisper. “God help us, we can’t-“
“Shut the fuck up,” Santana snaps. “Shut up and think.”
“I am.” In her mind’s eye, Quinn sees blue eyes dart over her face before leaping skittishly away again. “What’s your genius plan? Do you really think a grizzly bear will be enough to contain than much raw power?”
“It’s a damn sight better than whatever shit idea you’ve got,” Santana replies, her voice husky and strained. Quinn does not pry open her eyes-doesn’t want to see the woman transform, doesn’t want to fuel the pulsing rage barely contained beneath her own skin. She can’t explain how she knows, but the mere sight of a threat is bound to wrest the last vestige of control her hands. She can’t look. She won’t give it that.
But God, she wants to.
“You can’t stop her,” Kurt whispers frantically, and her ears must be growing keener by the minute, because the simple phrase batters against her senses like a wrecking ball. The thing growls, wrenching its talons into the widening cracks of her authority and yanking. Quinn whimpers.
“You can’t,” he repeats, almost awestruck. She hears him back slowly away. “Santana. Listen to me. She’ll kill you.”
“No,” Brittany breathes, even as the force within Quinn hisses, Yes.
The only answer they receive from Santana is a deep rumble. The darkness chuckles, eager to engage. Eager to destroy.
Why her? The desperate question echoes, Quinn bracing her whole body against the urge to leap to her feet and tear out the other woman’s throat. It’s not her. She didn’t do anything. It’s Kurt, it’s Kurt. Take Kurt, take him, he’s the problem-
No. No, that’s wrong too. Kurt isn’t the problem, the problem is-
Rachel.
No, no, Quinn rails. No, it’s not her, it’s not, you can’t have her, you can’t-
It wants her. Oh, God, it wants her so bad, but she’s not here. She’s out, remember, out with Mike and Matt, patrolling or putting that Jewish nose where it doesn’t belong, and Christ knows she’s going to get herself killed one of these days, but for now-thank God, for now, she’s out of Quinn’s grasp. Out of its grasp. It can’t have her, she’ll have it under control by then, she’ll give it something else-
Her eyes snap open.
She can see Kurt there, hovering just behind a great hulking wall of black fur. She can see him, with his pathetic tear-stained face and his gaping marble eyes, arms braced at his sides like he’s not sure whether to run or fight. The thing inside snorts its derision, damn near cackles at the idea; he’s five-seven and scrawny, he’s practically carved of porcelain, he’s miserable. A little boy. Easily cracked, easily damaged, easily ruined.
She could take him in a second.
If only there wasn’t that damn bear in the way.
She’s on her feet, fluid and ready. She can’t see Brittany anymore-no doubt pushed to safety already-but who cares? Brittany is nothing. No threat. Quinn knows she’s there, somewhere, but the beast doesn’t even register her existence. It’s all about Kurt. Kurt and the bear.
Could be a children’s book, she thinks dumbly. Kurt and the Bear. And Quinn. Quinn the Killer. Quinn the Silencer.
Take them, but leave her. Leave Rachel.
It’s not a perfect negotiation; the contract has more holes than ties, but right now, the beast snuffles like it approves. She’ll think of something better later, something more permanent, but now-now she’s got to give it something.
Santana moves, a flash of muscle like water, the crash of claws aimed at her head. A normal person, they’d lose their face to a move like that. Whole head, torn away, bouncing like some sad-ass melon along the blue mat.
It’s safe to say Quinn is decidedly not normal.
She ducks the blow, reaching up with both hands and digging her nails through thick fur, puncturing the skin beneath. Santana makes a displeased noise, tossing her giant head and trying to jerk free, but Quinn is strong. Blissfully strong, euphorically so. Her head is buzzing with pleasure and power, her blood humming. She gives a rough yank.
The bear stumbles.
This is almost too easy. Almost absurdly so. She releases, bringing the side of her foot up into the stomach of the creature, pounding it back. Santana staggers again, and the sane part of Quinn registers what’s going on here: the Latina is tired. They’ve gone through so much today, and she’s so worn out, and on top of everything-
She won’t hurt me.
Brittany’s adamant words rush back: “This is important. She is important.”
The beast grins.
The bear snarls, and Quinn shakes her head. All bark, no bite. How obvious. How deliciously crystal-clear.
A week ago, the idea of punching a grizzly full-on in the snout would have had Quinn bent double, cackling hysterically. Today, she finds it actually feels pretty damn good. There is a crunch and a howl, Santana’s eyes boring anguished holes into her as she trips back. Quinn hits her again, and again, a tiny David against the world’s furriest Goliath, and is almost irrationally proud of herself for it.
She hears a low gasp behind her-ah, so that’s where Brittany went-and chooses to ignore it. It doesn’t interest the force wound tight around her heart. It is nothing.
She hits Santana one last time, hands falling to that shaggy thick throat like it’s only natural, and then she’s squeezing with a strength she’s never felt. She’s squeezing, and Brittany’s shouting something, and Kurt’s eyes are magnified to a ridiculous degree, and it is awesome.
It shouldn’t be. Quinn knows it. Quinn is screaming, Quinn’s fists are pounding on the cage she feels locked into, Quinn is fighting as hard as she knows how-but her body isn’t obeying. Try as she might, she can’t remember how to stop her arms or legs, how to uncurl her fingers, how to wipe the sneer off of her lips. She can’t remember how to stop herself from choking Santana until the animal fades, until, like shutting off a light, the fur melts away into caramel skin. Until the paws scrambling against her wrists are hands with fingers and biting nails. Until the eyes are wide and silently screaming, taut biceps straining.
She’s squeezing, but there’s something else here, something she’s funneling into Santana’s body. Something she’s simultaneously drawing back out. She can’t find a descriptor, can’t bring herself to care; all she knows is, it is giving her the biggest rush ever. Cocaine, methamphetamines, sky-diving-fuck it all, this is what’s real. This is what counts.
The beast licks its lips. In a little while, she’ll have sucked Santana Lopez dry, and it will be perfect. She can only imagine how much better it will be when she gets to her true target.
Something slams into her from behind, all long arms and desperation. Quinn shrugs the contact away, fully ignoring the way Brittany shrieks unintelligible things into her ear. She’s got this. She’ll just hold on until Santana stops thrashing, until she goes limp and careless, and then she’ll get to what really matters right now.
He’s huddled there, mouth agape, panic etched across broken features. He’s huddled like he thinks he can make himself invisible if he stands there long enough, knees bent and head down. He’s pathetic, and without him?
Without him, she wouldn’t even be here.
If Rachel’s to blame (she’s not, she’s not), so is Kurt Hummel. And that is one piece of the equation she doesn’t mind decimating.
(No, no, it’s not okay, he’s a good man, he’s just tired, he’s just sad, don’t-)
Santana’s swings are growing weaker, her eyes half-lidded. Her lips part for the air she’s being denied, and Quinn can see her gaze move seamlessly over her shoulder, to where Brittany is still pounding her fists along Quinn’s shoulder blades. She sees the dark hair swirl as Santana subtly shakes her head, a silent command that Brittany is bound to disregard. The beast registers the connection and chortles softly. It’s almost amusing, how the healer seems to think she has a chance in hell of stopping this. Of stopping Quinn.
She can see it now, bright and clear and terrifying: no one can stop her.
Santana’s body is feather-light, the toes of her boots dragging on the ground as Quinn lifts her higher and clenches her fingers more tightly than ever. She feels Brittany’s arms wind around her middle, feels the taller woman try to yank her backwards, and okay, now that’s getting a little annoying.
(Don’t hurt her, oh my God, don’t-)
She backhands the blonde without looking, satisfied by the wail and the thump that suggest a reasonably soft landing. She’ll deal with that later. First, most important, this needs to be finished. Santana’s eyelids are fluttering, her face pale, her jaw slack. It’s almost over. The beast will be pleased. It will be-
Something slams into her, and for a second, she thinks it’s Brittany again, back with a renewed vengeance. It takes her the span of a long blink to realize whatever hit her is not a body-is, in fact, not anything she can put a name to. It’s blistering, vibrant, but not the likes of anything Tina or Puck could produce. It’s…
Weird.
She drops Santana and rotates on her heel, adrenaline urging her to forget Kurt and zero in on this new threat. The beast is snarling in her ears, in her head, prickling all over with fury, and if she can just see-
Rachel.
She stops.
Her knees tremble.
Without another thought, she drops heavily.
The restricting force looped like a collar around her throat hasn’t come from Rachel, of course; she suspects Rachel couldn’t stop her if her life depended upon it. (Quinn swallows a sick stone at the realization that it full-well might.) In fact, she’s pretty sure whatever has managed to shove the inky black hell in her heart down is emanating from Matt-the guy she’s barely heard utter a syllable since being here. She stares up at him, forehead soaked in a sudden chilled sweat, her every muscle burning.
“Fucking bitch,” she hears Santana swear around the most vicious cough on record. “Fucking crazy, fucking-“
“It wasn’t her fault,” Brittany admonishes softly. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn sees the blonde stroke her fingertips across the bruises stark on Santana’s skin. A decidedly ill feeling worms its way into the pit of her stomach.
“That,” Kurt breathes, still standing a safe distance away with his arms tensed, “is exactly what we need to prevent in the future.”
“What the hell, Fabray?” Santana snaps, ignoring them both. “What kind of anger issues you got buried under that pretty face?”
“I-I don’t,” Quinn stammers, too shaken to form concrete sentences. “I didn’t mean-I don’t know how-“
Rachel is staring at her, eyes guarded and thoughtful. Quinn resists the urge to shamefully turn her eyes away.
“Matt,” Rachel says calmly. “Thoughts?”
He shrugs. “Think she’s solid. Quinn?”
She sucks in a heavy breath into lungs made of iron and meets his dark eyes. Slowly, she inclines her head. “I’m good. I’m okay.”
Just like that, the noose around her throat goes slack and vanishes. She waits for a second, unsteady and terrified that the beast will only rear up again, but things seem silent. She touches her face to her hands, quivering all over.
“Santana?” Rachel moves on. Still laying on the floor, back to Brittany’s chest, the Latina scowls.
“Fucking bitch tried to-“
“It wasn’t her fault,” Brittany repeats, and it’s only now that Quinn sees the other woman shaking like a leaf. Her skin is almost transparent, her brow tight. Santana sighs.
“Okay, babe. Fine. No hard feelings about the trying to kill my perky ass thing.”
From the icy stare she’s receiving along with the words, Quinn suspects this isn’t so likely to stick.
Rachel turns back, frowning. “Quinn, I think we’ve learned a valuable lesson from this.”
We? Quinn shakes her head. “You weren’t even here-“
“I’m a telepath, Quinn,” Rachel deadpans. “I’ve got my ways.”
“Well, fine, but-“ Something occurs to her, and though it’s totally irrational to focus on this right now, her eyes go wide. “Wait, shit, can you read my mind?”
Santana snorts. “Lay off the comic books, bitch.”
“I’m sorry I strangled you, but are you ever going to call me anything else?” Quinn demands wearily. The dark-eyed woman smirks.
“Nicknames are precious commodities. Enjoy it.”
“Anyway,” Rachel interjects, rubbing her eyes. “In the future, it might be wise to avoid high-stress environments.”
“Like this one?” Quinn gestures aimlessly, arms feeling exactly as light as a couple of sledgehammers. Rachel presses her lips thinly together.
“For example, Mercedes’ death coupled with a lack of proper sustenance and whatever it was that happened to trigger the whole episode. It’s all about your mental state, Quinn. Your self-control. We’ll go over some breathing exercises and meditation techniques as soon as I get a moment, but until then, it might be prudent to start walking away from confrontation rather than embracing it.”
“I didn’t confront-“ Pausing, Quinn reminds herself again to breathe, shooting a glare at Kurt. “It’s all his fault, anyway.”
“Fault does not particularly vex me, Quinn,” Rachel reprimands lightly. The blonde bows her head, guiltier than ever. “You need to take responsibility for yourself. Learn what sets you off, and then do whatever you must to avoid those situations. We can’t afford to have you going off at random intervals, not until you’ve learned to rein your power in.”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide. “Rein it in? Rachel, you have no idea what it’s like! This thing, I don’t even know what it is, but it’s so out of control. So big and so angry, and I can’t-“
“You can,” Rachel replies, so calm Quinn wants to scream. “You can, and you will, I promise. But now isn’t the time. It’s been a long, terrible day, and all you need now is a hot meal and a warm bed. We’ll worry about the rest in the morning.”
In the morning. When I get a moment. With Rachel, it’s always about the future, about putting things off, but Quinn wants to understand now. She wants to learn exactly how to leash this thing-or maybe even destroy it for good. What the hell good can come from a power like hers, anyway?
“I don’t think,” she begins again. Rachel reaches out, clasping her wrist and pulling her gently to stand.
“Relax. Deep breaths. Maybe take a shower, if it will help. We’ll work the rest out later.”
Quinn shakes her head, dizzy even from her first step. “But-“
“Later,” Rachel repeats, tucking an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Her eyes are warmer than they’ve been all day, but shrouded. Uneasy. Quinn swallows.
“Okay.”
It’s exactly the last thing she wants to say, but Santana is limping, half-supporting Brittany who, in turn, is half-supporting her. Santana is limping, and Kurt now looks fearful and grief-stricken, and she can still hear the sporadic thuds of Puck’s frustration coming from who knows where. She wants control. She wants to make sure this never happens again.
But for that, she needs not to feel like the villain in the story.
She needs Santana to stop looking at her with such distaste.
She needs Brittany’s smile instead of her sympathy.
And she needs Rachel.
She’ll have to wait.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
The rest of the day crawls by. It’s hard to stand still; somehow, no matter where she goes, Quinn always feels like she’s walked directly into a wall. Breathing hasn’t gotten a whole lot easier since the bomb was dropped, and no matter where she goes, the tension seems only to increase. She’s learned not to stay too long in any one place, especially if that place contains Puck-who is prone to smashing things with very little warning-or Tina, whose habitual bouts of sobbing leave Quinn more jarred than sympathetic.
Strangely, the people she feels calmest around are Santana (and, by natural extension, Brittany) and Kurt.
She doesn’t understand it-how the boy most severely wrecked by Mercedes’ death and the girl least interested in extending friendship could prove so solid-but she’s not above seeing it as a sort of blessing. Distracted by her own need for action, Rachel certainly hasn’t shown interest in sitting or talking it out, which bothers her considerably more than she’d like. She’ll settle for taking what she can get.
Even if “what she can get” means sitting numbly in the basement, watching Santana whale on a punching bag for a scarily long time.
The dark-haired woman is stone-faced, sweating, moving with a purpose completely lacking desperation. She’s a machine; it’s equal parts impressive and frightening to watch her sway, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she assesses the bag with all the emotion of a guided missile. With each swift strike delivered, Quinn cringes, remembering bruises still fresh on her own skin.
“She likes control,” Brittany comments, so near to Quinn’s ear that the smaller blonde jumps. The healer has stretched out, legs reached for miles in their disheveled sweatpants. Her face is as pale as ever, but her gaze bears a strange relaxation under the melancholia. Quinn frowns.
“That sounds…healthy.”
Blue eyes flicker, betraying an adoration beyond anything Quinn has ever seen. “Totally,” Brittany agrees, skimming right over Quinn’s cautious sarcasm as they watch Santana slam a kick into the heart of the bag.
It’s hard to understand, in this moment, why these people seem so irrationally incompatible. Brittany, with her kind features and easy smile, should not by any rights be found within state lines of Santana Lopez and her thousand-yard scowl. Brittany is gentle and sweet, and so clearly damaged by every single thing that goes wrong in the lives of these ridiculous people, and Santana?
Well, Santana just crashed her body into the bag hard enough to speckle the blue mat beneath her feet with plaster.
And yet, though it makes no sense, though Quinn would rather not try to work it all out in words, it’s impossible to deny the connection here. The way Brittany stares after Santana is clear enough, but even more so is the way Santana stares back. The quirk to her lips, the shadow of unshakable fondness playing around her otherwise steely jaw. And, most importantly, most vibrantly, the loyalty.
Quinn has never seen so much loyalty in her life-stalwart, unflinching, impossible to ignore or shatter. It’s there, beneath all Santana’s bluster and snark, and it almost hurts to witness because Quinn cannot comprehend the sheer depth of emotion resting there in dark eyes.
It seems petty, when one woman is dead and the lives of so many others have been thrown into grief-stricken upheaval, but Quinn can’t help it. She’s envious beyond cause of these women, of what has settled so permanently between them.
They watch for a while longer as Santana works herself into a higher and higher frenzy, gaze darting between her target and the blue-eyed dancer with a distressing rapidity. It’s as though the bag has become something bigger than a training tool-as if it has dared to threaten Brittany’s very existence, her presence on this earth. As if Santana is the only thing standing between it and the destruction of the one thing she so obviously holds most dear.
It strikes Quinn that perhaps Mercedes wasn’t the only person in danger today. From the sound of each bruising stroke Santana delivers, she suspects there is more to the story-more, she figures, that Santana will not be sharing anytime soon.
When enough time has passed (though, admittedly, Quinn does not know how “enough” can be measured in such a situation), Brittany raises her eyebrows and reaches a hand steadily into the air. Santana pauses, chest heaving, beads of sweat dancing from her forehead.
“Come here, baby.”
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and Quinn has never seen Santana move so fast as in response to the gentle command. In the next heartbeat, the dark-haired woman is sprawled beside them, arms coming around Brittany in a fierce hold. The tall blonde relaxes into the embrace, sighing contentedly, and for a moment, the air feels lighter. Quinn’s lungs seem to remember what it feels like to breathe normally. Some of the stress smooths away from between Santana’s eyes.
And then they hear a crash, one that means Puck has kicked another chair or dented another wall, and it all rushes back again like a taxicab without reliable brakes.
Santana catches her eye, thumb sliding across the back of Brittany’s hand. “How’s the brainspace, Goldilocks?”
Quinn shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Not a rocket science level question,” Santana points out sharply. “You flipping the fuck out or not?”
She is. Of course she is; it would be inhuman not to, wouldn’t it? A woman-barely out of girlhood, even, no older than Quinn herself-is dead. Dead-stone-dead, no future, no reconciliation dead. It’s not romantic, as Quinn has always unintentionally thought of death. It has nothing to do with angels or heavenly choirs or pearly gates and everything to do with tears and guilt and frustration.
And she didn’t even know her.
So, yes. She is freaking the fuck out. Looking at Kurt’s slowly rocking frame across the room, looking at the mat upon which Mercedes sat and spoke only days ago-she is freaking the fuck out.
What other choice is there?
“You don’t have to worry,” Brittany says softly, reading Quinn’s silence with disturbing accuracy. “We won’t let that happen to you.”
“Don’t go making promises, B,” Santana warns. “Not now.”
The tall blonde’s face darkens. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t know,” Quinn cuts in quietly. “You can’t know.”
“I do,” Brittany insists. Santana sighs-not angry, Quinn notes, or irritated so much as straight-up weary.
“Babe, you can’t-“
“I do,” Brittany repeats stubbornly. “We’ll keep her safe. We have to. No matter what.”
“I appreciate that,” Quinn assures her, trying to smile. Santana grunts.
“B.”
“What?” the healer snaps, fiery enough to cause the other women to recoil. Santana stares up at her, face almost comedically blank. Quinn pulls her lower lip between her teeth, suddenly uneasy. She gets the nasty feeling she’s about to witness something novel, something utterly without precedence, and honestly, she thinks she’s had about enough of the new stuff for one day.
“B,” we can’t go around preaching certainty,” Santana says at last, slowly, as if the way Brittany is staring her down has undone even her legendary confidence. Quinn finds the very idea thoroughly disconcerting. Brittany, for her part, continues to stare at them both in her determined way.
“I am.”
“You’re not,” Santana snaps desperately. “Babe. Look. If I could have saved…you know I would have. But things are not that clear-cut. We have choices to make. All of us. And they aren’t easy, but we make them. I made mine. And you know nothing in this world would stop me from making it again, no questions asked.”
Something passes between them, something massive and powerful, operating through the mere vehicle of their joined gaze. It lasts just long enough to prickle the back of Quinn’s neck; she glances away, shifting uncomfortably and wrapping her arms around her knees.
Then, slowly, sadly, Brittany smiles.
“It’ll be different, San.”
“It won’t,” Santana replies, more stubborn than ever. A pale hand ghosts down the side of her face, slender fingers etching runes into taut skin. Quinn can see the strong woman rail against the proffered comfort, tensing her whole body in a struggle to clutch to her argument.
Brittany, it seems, is at least equally obstinate. “This is important, San. You know that.”
Dark hair swishes as the woman’s head jerks left to right. “It comes down to that decision again,” she hisses, “you or her, I’m not taking a second. I never take a second. Don’t…don’t you dare ask me to.”
Quinn is reasonably positive she has not been present for such an awkward conversation in her life.
As if sensing the thought, Santana captures her gaze, defiant and not the least bit apologetic. “You understand,” she says resolutely. It is not a question. Quinn nods.
Brittany shakes her head at the both of them, like they’re children who just can’t be made to understand why two and two make four. “It’s important,” she repeats solidly.
Santana’s fully geared to retaliate, to-Quinn thinks-physically pin the blonde to the floor and hold her there until she comes around, but before she can move, a slim shadow slinks across her face.
“Lovers quarrel, ladies?” Kurt asks as lightly as he is able-which, Quinn notes, implies all the subtlety of a brick wall. Santana clears her throat.
“’Course not, fairy boy.”
Something pulls around his eyes; Quinn suspects it is as much of a smile as they are likely to coax today. “Delighted to hear it. Mind if I join you?”
Quinn gestures weakly even as Santana shrugs and orders, “Plant it, Just Jack.”
The boy folds himself upon the mat, knee brushing Quinn’s. In another situation, she thinks she would shy clear of the contact, but not now. Not with his grief so tangible, his whole body weighed down with the force of it. He seems a stone sinking swiftly into the world’s darkest swamp, a soul edging on decimation. He is broken, battered, and all Quinn wants in this moment is to sweep him into her arms.
The maternal instinct distresses her. She settles for laying a palm, graceful as a feather, atop his knee. Sunken blue eyes meet hers, unsettled. He does not pull away.
“You eat anything yet?” Santana queries, leaning back once more into Brittany as the blonde curls around her insistently. He frowns.
“Puck has been marginally more preoccupied with wall punching than bread making.”
“Point,” Santana allows. Brittany drops a lingering kiss against the side of her head.
“Is…” Quinn hesitates, instantly itching under the abrupt turn of three sets of tired eyes. “Is he going to be all right?”
Strange, how she has so suddenly come to care for a man who, two days ago, struck her as little more than trailer trash.
“He’ll live,” Kurt rasps. Brittany winces.
“He hurts,” she adds quietly, nuzzling into Santana’s hair. “He hurts more than most. It’s worse for him.”
“He’ll live,” Kurt repeats coldly. Ignoring him, Brittany curls one hand loosely across Santana’s stomach.
“It’s worse for him,” she notes again, “because he doesn’t know how to handle it. Process it. Because he blames himself. Because he feels alone.”
“He’s being dramatic,” Kurt mutters.
“Bitch looks good on you,” Santana jeers. He smirks, a twisted expression.
“It works.”
Quinn shakes her head, frowning. “How can you do that?”
She really should stop speaking up. These looks she’s getting-disbelieving, irritated, and, in Brittany’s case, encouraging-are overwhelming.
“Got a problem, Marilyn Monroe?” Santana snipes when she pauses, reminding herself to breathe. Kurt cocks his head, cheeks pink with the birth of distaste.
Oh, what the hell. “How can you be so callous about it?” she presses. “He’s a human being in pain. How can you all sit around and badmouth him for putting off dinner?”
She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when Kurt coughs out a tortured, hoarse chuckle. She supposes she shouldn’t surprised by anything these people do.
“Sweetheart,” he begins coolly, “please don’t take this amiss, but what the hell do you know about it?”
“I know you’re not the first person in the world to lose a friend,” she replies snappishly. “I’m sorry she’s dead, Kurt. I’m sorrier than you realize. But you-all of you-are going about this in the worst way. Harping after one another. Breaking your hands. Disappearing. I mean, God-where did Rachel even go?”
“Out,” Santana replies evenly. Quinn punches the air, annoyed.
“Out. Someone is always just ‘out.’ What the hell is wrong with you people? You’re a bunch of kids. You should be finding jobs, going to graduate school, getting married. What are you doing here-running around like you’re Batman or something, killing time until time kills you. And now that one of you has been killed, what-you crack? Into factions? You pick each other apart, walk to opposite corners of the room, hoping you’ll just get over it? It’s ridiculous.”
“And what would you have us do?” Kurt demands. “Hold a funeral? Throw some flowers on an empty grave? Sing a few hymns and then put it to bed? We do what we can-the best we can. That’s all. How lovely for you, that you come from a world where everyone accepts misery and injustice with a nod and a wink, but here? We do only what we can. That’s it. That’s all. Regardless of your classic judgments.”
“Guys,” Brittany cuts in. “Stop. This isn’t helping-“
“Oh, I think it’s helping plenty,” Kurt snarls. “I think this is exactly what we need right now. Little Miss Know-It-All here needs a good dressing down, in my opinion, and with Rachel out of the way, I think now is just the ideal time.”
“Out of the way?” Quinn retaliates. “I’m amazed she stays here at all, with all of you assholes attacking her all the time. I mean, give me a break; you follow her, you let her call the shots, but you act like you can’t stand her. What is that all about?”
“That isn’t your business,” Kurt sniffs. “Rachel is ours. She is part of our world, a world you still know nothing about. Let’s break it down, princess: you have been here a week. A week of sitting here in the basement, twiddling your thumbs, eating our food and sleeping in our beds while we bust our butts to save yours. Please, tell me where you get off telling us how to do what we do. Please. Enlighten me.”
“That’s enough,” Brittany tries again, unfurling her limbs from around Santana and moving as if to crawl between them. “That’s enough, stop it-“
“It won’t be enough until she gets it,” Kurt says coldly. “Stay out of this, Britt.”
“Don’t go there, Hummel,” Santana warns, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t even think about it.”
He closes his mouth for a second, carefully guiding a wayward lock of hair out of flashing eyes. Quinn takes the opportunity to breathe, feeling as though she’s on the verge of a complete and utter meltdown. Kurt is hurting, she rationalizes, and lashing out. It is childish and aggravating, but not nearly enough to provoke her like this.
Or, at least, it shouldn’t be. She should just sit back, close her eyes, let it go. But somewhere between the first arrogant utterance and the look on his face when he mentioned Rachel-like he knows her the way Quinn never will, like Rachel belongs to him in some vibrant, permanent way that bothers her to an intolerable, genuinely weird degree-she could feel her self control ebbing away. And now…well, now…
It would not be entirely beyond reason to suggest she’s losing it.
“You just might want to make a note of this, darling. Your holier-than-thou attitude is going to get you killed,” Kurt says finally, glaring at her like Mercedes’ death and Puck’s lack of sanity and Rachel’s inability to sit still for five minutes is entirely Quinn’s fault. She grinds her teeth together.
“Is that another prediction?”
“Call it an experienced recommendation,” he advises. Her jaw tightens.
“And this experience-would it happen to be of the personal variety?”
“Fuck this,” Santana mutters, grasping Brittany gently by the arm. “We don’t need to sit here and watch this headbutting crap.”
“Wait,” Quinn hears Brittany murmur. “Wait, I think something’s wrong.”
Wrong is too simple a term, and even as she hears Santana growl a retort, Quinn can’t focus on the words. Kurt is sitting there, looking smug and wasted, at once a little boy and a self-righteous man, and Quinn wonders why she ever pitied him. Wonders how she ever thought to touch him without strangling. Wonders how his tears ever touched that deep-down miserable place she thought she buried long before coming to New York.
Because Kurt Hummel is a jackass.
Kurt Hummel is a fool.
Kurt Hummel is the enemy.
Wait, no, she tries to backpedal, that’s not right, that’s not what I meant. Kurt isn’t the enemy. What enemy? If anything, the enemy is the person who brought her here, the one who is responsible for all this death and pain and the barumping staccato of Puck’s feet against whatever chair scurries into his path. If anything, the enemy is-
Ra-
Rayne, she forces out through what feels decidedly like a wall built into her brain. Rayne is the enemy. Rayne is responsible.
It’s illogical and impossible to understand, but each time she thinks his name, it is an effort to smother another one.
A more familiar one.
One that comes complete with big brown doe eyes and a rarely-flashed megawatt smile.
Oh fuck, oh no, oh-
It’s coming again. The thing, the thing inside, the thing that is her very reason for being in this basement to begin with. It’s coming, and it feels just as large and furious as last time-maybe more so. It is massive and shadowed and even as she clenches her fists and lowers her head, she can feel it slithering in through the cracks. She can feel-she can feel it-
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Santana hisses somewhere around the edge of her mind. “I so don’t need this shit today.”
It’s bigger. Oh sweet Jesus, it is so much bigger this time. Last time, last time was all about fear and the destruction of personal boundaries, but now? Now, it’s…
Hungry.
Angry.
Going to win.
She rocks forward, planting her forehead against her knees, eyes slamming shut. It’s too late, she knows: they’ve seen, judging by the wary expression on Santana’s face and the abject fear on Kurt’s. They’ve seen the change, and Quinn doesn’t have to look into a mirror to know. She looks-
She looks like Death.
She is Death.
The word Kurt used the other night-Silencer-resounds in her head, over and over again, playing over and around less defined abstractions. Things like violence. Things like hatred. Things like despair.
It’s growing by the second, magnifying and stretching ravenous jaws, and all Quinn can do is wrap herself in her own arms and pray. Pray that it goes away, pray that it fades, pray that it does not get what it wants.
“Jesus fucking Mary of fuck,” Santana shouts through the fog. “Hummel, what the fuck did you do?”
“Nothing!” he exclaims. “I didn’t-“
“She’s going off,” Brittany intones, low and frightened. “She’s going off, and I don’t know-“
That makes two of them, Quinn thinks desperately, two of them without a singular clue. She can see herself, somehow, without ever leaving her body behind. She can see the way her muscles ripple under ashen skin, the way her eyes glint like obsidian arrowheads, the way her mouth snarls like a perverse knife.
She looks unholy. Inhuman, despite being in full possession of human limbs and a human torso and the shape of a human face. Her skin is not human. Her rage is not human. Everything Rachel once drove into her head, every inch of “some are born a little different” flies from her mind, replaced by the terror of godlessness and the sheer power of…
“We can’t hold her,” she hears Kurt whisper. “God help us, we can’t-“
“Shut the fuck up,” Santana snaps. “Shut up and think.”
“I am.” In her mind’s eye, Quinn sees blue eyes dart over her face before leaping skittishly away again. “What’s your genius plan? Do you really think a grizzly bear will be enough to contain than much raw power?”
“It’s a damn sight better than whatever shit idea you’ve got,” Santana replies, her voice husky and strained. Quinn does not pry open her eyes-doesn’t want to see the woman transform, doesn’t want to fuel the pulsing rage barely contained beneath her own skin. She can’t explain how she knows, but the mere sight of a threat is bound to wrest the last vestige of control her hands. She can’t look. She won’t give it that.
But God, she wants to.
“You can’t stop her,” Kurt whispers frantically, and her ears must be growing keener by the minute, because the simple phrase batters against her senses like a wrecking ball. The thing growls, wrenching its talons into the widening cracks of her authority and yanking. Quinn whimpers.
“You can’t,” he repeats, almost awestruck. She hears him back slowly away. “Santana. Listen to me. She’ll kill you.”
“No,” Brittany breathes, even as the force within Quinn hisses, Yes.
The only answer they receive from Santana is a deep rumble. The darkness chuckles, eager to engage. Eager to destroy.
Why her? The desperate question echoes, Quinn bracing her whole body against the urge to leap to her feet and tear out the other woman’s throat. It’s not her. She didn’t do anything. It’s Kurt, it’s Kurt. Take Kurt, take him, he’s the problem-
No. No, that’s wrong too. Kurt isn’t the problem, the problem is-
Rachel.
No, no, Quinn rails. No, it’s not her, it’s not, you can’t have her, you can’t-
It wants her. Oh, God, it wants her so bad, but she’s not here. She’s out, remember, out with Mike and Matt, patrolling or putting that Jewish nose where it doesn’t belong, and Christ knows she’s going to get herself killed one of these days, but for now-thank God, for now, she’s out of Quinn’s grasp. Out of its grasp. It can’t have her, she’ll have it under control by then, she’ll give it something else-
Her eyes snap open.
She can see Kurt there, hovering just behind a great hulking wall of black fur. She can see him, with his pathetic tear-stained face and his gaping marble eyes, arms braced at his sides like he’s not sure whether to run or fight. The thing inside snorts its derision, damn near cackles at the idea; he’s five-seven and scrawny, he’s practically carved of porcelain, he’s miserable. A little boy. Easily cracked, easily damaged, easily ruined.
She could take him in a second.
If only there wasn’t that damn bear in the way.
She’s on her feet, fluid and ready. She can’t see Brittany anymore-no doubt pushed to safety already-but who cares? Brittany is nothing. No threat. Quinn knows she’s there, somewhere, but the beast doesn’t even register her existence. It’s all about Kurt. Kurt and the bear.
Could be a children’s book, she thinks dumbly. Kurt and the Bear. And Quinn. Quinn the Killer. Quinn the Silencer.
Take them, but leave her. Leave Rachel.
It’s not a perfect negotiation; the contract has more holes than ties, but right now, the beast snuffles like it approves. She’ll think of something better later, something more permanent, but now-now she’s got to give it something.
Santana moves, a flash of muscle like water, the crash of claws aimed at her head. A normal person, they’d lose their face to a move like that. Whole head, torn away, bouncing like some sad-ass melon along the blue mat.
It’s safe to say Quinn is decidedly not normal.
She ducks the blow, reaching up with both hands and digging her nails through thick fur, puncturing the skin beneath. Santana makes a displeased noise, tossing her giant head and trying to jerk free, but Quinn is strong. Blissfully strong, euphorically so. Her head is buzzing with pleasure and power, her blood humming. She gives a rough yank.
The bear stumbles.
This is almost too easy. Almost absurdly so. She releases, bringing the side of her foot up into the stomach of the creature, pounding it back. Santana staggers again, and the sane part of Quinn registers what’s going on here: the Latina is tired. They’ve gone through so much today, and she’s so worn out, and on top of everything-
She won’t hurt me.
Brittany’s adamant words rush back: “This is important. She is important.”
The beast grins.
The bear snarls, and Quinn shakes her head. All bark, no bite. How obvious. How deliciously crystal-clear.
A week ago, the idea of punching a grizzly full-on in the snout would have had Quinn bent double, cackling hysterically. Today, she finds it actually feels pretty damn good. There is a crunch and a howl, Santana’s eyes boring anguished holes into her as she trips back. Quinn hits her again, and again, a tiny David against the world’s furriest Goliath, and is almost irrationally proud of herself for it.
She hears a low gasp behind her-ah, so that’s where Brittany went-and chooses to ignore it. It doesn’t interest the force wound tight around her heart. It is nothing.
She hits Santana one last time, hands falling to that shaggy thick throat like it’s only natural, and then she’s squeezing with a strength she’s never felt. She’s squeezing, and Brittany’s shouting something, and Kurt’s eyes are magnified to a ridiculous degree, and it is awesome.
It shouldn’t be. Quinn knows it. Quinn is screaming, Quinn’s fists are pounding on the cage she feels locked into, Quinn is fighting as hard as she knows how-but her body isn’t obeying. Try as she might, she can’t remember how to stop her arms or legs, how to uncurl her fingers, how to wipe the sneer off of her lips. She can’t remember how to stop herself from choking Santana until the animal fades, until, like shutting off a light, the fur melts away into caramel skin. Until the paws scrambling against her wrists are hands with fingers and biting nails. Until the eyes are wide and silently screaming, taut biceps straining.
She’s squeezing, but there’s something else here, something she’s funneling into Santana’s body. Something she’s simultaneously drawing back out. She can’t find a descriptor, can’t bring herself to care; all she knows is, it is giving her the biggest rush ever. Cocaine, methamphetamines, sky-diving-fuck it all, this is what’s real. This is what counts.
The beast licks its lips. In a little while, she’ll have sucked Santana Lopez dry, and it will be perfect. She can only imagine how much better it will be when she gets to her true target.
Something slams into her from behind, all long arms and desperation. Quinn shrugs the contact away, fully ignoring the way Brittany shrieks unintelligible things into her ear. She’s got this. She’ll just hold on until Santana stops thrashing, until she goes limp and careless, and then she’ll get to what really matters right now.
He’s huddled there, mouth agape, panic etched across broken features. He’s huddled like he thinks he can make himself invisible if he stands there long enough, knees bent and head down. He’s pathetic, and without him?
Without him, she wouldn’t even be here.
If Rachel’s to blame (she’s not, she’s not), so is Kurt Hummel. And that is one piece of the equation she doesn’t mind decimating.
(No, no, it’s not okay, he’s a good man, he’s just tired, he’s just sad, don’t-)
Santana’s swings are growing weaker, her eyes half-lidded. Her lips part for the air she’s being denied, and Quinn can see her gaze move seamlessly over her shoulder, to where Brittany is still pounding her fists along Quinn’s shoulder blades. She sees the dark hair swirl as Santana subtly shakes her head, a silent command that Brittany is bound to disregard. The beast registers the connection and chortles softly. It’s almost amusing, how the healer seems to think she has a chance in hell of stopping this. Of stopping Quinn.
She can see it now, bright and clear and terrifying: no one can stop her.
Santana’s body is feather-light, the toes of her boots dragging on the ground as Quinn lifts her higher and clenches her fingers more tightly than ever. She feels Brittany’s arms wind around her middle, feels the taller woman try to yank her backwards, and okay, now that’s getting a little annoying.
(Don’t hurt her, oh my God, don’t-)
She backhands the blonde without looking, satisfied by the wail and the thump that suggest a reasonably soft landing. She’ll deal with that later. First, most important, this needs to be finished. Santana’s eyelids are fluttering, her face pale, her jaw slack. It’s almost over. The beast will be pleased. It will be-
Something slams into her, and for a second, she thinks it’s Brittany again, back with a renewed vengeance. It takes her the span of a long blink to realize whatever hit her is not a body-is, in fact, not anything she can put a name to. It’s blistering, vibrant, but not the likes of anything Tina or Puck could produce. It’s…
Weird.
She drops Santana and rotates on her heel, adrenaline urging her to forget Kurt and zero in on this new threat. The beast is snarling in her ears, in her head, prickling all over with fury, and if she can just see-
Rachel.
She stops.
Her knees tremble.
Without another thought, she drops heavily.
The restricting force looped like a collar around her throat hasn’t come from Rachel, of course; she suspects Rachel couldn’t stop her if her life depended upon it. (Quinn swallows a sick stone at the realization that it full-well might.) In fact, she’s pretty sure whatever has managed to shove the inky black hell in her heart down is emanating from Matt-the guy she’s barely heard utter a syllable since being here. She stares up at him, forehead soaked in a sudden chilled sweat, her every muscle burning.
“Fucking bitch,” she hears Santana swear around the most vicious cough on record. “Fucking crazy, fucking-“
“It wasn’t her fault,” Brittany admonishes softly. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn sees the blonde stroke her fingertips across the bruises stark on Santana’s skin. A decidedly ill feeling worms its way into the pit of her stomach.
“That,” Kurt breathes, still standing a safe distance away with his arms tensed, “is exactly what we need to prevent in the future.”
“What the hell, Fabray?” Santana snaps, ignoring them both. “What kind of anger issues you got buried under that pretty face?”
“I-I don’t,” Quinn stammers, too shaken to form concrete sentences. “I didn’t mean-I don’t know how-“
Rachel is staring at her, eyes guarded and thoughtful. Quinn resists the urge to shamefully turn her eyes away.
“Matt,” Rachel says calmly. “Thoughts?”
He shrugs. “Think she’s solid. Quinn?”
She sucks in a heavy breath into lungs made of iron and meets his dark eyes. Slowly, she inclines her head. “I’m good. I’m okay.”
Just like that, the noose around her throat goes slack and vanishes. She waits for a second, unsteady and terrified that the beast will only rear up again, but things seem silent. She touches her face to her hands, quivering all over.
“Santana?” Rachel moves on. Still laying on the floor, back to Brittany’s chest, the Latina scowls.
“Fucking bitch tried to-“
“It wasn’t her fault,” Brittany repeats, and it’s only now that Quinn sees the other woman shaking like a leaf. Her skin is almost transparent, her brow tight. Santana sighs.
“Okay, babe. Fine. No hard feelings about the trying to kill my perky ass thing.”
From the icy stare she’s receiving along with the words, Quinn suspects this isn’t so likely to stick.
Rachel turns back, frowning. “Quinn, I think we’ve learned a valuable lesson from this.”
We? Quinn shakes her head. “You weren’t even here-“
“I’m a telepath, Quinn,” Rachel deadpans. “I’ve got my ways.”
“Well, fine, but-“ Something occurs to her, and though it’s totally irrational to focus on this right now, her eyes go wide. “Wait, shit, can you read my mind?”
Santana snorts. “Lay off the comic books, bitch.”
“I’m sorry I strangled you, but are you ever going to call me anything else?” Quinn demands wearily. The dark-eyed woman smirks.
“Nicknames are precious commodities. Enjoy it.”
“Anyway,” Rachel interjects, rubbing her eyes. “In the future, it might be wise to avoid high-stress environments.”
“Like this one?” Quinn gestures aimlessly, arms feeling exactly as light as a couple of sledgehammers. Rachel presses her lips thinly together.
“For example, Mercedes’ death coupled with a lack of proper sustenance and whatever it was that happened to trigger the whole episode. It’s all about your mental state, Quinn. Your self-control. We’ll go over some breathing exercises and meditation techniques as soon as I get a moment, but until then, it might be prudent to start walking away from confrontation rather than embracing it.”
“I didn’t confront-“ Pausing, Quinn reminds herself again to breathe, shooting a glare at Kurt. “It’s all his fault, anyway.”
“Fault does not particularly vex me, Quinn,” Rachel reprimands lightly. The blonde bows her head, guiltier than ever. “You need to take responsibility for yourself. Learn what sets you off, and then do whatever you must to avoid those situations. We can’t afford to have you going off at random intervals, not until you’ve learned to rein your power in.”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide. “Rein it in? Rachel, you have no idea what it’s like! This thing, I don’t even know what it is, but it’s so out of control. So big and so angry, and I can’t-“
“You can,” Rachel replies, so calm Quinn wants to scream. “You can, and you will, I promise. But now isn’t the time. It’s been a long, terrible day, and all you need now is a hot meal and a warm bed. We’ll worry about the rest in the morning.”
In the morning. When I get a moment. With Rachel, it’s always about the future, about putting things off, but Quinn wants to understand now. She wants to learn exactly how to leash this thing-or maybe even destroy it for good. What the hell good can come from a power like hers, anyway?
“I don’t think,” she begins again. Rachel reaches out, clasping her wrist and pulling her gently to stand.
“Relax. Deep breaths. Maybe take a shower, if it will help. We’ll work the rest out later.”
Quinn shakes her head, dizzy even from her first step. “But-“
“Later,” Rachel repeats, tucking an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Her eyes are warmer than they’ve been all day, but shrouded. Uneasy. Quinn swallows.
“Okay.”
It’s exactly the last thing she wants to say, but Santana is limping, half-supporting Brittany who, in turn, is half-supporting her. Santana is limping, and Kurt now looks fearful and grief-stricken, and she can still hear the sporadic thuds of Puck’s frustration coming from who knows where. She wants control. She wants to make sure this never happens again.
But for that, she needs not to feel like the villain in the story.
She needs Santana to stop looking at her with such distaste.
She needs Brittany’s smile instead of her sympathy.
And she needs Rachel.
She’ll have to wait.