Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don't Want To Be Your Hero) (24/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (24/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
It’s amazing that she has made it this far without falling down.
It isn’t that she’s never been angry before-or frightened, or desperate, or panicked, for that matter. The thing is, she has never felt all of those things at the same time, amped up by the power that has built from the base of her belly all the way to clog her throat.
She can’t find a better descriptor for it: Quinn Fabray is seething.
Walking should help; it’s a really lovely day out, all green grass and stunning blue skies. It is a friggin’ Hallmark card for freed hostages, she thinks grimly. All the same, it’s making her feel sick to her stomach.
She doesn’t have the first idea where to go from here. Home? It seems unfathomable, and somehow wrong. Home belongs to the old Quinn, the waitress without all the black-eyed death power lurking under the pristine, blonde surface. Home is an untainted, quaint little crapshoot of an apartment, and though she can’t explain it, she somehow wants to preserve that. As if doing so might protect that old image of herself as well, perhaps construct a glass case around the memory until she is able to return to it someday down the line.
If she ever can, after all of this.
Work, if possible, seems like an even worse idea. Carl has probably already put out the word that her “pretty head is on a shelf” or some equally horrifying thought; if she walks back through that door now, it will bring down a torrent of questions she is unprepared to deal with.
How would Carl react, she wonders, to the power she contains? How would anyone?
Without Rachel and the others, she’s beginning to feel uncomfortably vulnerable.
Not that she’s going back, she decides resolutely, rounding the corner of a particularly green park and striding through the gate.
Security at the price of being made into a tool for some bizarre, questionable vendetta-it’s not worth it. And it’s certainly not worth being held captive.
Stockholm Syndrome, she thinks angrily. That is the cause of all her stress. A few days alone with Rachel Berry and her obnoxious midget charm, and all self-preservation went straight out the window. How stupid of her to let that happen, to actually let herself believe that Rachel could ever care about her. How relentlessly pathetic, to let something like that lull her into a false sense of…
But she does. Doesn’t she?
Sinking onto a mildly disheveled-looking bench, Quinn sinks her teeth into her lip and stares at the ground. That feels right now like the million-dollar question: does Rachel actually have feelings for her? Could it be remotely possible that such powerful emotions have come from some kind of sick charade, an act crafted for the sole purpose of keeping her calm and in place until the time comes to-
Could Rachel even be capable of such cruelty? The idea of those brown eyes holding anything less than honesty is baffling, but at the same time…Rachel gets into minds and under skin. That’s her gift. What should make Quinn much different than anyone else who might get inadvertently embroiled in the so-called mission?
Groaning, she buries her head in her hands, massaging her forehead. An hour ago, she was falling in love; now, she’s on the run from that very same girl. She almost wishes this could be some fucked-up Runaway Bride segment. At least she can predict that story’s ending.
This…put lightly, this just sucks.
“I’ve got some aspirin, if you need it,” a mellow voice utters right into her ear. Quinn flails, one hand curling into an instinctive fist and flashing sideways. Strong fingers close around her wrist.
“There’s something a little harsh about punching a cripple, don’t you think?” Artie asks, amused. Quinn shakes free and scowls.
“How did you find-“
“Normal people aren’t as good at running away as actual runaways,” he brushes aside with a shrug. “I’m a little worried about your hearing, though, if you didn’t notice the wheel situation at all.”
“I was distracted,” she snips, pointedly ignoring his boyish smile in favor of staring at a nearby tree. There comes a slight thunk, as he rolls too close to the bench and bumps it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Even the tone of his voice is awkward, and she can’t help but wonder why he, of all people, had to be the one to track her down. Not that Artie isn’t nice, in the same way that Tina, or Mike, or Matt can be. It’s just that she doesn’t really connect with him the way she did with Puck’s smartass comments, or Santana’s borderline-affectionate rage, or Rachel’s…
“We can,” he urges, toying with the fingerless glove on his left hand. “Talk. If you…need to…”
“I don’t need to,” she replies coldly. The tips of his ears flare bright pink.
“Right. Okay.”
The silence that follows might be the heaviest she has felt since turning down nerds (several of whom kind of looked like Artie, she thinks somewhat shamefacedly) in college. Uncomfortable, Quinn taps her feet against the grass and watches a golden retriever make a spectacular lunge for the frisbee tossed by its surfer-chill owner.
“Why’d you leave?” Artie blurts out, the question shattering against her eardrums. She slides him a glare.
“Excuse me?”
“You left,” he observes bluntly, blue eyes insistent behind black frames. “Just out of nowhere, poof. What’d you do that for?”
She shakes her head, lips pursed. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him frown.
“It’s really dangerous out here,” he presses. “Seriously, after what happened with Mercedes…and you know he wants you, I know Rachel has been drilling that into you with her irritating persistence…”
“I don’t care,” Quinn interrupts. “It’s better than being back there.”
“But…you seemed so…happy.” His cheeks redden, hands raising submissively when she only glares harder. “Just an observation, no big thang.”
“Thang?” she repeats, too wiped out to let it slide. Somehow, even confined to that chair, he manages to shuffle awkwardly.
“Sometimes things like that slip out.”
The desire to giggle wells up, struggling against the dark weight of anger still clenched around her heart. She bites it back, brushing her knuckles against her brow and sighing.
“I overheard…some stuff. Earlier. That’s why I…”
“Ran like a girl?” he fills in brightly, shrinking once more when she stares at him. “Sorry. Tina says I sometimes have trouble with minor…misogynistic impulses…”
“Work on that,” Quinn advises wryly. He gives a meek nod.
“You were saying?”
For a moment, her throat threatens to close on the words. Talking to Artie shouldn’t help; he’s one of them. He is just as likely to be behind Rachel’s dumbass plan as the rest of his friends.
But his eyes are so kind, and his smile so warm, and, as little as she wants to admit it, Quinn needs someone to talk to-someone who doesn’t also live inside of her head. She bites the inside of her cheek once, hard.
“Rachel isn’t what I thought she was, that’s all.”
“What did you think she was?” he asks curiously.
Kind. Compassionate. Someone who could love me. “Not someone willing to sell me out like some mindless nuclear device,” she hears herself say bitterly. His eyes widen.
“Woah, whoever said anything about-“
“Kurt,” Quinn mutters. “And Santana. They want to use me.”
“You mean…your power,” he corrects carefully. “They want to use your power for something?”
“I mean me,” she snaps. “They want to throw me headfirst into a battle situation, regardless of how I feel about it. I mean they haven’t even asked my opinion. Kurt says there’s no other option, and Rachel called me…she said I-“
She trails off, struggling to still her trembling hands. Artie touches her knee.
“Whatever she said, Quinn, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. You must’ve misunderstood.”
“She called me a killer,” Quinn whispers miserably. “How does someone misunderstand that?”
“Well…I mean…aren’t you?”
Her head jerks sideways, eyes flashing. “What?”
Artie’s hand snaps back from her leg, clutched to his chest as though she’s burned him. “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” he assures her. “It’s just…Quinn, you are kind of dangerous. We’ve known that since the beginning. Is it really so wild that she would state-“
“She called me a killer,” Quinn repeats icily. “That doesn’t do wonders for a girl’s state of mind. Especially since…since she…”
“Cares about you?” Artie fills in gently. Her teeth sink into her tongue hard enough to draw blood.
“Obviously not.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” he insists, rolling himself directly into her line of vision. “You said you overheard them. Does that mean you weren’t included in the conversation?”
It’s a low blow, she thinks, to make her feel ashamed when she’s the one with the legitimate feelings here. She scowls.
“Not technically, but that isn’t the point.”
“I have to disagree,” Artie said, hastening to add, “Hear me out before you Force-choke me, okay?”
Another low blow, albeit not quite as low. She’s not really sure how to feel about this Artie kid, but something about his cautious smile suggests he actually gives a shit about what he’s saying. She can’t resist giving him the chance to say his bit.
“Thank you,” he says when she rolls her eyes and slumps back against the bench. “Now look, I know those guys aren’t going to win any awards for tact anytime soon, but I’ve known them a long time. They’re good people. They mean well.”
“Meaning well and selling me down the river are not the same thing,” Quinn snaps hotly. He shrugs.
“I’m just saying, maybe you didn’t get all the information. Think about it. What else did Rachel say?”
“She called me a-“
“I heard that part,” he cuts her off gently. “The rest. What was the rest of the conversation like?”
Shaking her head, Quinn forces herself to think. “I don’t…she…” Realization dawns. “She was telling them not to rush into things. That the situation still…” What was that phrase? “Merited contemplation.”
Wisely, he inclines his head. “In Rachel Berry speak, we like to call that ‘stalling’.”
Stalling. But then-“So why would she say that about me, if she’s so interested in buying more time?”
Artie’s shoulders lift and drop. “I’m no mind reader, but I have to stand by what I said before. That part was, um. Kind of true. And if that’s so, Kurt and Santana will know it. There wouldn’t be a point arguing with them over every detail, would there?”
“So…you think she threw that little gem out…to pacify them?” Quinn slides a hand up the back of her neck and squeezes. “That’s idiotic.”
“That’s negotiating,” he reminds her. “Rachel Berry-style, particularly. It’s part of being a leader, and as irritating as she so often is, she’s good at that job. She knows how to handle the people she protects, even without making use of her scary mind powers.”
“And by ‘handle’, you mean…”
“Giving those two trigger-happy friends of ours a nugget of truth to clutch onto until she’s sure which move to make next,” he confirms. When she doesn’t respond, he tentatively lays a hand atop her knee again. “Rachel does care about you, Quinn. She has from the start. She would never throw you under the bus, not for anything, no matter how much pressure our resident drama king lumps on.”
It makes sense, she suppose, although-as is the case with so many things-the logic doesn’t make it hurt any less. She still isn’t okay with hearing Rachel speak brutal truths behind her back. Although, technically, that isn’t Artie’s problem.
“And for the record,” he breezes on somewhat obliviously, “Kurt and Santana aren’t as bad as they probably sounded. Kurt’s pretty messed up about what happened, and Santana is…Santana, but they would both do anything for one another. For any of us. And that includes you now.”
Mindlessly, she nods, half because she believes him and half because she’s too worn out by jerking so unsteadily from one emotion to the next all morning to do anything else. He looks delighted, like he has achieved some tiny, magnificent goal. It’s actually rather adorable.
Maybe Artie Abrams is pretty okay, actually. A dork, but not bad. She makes a mental note to spend more time around him and his Gothified girl in the future.
“I guess you’re thinking we should go back, huh?” she asks, gingerly removing the hand awkwardly patting her kneecap. His face lights up.
“And they say you’re not a mind-“
And then he stops. Just like that, not a second to fumble or pause for air; without another sound or motion, Artie Abrams freezes.
A shiver rolls between her shoulder blades. “Artie?”
Nothing, not even a shift of one finger. Only his eyes, locked on hers, widen ever so slightly-screaming, she thinks with a jolt of horror. His eyes are screaming bloody murder.
“What is it?” she demands, leaning towards him. “Artie. What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s really more a question of what he’s not doing, wouldn’t you say?”
The new voice is smooth and full of good humor, spun like silk from just behind her. Instinctive, Quinn turns, fists coming up just the way Rachel taught her.
She finds herself face to face with a thirty-something man about Puck’s height, with wavy brown hair and a clean-cut smile. His shirt is buttoned, his pants creased carefully, and the fingernails on his extended hands are perfectly immaculate.
He instantly scares the shit out of her.
“I mean,” he continues in an easy drawl, “look at him. A cardboard cut-out is more a picture of kinesis, wouldn’t you agree? You can’t really accuse him of doing anything.
“Of course, we can change that.”
He flips his palms so they’re facing skyward and raises his arms a couple of inches. To Quinn’s horror, Artie rises with the motion, limp-limbed and saucer-eyed. The man’s smile expands.
“They told him he’d never walk again,” he mocks, twisting one wrist like he’s tuning a radio. On command, Artie’s slack legs snap forward, taking jerky, perverse steps on the air. “Aren’t miracles grand?”
“Put him down,” Quinn hears herself command, voice trembling almost too hard to make each word distinct. The man arches a fastidiously-groomed eyebrow.
“I’d watch who I was ordering about, were I you, my lovely little friend. Do you have the first inkling who I am?”
She shivers, too frightened to move from the bench. Within her, the beast gives a weak growl. “You’re…you killed…”
“The chubby muscle girl?” Another flick of the wrist, and Artie is back to merely dangling, spread-eagled. “Yes, I suppose I did. For a good cause, though, you understand. She simply wasn’t deserving enough. You dig?”
Bile rises in her throat, lips parting instinctively when he gives a twitch that jerks Artie’s legs too far apart to be comfortable. The bespectacled young man winces with his eyes alone, just enough to send another spike of terror through her bones.
“The thing of it is,” Rayne observes, tone friendly as anything, “the real heart of the matter, it’s that none of you crazy kids know what you’ve got on your plates. Least of all you, my glorious little lady. You’re all just a-jiggin’ through life, and you don’t. Know. Why.”
He punctuates the final three words by pointing his index fingers directly at Artie, whose body obediently spasms, legs spreading even farther, arms extending straight out. Quinn bites her tongue.
Now, now would be such a good time to be brutal, to rush at him, to let the thing inside of her rip him to shreds. He’s responsible for all of this: for Rachel’s bruises that night, for Santana’s before that, for Mercedes’ death, and Kurt’s tears, and Quinn’s blind confusion about every inch of this world. It’s him, all of it, and if she could just move-
But she can’t, and it has nothing to do with whatever he’s doing to Artie. This is her fault, her own body rebelling against what needs to badly to be done. Her fists clench, but she can’t remember how to throw the first punch.
“How’re you feelin’ up there?” she hears him call, head tilted back. His mouth dangles open in a hyena’s laugh, eyes glittering with madness. Above them, Artie does not twitch.
“You see,” Rayne tells her conversationally, “this is the problem with kids today. No passion, you know? No fight left in ‘em. I mean, if he really wanted it, I bet he could do a little somethin’ somethin’. You’ve got a power in ya, don’t you, kid? Something juicy and delicious for me, right? If it’s so worth hangin’ onto, why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
Why him, Quinn wants to scream, why not me? It’s me you want, so put him down and-
“I know what you’re thinkin’, girly,” he says softly, eyes never leaving Artie’s body. “You’ll get your turn, don’t you fret about it. I've just never put much stock in ‘ladies first’, and I figure Wheels deserves a little moment in the sun for coming all the way out here for you. You know. As a shiny reward.”
He clenches both hands like a magician concealing a rubber ball, then flashes them open. Above them, Artie’s jaw drops in a silent scream.
“C’mon, Four-Eyes, let’s tango. Just a tiny skip and a jump, and I bet you can work yourself right out of this little briar patch. What do you say?”
As Quinn watches, dumbstruck, Artie’s body seems to be simultaneously yanked in four different directions like a starfish even as he descends slowly. Rayne steps lightly towards him, smiling like he’s approaching his favorite pizza parlor, and all she can think is, Stop him. Stop him now. It’s time to move, it’s time to act.
“Or you could just hang out there, my geeky friend. Makes no difference to me, in the end.” Rayne flashes his teeth-sharp and straight, the perfect yuppie smile. It makes Quinn’s stomach clench.
She catches Artie’s gaze, trying desperately to force an impossible telepathic connection. Come on, replicate. Do something. He can’t get all of you at once if you just-
“I bet you’re gonna be a slammin’ addition,” Rayne whispers, patting the younger man’s cheek like a favored uncle at Christmas. A silver tear dampens Artie’s skin, his tongue pushing restlessly against his teeth. Quinn wants to scream for him as two clean hands land on his shoulders, fingers tangling in the fabric of his sweater.
She can’t explain what happens next, only that it looks desperately agonizing. Artie’s spine snaps back, his face angled towards the heavens, eyes clenching desperately closed. Conversely, Rayne’s shoulders hunch, his hands tightening visibly as his forehead bumps against Artie's. An expression that looks for all the world, she thinks, like sexual gratification tenses his brow for a stretch as Artie soundlessly screams and screams.
And then he is letting go, stumbling back. Artie’s body drops with a sick thud into the grass, glasses knocked askew, and for a blind moment, Quinn thinks this is it: Rayne will walk away, she will pick Artie up and struggle to put him back in that chair, and they will go home.
It is, somehow, amidst everything else, the stupidest thing she has thought today.
“That was a trip,” the man grunts, smacking his hands against his knees and straightening up. “You should really try it sometime, it’s better than sex.”
She realizes with a disgusted start that he is addressing her. Her palms feel bruised from being dug into so forcefully.
When he raises his head and smiles, she wants to smash his teeth in.
“Soon, baby, you and me are gonna take a ride,” he promises, turning away and pressing one gleaming shoe into Artie’s ribcage. The younger man groans and curls his torso forward, legs sprawled uselessly; Quinn swallows.
“Let him-let him be, you’ve done…you’ve done enough.”
“Enough?” He tilts his head towards her, brown eyes serious. “Darlin’, you oughta know there’s no such thing.”
Before she can even think about tackling him, or lashing out with fists or inhuman force, he extends his fingers once more. Artie goes rigid, yanked from the ground by invisible hands, and floats just above Rayne’s eye level. His hair lazes messily off his head, his face dangerously pale.
The thing inside snuffles uncomfortably in the silence. Something’s coming, it warns, something bad, he’s going to do it, he’s going to-
It happens too fast; it’s her other senses, more than her eyes, that even catch the moment. Grinning sadistically, Rayne casts a sudden wink over his shoulder, punches his hands forward, and makes a motion like he’s snapping a handful of brittle twigs.
Sprawled on a stretcher of air, Artie’s body bows instantly, his spine contorting as no human’s ever should.
The sickening crack mingles with her scream before she even knows she’s making the sound, and just like that, she’s moving. Her sneakers slip on soft grass, her arms cutting through the air with ungainly grace, urged at once to vomit and sprint like she never has in her life. She’s not sure what she’ll do when she gets to him-it’s a suicide mission, something at the back of her mind warns, it will do no good at all, but she can’t seem to stop. If she can only reach him, if she can only place herself between Artie’s lifeless body and his cold, vile grin, she’ll be able to do something.
Too little, too late, the voice reminds her grimly. She shakes her head, tears flowing desperately as she nears him. A few more feet, a few more seconds, and-
Long, powerful arms catch her around the middle, yanking her off the ground and into a broad chest. She swings a desperate volley of punches into the body before she registers the familiar scent as Finn Hudson-the man who has just teleported in just in time to prevent her from following Artie right out of this world.
The man who, she realizes dimly, has not come alone.
“Grab him, Finn,” Rachel orders loudly. “Get his body now.”
Nodding stoically, Finn holds them both against his chest and blinks. For a split second, Quinn feels certain that she does not exist; her body is weightless, lacking bone and muscle and mass itself. For that one, pithy second, nothing matters at all.
And then they’re back, right beside Artie’s violated form. Finn shoves her sideways, jammed between his left arm and Rachel, reaches out, and grasps the body by the back of that ridiculous sweater.
Before she can register how nauseatingly strange it is to be smashed between the human teddy bear that is Finn Hudson and the woman she wishes to God she wasn’t falling for, Quinn finds herself in the apartment. Feet planted on threadbare carpet, knees wobbling, she stands for a fraction of a moment.
When she falls, Rachel is there, arms wrapped around her so tightly, it almost muffles Tina’s first broken sob.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
It’s amazing that she has made it this far without falling down.
It isn’t that she’s never been angry before-or frightened, or desperate, or panicked, for that matter. The thing is, she has never felt all of those things at the same time, amped up by the power that has built from the base of her belly all the way to clog her throat.
She can’t find a better descriptor for it: Quinn Fabray is seething.
Walking should help; it’s a really lovely day out, all green grass and stunning blue skies. It is a friggin’ Hallmark card for freed hostages, she thinks grimly. All the same, it’s making her feel sick to her stomach.
She doesn’t have the first idea where to go from here. Home? It seems unfathomable, and somehow wrong. Home belongs to the old Quinn, the waitress without all the black-eyed death power lurking under the pristine, blonde surface. Home is an untainted, quaint little crapshoot of an apartment, and though she can’t explain it, she somehow wants to preserve that. As if doing so might protect that old image of herself as well, perhaps construct a glass case around the memory until she is able to return to it someday down the line.
If she ever can, after all of this.
Work, if possible, seems like an even worse idea. Carl has probably already put out the word that her “pretty head is on a shelf” or some equally horrifying thought; if she walks back through that door now, it will bring down a torrent of questions she is unprepared to deal with.
How would Carl react, she wonders, to the power she contains? How would anyone?
Without Rachel and the others, she’s beginning to feel uncomfortably vulnerable.
Not that she’s going back, she decides resolutely, rounding the corner of a particularly green park and striding through the gate.
Security at the price of being made into a tool for some bizarre, questionable vendetta-it’s not worth it. And it’s certainly not worth being held captive.
Stockholm Syndrome, she thinks angrily. That is the cause of all her stress. A few days alone with Rachel Berry and her obnoxious midget charm, and all self-preservation went straight out the window. How stupid of her to let that happen, to actually let herself believe that Rachel could ever care about her. How relentlessly pathetic, to let something like that lull her into a false sense of…
But she does. Doesn’t she?
Sinking onto a mildly disheveled-looking bench, Quinn sinks her teeth into her lip and stares at the ground. That feels right now like the million-dollar question: does Rachel actually have feelings for her? Could it be remotely possible that such powerful emotions have come from some kind of sick charade, an act crafted for the sole purpose of keeping her calm and in place until the time comes to-
Could Rachel even be capable of such cruelty? The idea of those brown eyes holding anything less than honesty is baffling, but at the same time…Rachel gets into minds and under skin. That’s her gift. What should make Quinn much different than anyone else who might get inadvertently embroiled in the so-called mission?
Groaning, she buries her head in her hands, massaging her forehead. An hour ago, she was falling in love; now, she’s on the run from that very same girl. She almost wishes this could be some fucked-up Runaway Bride segment. At least she can predict that story’s ending.
This…put lightly, this just sucks.
“I’ve got some aspirin, if you need it,” a mellow voice utters right into her ear. Quinn flails, one hand curling into an instinctive fist and flashing sideways. Strong fingers close around her wrist.
“There’s something a little harsh about punching a cripple, don’t you think?” Artie asks, amused. Quinn shakes free and scowls.
“How did you find-“
“Normal people aren’t as good at running away as actual runaways,” he brushes aside with a shrug. “I’m a little worried about your hearing, though, if you didn’t notice the wheel situation at all.”
“I was distracted,” she snips, pointedly ignoring his boyish smile in favor of staring at a nearby tree. There comes a slight thunk, as he rolls too close to the bench and bumps it.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Even the tone of his voice is awkward, and she can’t help but wonder why he, of all people, had to be the one to track her down. Not that Artie isn’t nice, in the same way that Tina, or Mike, or Matt can be. It’s just that she doesn’t really connect with him the way she did with Puck’s smartass comments, or Santana’s borderline-affectionate rage, or Rachel’s…
“We can,” he urges, toying with the fingerless glove on his left hand. “Talk. If you…need to…”
“I don’t need to,” she replies coldly. The tips of his ears flare bright pink.
“Right. Okay.”
The silence that follows might be the heaviest she has felt since turning down nerds (several of whom kind of looked like Artie, she thinks somewhat shamefacedly) in college. Uncomfortable, Quinn taps her feet against the grass and watches a golden retriever make a spectacular lunge for the frisbee tossed by its surfer-chill owner.
“Why’d you leave?” Artie blurts out, the question shattering against her eardrums. She slides him a glare.
“Excuse me?”
“You left,” he observes bluntly, blue eyes insistent behind black frames. “Just out of nowhere, poof. What’d you do that for?”
She shakes her head, lips pursed. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him frown.
“It’s really dangerous out here,” he presses. “Seriously, after what happened with Mercedes…and you know he wants you, I know Rachel has been drilling that into you with her irritating persistence…”
“I don’t care,” Quinn interrupts. “It’s better than being back there.”
“But…you seemed so…happy.” His cheeks redden, hands raising submissively when she only glares harder. “Just an observation, no big thang.”
“Thang?” she repeats, too wiped out to let it slide. Somehow, even confined to that chair, he manages to shuffle awkwardly.
“Sometimes things like that slip out.”
The desire to giggle wells up, struggling against the dark weight of anger still clenched around her heart. She bites it back, brushing her knuckles against her brow and sighing.
“I overheard…some stuff. Earlier. That’s why I…”
“Ran like a girl?” he fills in brightly, shrinking once more when she stares at him. “Sorry. Tina says I sometimes have trouble with minor…misogynistic impulses…”
“Work on that,” Quinn advises wryly. He gives a meek nod.
“You were saying?”
For a moment, her throat threatens to close on the words. Talking to Artie shouldn’t help; he’s one of them. He is just as likely to be behind Rachel’s dumbass plan as the rest of his friends.
But his eyes are so kind, and his smile so warm, and, as little as she wants to admit it, Quinn needs someone to talk to-someone who doesn’t also live inside of her head. She bites the inside of her cheek once, hard.
“Rachel isn’t what I thought she was, that’s all.”
“What did you think she was?” he asks curiously.
Kind. Compassionate. Someone who could love me. “Not someone willing to sell me out like some mindless nuclear device,” she hears herself say bitterly. His eyes widen.
“Woah, whoever said anything about-“
“Kurt,” Quinn mutters. “And Santana. They want to use me.”
“You mean…your power,” he corrects carefully. “They want to use your power for something?”
“I mean me,” she snaps. “They want to throw me headfirst into a battle situation, regardless of how I feel about it. I mean they haven’t even asked my opinion. Kurt says there’s no other option, and Rachel called me…she said I-“
She trails off, struggling to still her trembling hands. Artie touches her knee.
“Whatever she said, Quinn, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. You must’ve misunderstood.”
“She called me a killer,” Quinn whispers miserably. “How does someone misunderstand that?”
“Well…I mean…aren’t you?”
Her head jerks sideways, eyes flashing. “What?”
Artie’s hand snaps back from her leg, clutched to his chest as though she’s burned him. “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” he assures her. “It’s just…Quinn, you are kind of dangerous. We’ve known that since the beginning. Is it really so wild that she would state-“
“She called me a killer,” Quinn repeats icily. “That doesn’t do wonders for a girl’s state of mind. Especially since…since she…”
“Cares about you?” Artie fills in gently. Her teeth sink into her tongue hard enough to draw blood.
“Obviously not.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” he insists, rolling himself directly into her line of vision. “You said you overheard them. Does that mean you weren’t included in the conversation?”
It’s a low blow, she thinks, to make her feel ashamed when she’s the one with the legitimate feelings here. She scowls.
“Not technically, but that isn’t the point.”
“I have to disagree,” Artie said, hastening to add, “Hear me out before you Force-choke me, okay?”
Another low blow, albeit not quite as low. She’s not really sure how to feel about this Artie kid, but something about his cautious smile suggests he actually gives a shit about what he’s saying. She can’t resist giving him the chance to say his bit.
“Thank you,” he says when she rolls her eyes and slumps back against the bench. “Now look, I know those guys aren’t going to win any awards for tact anytime soon, but I’ve known them a long time. They’re good people. They mean well.”
“Meaning well and selling me down the river are not the same thing,” Quinn snaps hotly. He shrugs.
“I’m just saying, maybe you didn’t get all the information. Think about it. What else did Rachel say?”
“She called me a-“
“I heard that part,” he cuts her off gently. “The rest. What was the rest of the conversation like?”
Shaking her head, Quinn forces herself to think. “I don’t…she…” Realization dawns. “She was telling them not to rush into things. That the situation still…” What was that phrase? “Merited contemplation.”
Wisely, he inclines his head. “In Rachel Berry speak, we like to call that ‘stalling’.”
Stalling. But then-“So why would she say that about me, if she’s so interested in buying more time?”
Artie’s shoulders lift and drop. “I’m no mind reader, but I have to stand by what I said before. That part was, um. Kind of true. And if that’s so, Kurt and Santana will know it. There wouldn’t be a point arguing with them over every detail, would there?”
“So…you think she threw that little gem out…to pacify them?” Quinn slides a hand up the back of her neck and squeezes. “That’s idiotic.”
“That’s negotiating,” he reminds her. “Rachel Berry-style, particularly. It’s part of being a leader, and as irritating as she so often is, she’s good at that job. She knows how to handle the people she protects, even without making use of her scary mind powers.”
“And by ‘handle’, you mean…”
“Giving those two trigger-happy friends of ours a nugget of truth to clutch onto until she’s sure which move to make next,” he confirms. When she doesn’t respond, he tentatively lays a hand atop her knee again. “Rachel does care about you, Quinn. She has from the start. She would never throw you under the bus, not for anything, no matter how much pressure our resident drama king lumps on.”
It makes sense, she suppose, although-as is the case with so many things-the logic doesn’t make it hurt any less. She still isn’t okay with hearing Rachel speak brutal truths behind her back. Although, technically, that isn’t Artie’s problem.
“And for the record,” he breezes on somewhat obliviously, “Kurt and Santana aren’t as bad as they probably sounded. Kurt’s pretty messed up about what happened, and Santana is…Santana, but they would both do anything for one another. For any of us. And that includes you now.”
Mindlessly, she nods, half because she believes him and half because she’s too worn out by jerking so unsteadily from one emotion to the next all morning to do anything else. He looks delighted, like he has achieved some tiny, magnificent goal. It’s actually rather adorable.
Maybe Artie Abrams is pretty okay, actually. A dork, but not bad. She makes a mental note to spend more time around him and his Gothified girl in the future.
“I guess you’re thinking we should go back, huh?” she asks, gingerly removing the hand awkwardly patting her kneecap. His face lights up.
“And they say you’re not a mind-“
And then he stops. Just like that, not a second to fumble or pause for air; without another sound or motion, Artie Abrams freezes.
A shiver rolls between her shoulder blades. “Artie?”
Nothing, not even a shift of one finger. Only his eyes, locked on hers, widen ever so slightly-screaming, she thinks with a jolt of horror. His eyes are screaming bloody murder.
“What is it?” she demands, leaning towards him. “Artie. What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s really more a question of what he’s not doing, wouldn’t you say?”
The new voice is smooth and full of good humor, spun like silk from just behind her. Instinctive, Quinn turns, fists coming up just the way Rachel taught her.
She finds herself face to face with a thirty-something man about Puck’s height, with wavy brown hair and a clean-cut smile. His shirt is buttoned, his pants creased carefully, and the fingernails on his extended hands are perfectly immaculate.
He instantly scares the shit out of her.
“I mean,” he continues in an easy drawl, “look at him. A cardboard cut-out is more a picture of kinesis, wouldn’t you agree? You can’t really accuse him of doing anything.
“Of course, we can change that.”
He flips his palms so they’re facing skyward and raises his arms a couple of inches. To Quinn’s horror, Artie rises with the motion, limp-limbed and saucer-eyed. The man’s smile expands.
“They told him he’d never walk again,” he mocks, twisting one wrist like he’s tuning a radio. On command, Artie’s slack legs snap forward, taking jerky, perverse steps on the air. “Aren’t miracles grand?”
“Put him down,” Quinn hears herself command, voice trembling almost too hard to make each word distinct. The man arches a fastidiously-groomed eyebrow.
“I’d watch who I was ordering about, were I you, my lovely little friend. Do you have the first inkling who I am?”
She shivers, too frightened to move from the bench. Within her, the beast gives a weak growl. “You’re…you killed…”
“The chubby muscle girl?” Another flick of the wrist, and Artie is back to merely dangling, spread-eagled. “Yes, I suppose I did. For a good cause, though, you understand. She simply wasn’t deserving enough. You dig?”
Bile rises in her throat, lips parting instinctively when he gives a twitch that jerks Artie’s legs too far apart to be comfortable. The bespectacled young man winces with his eyes alone, just enough to send another spike of terror through her bones.
“The thing of it is,” Rayne observes, tone friendly as anything, “the real heart of the matter, it’s that none of you crazy kids know what you’ve got on your plates. Least of all you, my glorious little lady. You’re all just a-jiggin’ through life, and you don’t. Know. Why.”
He punctuates the final three words by pointing his index fingers directly at Artie, whose body obediently spasms, legs spreading even farther, arms extending straight out. Quinn bites her tongue.
Now, now would be such a good time to be brutal, to rush at him, to let the thing inside of her rip him to shreds. He’s responsible for all of this: for Rachel’s bruises that night, for Santana’s before that, for Mercedes’ death, and Kurt’s tears, and Quinn’s blind confusion about every inch of this world. It’s him, all of it, and if she could just move-
But she can’t, and it has nothing to do with whatever he’s doing to Artie. This is her fault, her own body rebelling against what needs to badly to be done. Her fists clench, but she can’t remember how to throw the first punch.
“How’re you feelin’ up there?” she hears him call, head tilted back. His mouth dangles open in a hyena’s laugh, eyes glittering with madness. Above them, Artie does not twitch.
“You see,” Rayne tells her conversationally, “this is the problem with kids today. No passion, you know? No fight left in ‘em. I mean, if he really wanted it, I bet he could do a little somethin’ somethin’. You’ve got a power in ya, don’t you, kid? Something juicy and delicious for me, right? If it’s so worth hangin’ onto, why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
Why him, Quinn wants to scream, why not me? It’s me you want, so put him down and-
“I know what you’re thinkin’, girly,” he says softly, eyes never leaving Artie’s body. “You’ll get your turn, don’t you fret about it. I've just never put much stock in ‘ladies first’, and I figure Wheels deserves a little moment in the sun for coming all the way out here for you. You know. As a shiny reward.”
He clenches both hands like a magician concealing a rubber ball, then flashes them open. Above them, Artie’s jaw drops in a silent scream.
“C’mon, Four-Eyes, let’s tango. Just a tiny skip and a jump, and I bet you can work yourself right out of this little briar patch. What do you say?”
As Quinn watches, dumbstruck, Artie’s body seems to be simultaneously yanked in four different directions like a starfish even as he descends slowly. Rayne steps lightly towards him, smiling like he’s approaching his favorite pizza parlor, and all she can think is, Stop him. Stop him now. It’s time to move, it’s time to act.
“Or you could just hang out there, my geeky friend. Makes no difference to me, in the end.” Rayne flashes his teeth-sharp and straight, the perfect yuppie smile. It makes Quinn’s stomach clench.
She catches Artie’s gaze, trying desperately to force an impossible telepathic connection. Come on, replicate. Do something. He can’t get all of you at once if you just-
“I bet you’re gonna be a slammin’ addition,” Rayne whispers, patting the younger man’s cheek like a favored uncle at Christmas. A silver tear dampens Artie’s skin, his tongue pushing restlessly against his teeth. Quinn wants to scream for him as two clean hands land on his shoulders, fingers tangling in the fabric of his sweater.
She can’t explain what happens next, only that it looks desperately agonizing. Artie’s spine snaps back, his face angled towards the heavens, eyes clenching desperately closed. Conversely, Rayne’s shoulders hunch, his hands tightening visibly as his forehead bumps against Artie's. An expression that looks for all the world, she thinks, like sexual gratification tenses his brow for a stretch as Artie soundlessly screams and screams.
And then he is letting go, stumbling back. Artie’s body drops with a sick thud into the grass, glasses knocked askew, and for a blind moment, Quinn thinks this is it: Rayne will walk away, she will pick Artie up and struggle to put him back in that chair, and they will go home.
It is, somehow, amidst everything else, the stupidest thing she has thought today.
“That was a trip,” the man grunts, smacking his hands against his knees and straightening up. “You should really try it sometime, it’s better than sex.”
She realizes with a disgusted start that he is addressing her. Her palms feel bruised from being dug into so forcefully.
When he raises his head and smiles, she wants to smash his teeth in.
“Soon, baby, you and me are gonna take a ride,” he promises, turning away and pressing one gleaming shoe into Artie’s ribcage. The younger man groans and curls his torso forward, legs sprawled uselessly; Quinn swallows.
“Let him-let him be, you’ve done…you’ve done enough.”
“Enough?” He tilts his head towards her, brown eyes serious. “Darlin’, you oughta know there’s no such thing.”
Before she can even think about tackling him, or lashing out with fists or inhuman force, he extends his fingers once more. Artie goes rigid, yanked from the ground by invisible hands, and floats just above Rayne’s eye level. His hair lazes messily off his head, his face dangerously pale.
The thing inside snuffles uncomfortably in the silence. Something’s coming, it warns, something bad, he’s going to do it, he’s going to-
It happens too fast; it’s her other senses, more than her eyes, that even catch the moment. Grinning sadistically, Rayne casts a sudden wink over his shoulder, punches his hands forward, and makes a motion like he’s snapping a handful of brittle twigs.
Sprawled on a stretcher of air, Artie’s body bows instantly, his spine contorting as no human’s ever should.
The sickening crack mingles with her scream before she even knows she’s making the sound, and just like that, she’s moving. Her sneakers slip on soft grass, her arms cutting through the air with ungainly grace, urged at once to vomit and sprint like she never has in her life. She’s not sure what she’ll do when she gets to him-it’s a suicide mission, something at the back of her mind warns, it will do no good at all, but she can’t seem to stop. If she can only reach him, if she can only place herself between Artie’s lifeless body and his cold, vile grin, she’ll be able to do something.
Too little, too late, the voice reminds her grimly. She shakes her head, tears flowing desperately as she nears him. A few more feet, a few more seconds, and-
Long, powerful arms catch her around the middle, yanking her off the ground and into a broad chest. She swings a desperate volley of punches into the body before she registers the familiar scent as Finn Hudson-the man who has just teleported in just in time to prevent her from following Artie right out of this world.
The man who, she realizes dimly, has not come alone.
“Grab him, Finn,” Rachel orders loudly. “Get his body now.”
Nodding stoically, Finn holds them both against his chest and blinks. For a split second, Quinn feels certain that she does not exist; her body is weightless, lacking bone and muscle and mass itself. For that one, pithy second, nothing matters at all.
And then they’re back, right beside Artie’s violated form. Finn shoves her sideways, jammed between his left arm and Rachel, reaches out, and grasps the body by the back of that ridiculous sweater.
Before she can register how nauseatingly strange it is to be smashed between the human teddy bear that is Finn Hudson and the woman she wishes to God she wasn’t falling for, Quinn finds herself in the apartment. Feet planted on threadbare carpet, knees wobbling, she stands for a fraction of a moment.
When she falls, Rachel is there, arms wrapped around her so tightly, it almost muffles Tina’s first broken sob.