Fic: The Ghosts in the Halls (4/?)
Title: The Ghosts in the Halls (4/?)
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel (eventually), Santana/Brittany (eventually)
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Length: 3198/12,000+ (so far)
Spoilers: None.
Summary: AU. Quinn and Santana are FBI Agents based in New York City. They were working a serial killer case, but have just been pulled from it… Quinn is not happy.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I’m just taking them out for a spin.
Author’s Notes: Soooo, yeah. It’s been five months, and I don’t really expect anyone to remember this fic. I have linked the first three parts below. Anyway, yeah. Sorry about the huge delay in updates, real life was crazy, but I am hoping to actually get through a lot of this over the next month - and hopefully finish it in that time. I have more written, so expect more in the next week. Big thanks to spencer_t for the superbly gorgeous art. And an_an0maly for reading it over and telling me to write it even though everyone else probably forgot about it.
Part I | Part II | Part III
It’s a blur in her mind, tinted with red when Finn told her that the girl, Brittany, was bringing them their new case. A stalker. A stalker case. Cases that can generally be resolved in a matter of days-at least by a semi-competent agent. She doesn’t even remember running to the elevator or mashing the button repeatedly, racing to the door for the stairs when it doesn’t open immediately. It’s Santana’s snark that clears the haze, preceded by a quiet ding.
“It’s here, dumbass. Or do you really think you’re going to beat the elevator up the 24 flights?”
Quinn makes her way back to elevator, brushing past Santana roughly and prodding the ‘23’ button until the doors close, barely leaving enough time for Brittany and Finn to make it on.
Barely three seconds pass before another ding sounds, signaling the imminent stop at the lobby level.
“You have to be fucking kidding me!” Quinn doesn’t notice that Brittany jumps at her shout-the first time she’s opened her mouth since Brittany was introduced, or that both Finn and Santana move to reassure the silent woman.
The doors open, revealing a group of three men and two women, all in suits.
Brittany tugs off her yellow cardigan, draping it over Santana’s bare shoulders with a simple smile.
The people waiting to board the elevator stare, eyes wide at the group, as Quinn, unable to form words, growls at them. Santana ceases her glaring at a now cowering Finn Hudson to shoot a look at the five people outside the elevator. A ding across the way sounds, and she sees the light indicating another elevator has arrived.
The brunette nods at them. “I think that’s the better option,” she tilts her head to the other elevator as the doors close once more, Quinn pressing the button.
With a stroke of luck, there were no more interruptions before their floor, and Quinn stops stalking back and forth in the six by eight box only to rush out, leaving her three companions in silence.
“Aren’t you…?” Finn leaves his question for Santana open ended as they step off the elevator.
Brittany is the one who answers, though. “Oh, Agent Finn.”
Her voice is lilting, and Santana thinks she can hear exasperation, but the smile on the blonde’s face is still sunny.
“Can’t you see that she was very upset? Sometimes you shouldn’t go after girls.”
Finn’s face crinkles in confusion, and Santana’s scowl turns into a smirk as she moves to slide her arms into the borrowed cardigan. “Yeah, Finn. And don’t you have a partner of your own you should be looking after? I’ll worry about my own.”
“Yeah, I’ll just-” he signals the opposite direction from the way they are facing. “Just wanted to make sure Ms. Pierce was okay.”
Santana’s patience has worn thin, “We have to go, Hudson. So do you. You have a case to work, in case you forgot.”
Finn’s eyes shift back and forth between the women in front of him and he swallows, clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. Bye.”
He starts to walk away before Brittany calls after him, “See you later, Agent Finn!”
He turns, a grin working its way across his face, before stumbling backwards into a file cart. He gives Brittany a sheepish wave, before quickly making his way out of sight.
Brittany turns toward Santana, “He’s nice.”
Santana forces a smile, leading Brittany to her desk. Her eyes search across the office, in the direction Quinn went.
“You’ll be okay here for a few minutes, won’t you, Ms. Pierce?”
“Just call me Brittany,” the blonde replies, still smiling.
Santana nods, “Okay. I’ll just be a minute, then.” She takes off, heading to the AD’s office. “I always have to bail her out,” she mutters under her breath as she sidesteps a group of traumatized looking secretaries. “Great,” she mutters, knowing that those looks mean someone entirely else was waiting when Quinn arrived. Sure enough, when she reaches the door to the AD’s office, his secretary, Emma is looking as though she needs treatment for shock. Her normally wide eyes are glassy and her lower lip quivers as she stares, unseeing. It’s the same reaction she gets every time the Executive Assistant Director drops by unexpectedly.
Santana, knowing Quinn was a few minutes ahead of her, rolls her eyes with a huff of frustration. But she doesn’t enter.
--
She enters, not listening to Emma’s plea, and she doesn’t care when she sees that Will is not behind his desk, but is seated in one of his guest chairs. She opens her mouth, ignoring that his desk chair faces the opposite direction.
“You can’t be serious! You pulled us from our case for this fucking small time shit?” She is vaguely aware of the many inappropriate lines she is crossing, but none of it matters.
“Agent Fabray!”
The AD’s exclamation goes unnoticed as Quinn watches his desk chair spin to face them. There, sporting a wide grin, sits quite possibly the bane of her existence. Behind the killer and Schuester, of course.
“Q,” Executive Assistant Director Sylvester greets her with fake warmth. “I was hoping I might get to see you,” she continues. “Will and I,” she gestures to the broken looking man sitting across from her, “have been discussing you and your failures.” She nods happily.
Quinn grinds her teeth, biting her tongue. “Director,” she begins, trying desperately to infuse her tone with respect she does not feel, “Agent Lopez and I have not been afforded enough time to find this bastard.”
“Well, while I certainly can appreciate your disdain for illegitimate children, I don’t really care for excuses, Q. I like winners. I’m looking for results, and you’re just not giving them to me.” She raises her hand, waving off any reply from the infuriated agent, and stands, brushing off her obscene red suit. “Now, I’m heading up to Alaska to go hunting with Sarah Palin. We told Dick we were going to be at high altitudes, and we didn’t want to stress his heart so he wouldn’t ask to come.” She chuckles at her own joke, “A lie, of course, but neither of us wants to be shot by the old man-former VP or not.” Seemingly just noticing Quinn’s appearance she looks at AD Schuester. “Will, I know you choose to refrain from bathing-by the looks of your hair at least-but do your underlings not know that we have a lovely shower area in the locker rooms in the basement?” She looks back at Quinn, “Not that I use them, I have my own private bathroom in the office I commandeer whenever I’m in town.” She squints, leaning in a little toward Quinn. “Is that cellulite I see, Fabray?” She stands straight again, “Maybe you can use this time off of the real work to get to a gym.” She smiles malevolently at the twitch in Quinn’s jaw, enjoying watching the younger woman fight to maintain composure.
Quinn clenches her fists, the knuckles digging into her sides so hard it hurt. She stands unflinching, her jaw set, as the Director walks past her toward the door.
Sue opens the door and takes a step through before leaning back in to say, “Oh, and Will, I took the liberty of getting you some heavy duty shampoo. It’s the kind they use on my dog when she’s groomed after soiling herself. I left it with Ellen.”
She gives Santana a look when she’s outside of the office, lip curling in disgust as she takes in the yellow cardigan and the tight red shorts. “Christ, Lopez. The least you can do is match.”
Santana gives a curt nod as Sue brushes past her, “Director.”
Quinn doesn’t move for a few moments, letting it all sink in. She couldn’t fight them anymore than she had. Not right now at least. The rage is still boiling in her blood, but her body is cooling, the sweat drying and she unconsciously shivers. It jolts her from her frozen state and she walks out, not even sparing a look at Schuester, though she’s vaguely aware he’s sputtering in disbelief. She doesn’t stop when she sees Santana sitting at the edge of Emma’s desk, the poor redhead looking like she was going to have a heart attack, and quietly mumbling, “The bacteria. The germs,” over and over again.
Quinn walks right past her partner, turning her head to look at her quickly. “I need a shower.” She keeps moving, “And so do you.” She hears Santana respond that she’ll be down in a minute after she checks on Brittany, but Quinn doesn’t stop until she’s back at her locker in the basement. Grabbing a white towel and her soap, she sheds her remaining clothing and makes her way to a row of shower stalls.
She turns the knob, the squeak loud in the otherwise quiet room. She doesn’t wait for the flow of the water to warm up, stepping into it with a grimace. She moves her face under the spray, closing her eyes and allowing the cool water to cascade from her forehead and down. It cools some of the heat still left in her. Her eyes had felt hot and tired, and the chill in the spray running over her eyelids is refreshing. She steadies herself, her palms pressed against the wall in front of her, and she can feel the tension with her arms stretched, her shoulders are tight and her muscles feel hard. As the water heats, she drops her head, her chin resting against her chest as she allows herself a moment to think.
She opens her eyes, her blonde hair smoothly keeping the water out of them as it forms a veil in front of her face. She watches the rivulets of water rush over her stomach, over her hipbones, curving and changing directions seemingly without reason. Taking a shaky breath she tilts her head back, brushing her hair out of her face with her hand and turning around.
When her eyes open she sees Santana quietly moving into the stall next to her, starting the shower without a word. Quinn looks away. Biting her lip due to force of habit, she winces before remembering the injury. As she begins washing her hair, her mind wanders back to the morning they had just been through. She had crossed lines that she knew had hurt her friend, even though Santana would never admit it. Rinsing her hair and grabbing the body wash she thinks about the case. The one that matters. Even if she wasn’t the agent listed on the case files anymore it didn’t mean that she couldn’t still work it without departmental approval. Her eyes flick to Santana. She wouldn’t approve of that. Without a moment’s further thought she decides it doesn’t matter. They’ll work this stalker case, get it over with quickly and move on.
Swallowing once, Quinn finally opens her mouth. “Santana.”
The brunette opens one eye to look at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” She knows that she’s said it before, and it doesn’t mean much if she needs to do it as often as she has, but she doesn’t know what else to say.
Santana closes her eyes again, rinsing the soap from her dark locks. “Whatever. Forget it,” she grunts.
Quinn sighs and turns off the water, drying herself with her towel slightly before wrapping it around her body. “Let’s just… get this stalker taken care of,” Quinn states, trying to infuse her tone with optimism she does not feel. “Then we’ll be able to get back to what really needs our attention.”
Santana doesn’t say anything, and Quinn figures she just needs her own time to cool off, so she heads back to dress. She’s quick, not taking the time to dry her hair. She pulls her shoulder holster on again. Her hazel eyes keep darting to the shower area, finally giving up on Santana joining her. With a sigh, she takes the elevator back to the 23rd level.
--
Quinn makes her way across the floor, heading back to her desk and ignoring the stares from her peers. She scowls. Yes, she may have made a scene, but they obviously didn't know the importance of what she was doing. Once her desk is in view she stops. The blonde woman-Brittany, she reminds herself-is sitting in Santana's seat, and a short brunette seems to be... scolding her? From about 20 yards that's how it appears, at least. The small brown haired woman's arms are moving theatrically, clearly trying to get her point across to Brittany. Quinn decides it's time to intercede.
“Excuse me,” she says as she sidles up to the brunette. Brittany’s confused face turns to Quinn for a moment, but the brunette does not acknowledge her.
“Brittany, you need to realize that you cannot tell your friends that you are being held by the FBI when that, in fact, is not the case. It is not only rude, but somewhat alarming.”
Quinn can hear the exasperation in the voice of the small woman beside her, but she tries again. “Excuse me,” she taps on the brunette woman’s shoulder.
The fiery woman turns to her. “I will not. I am in the middle of a very important conversation here, and you are boorishly interrupting.” Her eyes flick to the credentials hanging from Quinn’s suit jacket. “I see the FBI does not require proper decorum from its employees.” She barely takes a breath before continuing, “I am quite aware that law enforcement officials warrant a certain amount of respect; however, I believe part of that respect is earned, and you are not valuing my privacy, nor my right to speak with my friend in peace.”
Quinn just stares at the woman for a moment before looking once more to Brittany. “Do you actually know this woman? We do get crazies from time to time that slip past security.” She adds as an afterthought, “Not that we advertise that.” The brunette huffs, clearly irritated, and Quinn has to fight a smirk.
Brittany’s confusion turns into a smile. “This is Rachel. She’s needs help.”
“Clearly,” Quinn responds, looking at the brunette. “I’d love to help. But Bellevue is better suited for her needs. I hear they have an excellent rehabilitation rate with their mental health patients, and if not… well, at least you’ll know she’s safe.”
Brittany frowns, not understanding. “She’s the one I told Agent Finn about before the curly haired man said you and Agent Lopez could help her.”
Quinn’s brow furrows, but it’s fleeting. “You’re not the one who has the stalker.”
“Brittany!” The tiny brunette’s arms fly, before she crosses them and glares at her friend once more.
Quinn ignores Rachel’s outburst, but it does her no good, because the woman continues.
“I don’t have a stalker,” Rachel reaches out and looks at Quinn’s picture ID, “Agent Fabray.” She looks back to Brittany with a small smile. “My friend is overdramatizing it, which is ironic, really.”
Not caring why it would be considered ironic or not, Quinn cuts her off by raising a hand, directing her question to the seated blonde. “Why do you think she needs help, Brittany? Aside from obvious reasons, of course.”
Brittany picks up her purse, pulling out a thick stack of envelopes. “He is very angry.”
Rachel dives forward to grab them, but Quinn reaches them first. She tugs the first envelope out of the rubber band. Eyes flicking back and forth over the words, she quickly gauges it is non-threatening fan mail. And apparently the flustered brunette is an actress, Quinn gathers. Great.
Ms. Berry,
I was witness to the production of Chicago on January 8, and while I thought the rest of the cast merely mediocre, your stage presence was stunning. Not much else can be said for the performance. I do hope to see you again soon.
J.
Quinn glances from the note to Brittany. “I don’t see anything here that concerns me.”
“Thank you!” Rachel’s voice cuts through and she reaches for the bundle of letters in Quinn’s hand.
“You only looked at the first one.”
Santana had come up behind Quinn without her noticing. The blonde agent turns, keeping the letters out of reach of the grabby brunette. With a shrug, Quinn hands them to her partner.
Santana’s face remains impassive, but she pulls a letter from the opposite end Quinn had selected.
“Really, this is just absurd,” Rachel starts. “Can’t I be the one to decide whether I am at risk?”
Quinn bites her tongue before she can state that Rachel will be more at risk if she doesn’t shut up, but Santana just shoots the small brunette a look and a short, “No.”
Rachel opens her mouth to speak again, but Santana stares her down. With another huff, Rachel takes a seat next to Brittany, scowling and crossing her arms.
Rachel,
I told you more than once before, yet you make me continue. You are wasting your talent with that company. I do not appreciate you forcing me to repeat myself. I will soon make you see that this continual disappointment is a mistake, one that I will remedy by making you my own.
You think you are alone at night. I assure you that is not the case. Do you not see the flowers I leave you? Do you not see the pictures I draw of your lithe body as you sleep? One day you will pose for me in the light. That day draws near, and I assure you I will not permit such brazen acts of defiance.
My love, we will be together, as we were always meant to be.
J.
Santana’s eyes shoot up to Quinn’s, and she hands her the note. She doesn’t wait for her partner to read it. “That letter is dated nearly a week ago. What took you so long to come to the authorities?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Is this the most recent?” Riffling through the letters she pulls out another and her eyes move quickly over the message. She turns to Rachel, “If you didn’t think you were being stalked, then why did you keep the letters?”
Rachel’s mouth opens and closes, as if she finally can’t bring herself to answer.
A folded paper drops from the pile and Quinn bends down to pick it up. Rachel sighs, and sits in the chair to the side of their desks. Quinn unfolds the thick paper. She doesn’t react, just takes her time to examine it.
In varying shades of charcoal, is a sleeping woman. Quinn’s eyes roam over the depiction. She looks so peaceful, so beautiful. Her hazel eyes finally break away from the picture, and she takes in the profile of Rachel. Can’t be the same girl, she thinks to herself wryly. She doesn’t want to think of what the drawing brought to mind. Handing the picture to Santana, Quinn takes a seat at her desk, leaning on her elbows toward the finally silent brunette. “So. Let’s find the creep.”