FIC: Free Falling From a Work in Progress - Glee (Brittany/Santana, Rachel/Quinn) - 2/7
TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress (Part 2/7)
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
NOTES: For the Glee Femslash Big Bang Challenge. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
****
PART TWO
It's a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you
It's too close for comfort
Throw on your brake lights
We're in the city of wonder
-‘Disturbia’, Rihanna
****
Major Mathews had been ambushed, knocked out and locked in a utility closet on her way to her briefing with Lieutenant Chambers.
Her badge had been stolen and used to gain access to the lab that held the working model of the Intersect, designed to be downloaded and in executable form, ready for upload into whoever the agency had decided was the worthy candidate.
Quinn Fabray, a known associate of Fulcrum, had taken the program. Had she not tripped the wire, had First Lieutenant Molly Chambers and Private Morris not been in the usually empty hallway at that exact time, she would have slipped in and out of the highly secure government agency almost completely undetected.
But the damage had been done, and the only evidence of it was in the burnt and mangled phone that Santana had recovered after an exhausting fruitless chase in sludge infested tunnels underneath the building.
It was proof that Quinn had sent the executable file before she had stepped out of the building, using the security's own wi-fi to do it.
And to Santana, that wasn't the worst of it.
"This is more than just an extreme threat to national security," Major Matthews said, leaning over Private Morris, as he typed furiously into the computer. "It's a god-damn embarrassment. How the hell did one agent sneak into this building and manage to fucking blindside me in my own hallway?"
"We're sorting it out," Private Morris stammered quickly, wincing as he braced his injured and bandaged leg against the desk and kept on typing. "She managed to sneak past security on the Main Level and then disabled the sentries-"
"I don't fucking care, Private," Matthews interrupted, shooting Santana an exasperated glance. "All I care about right now is finding out where the hell the Intersect went."
"Sorry," he said immediately, ducking his head. "Um... here! It was sent to an email address: goldstardiva@gmail.com. Routed to Los Angeles."
Oh, God-dammit. A jolt of sudden panic struck deep inside her. It was audible enough for both the Major and her trembling assistant to swivel their attention in her direction.
"You have to let me go," she said immediately. "You have to let me be the one to get it back."
"I don't have to let you do anything," Mathews sniped, clearly without patience.
"Major-"
"Is there something you'd like to share, Lieutenant?"
God, of all the fucking coincidences in the fucking planet, she and Quinn had ended up in some sort of Western Standoff, and she was the god-damn good guy.
Quinn, who recognized her, who knew that Santana still existed and hadn't died, who had every motivation in the world to completely fuck her over.
Who hadn't wasted any time doing exactly that.
Santana squared her shoulders, bit her lip. "I know that email address," she finally admitted. "It belongs to a girl named Rachel Berry who I went to high school with. Who we went to high school with."
"Rachel Berry?" Private Morris' eyes widened. "I know her! She's on 'Guiding Hope'!"
The Major focused on a different part of Santana's statement. "We?"
Fucking God-Dammit.
"Me and Quinn Fabray. Back before. .. Before I entered the program."
Private Morris let out a high pitched squeal when Major Matthews suddenly dug sharp nails into his shoulder, the implications settling in. "Do you mean to tell me that you personally know this Quinn Fabray?"
"Knew," Santana corrected softly. "And yes."
"Did she recognize you?"
"I'm afraid she did."
"Well this just gets better and better," Mathews breathed. "And this Rachel Berry?"
"She's just an actress," Santana said, shrugging. "She has no ties to Fulcrum."
"That you know of."
"That I know of," she agreed haltingly.
"Well, isn't this nice," Mathews sneered. "A fucking high school reunion. So the woman who broke in here and took our most highly prized asset not only knows exactly who you are, but has sent an executable file to some nobody in Los Angeles."
"A soap actress," Private Morris interrupted. "She's actually really good-"
"Shut up, Morris." Mathew's eyes never left hers.
He blanched, flushing. "Yes, Major."
"And despite the fact that this will utterly decimate your cover, you'd like to be the one to extract the Intersect."
"My cover is already compromised," Santana pointed out. "If Quinn sent the file to Rachel, then she's going to get it personally, which means Rachel is in danger. Not that I really care because Rachel has always been annoying as hell, but I know Quinn. I've beat her before, and I can beat her again."
"You couldn't even keep up with her in a sewer," Matthews snapped.
Santana flushed, and kept her mouth shut for a full three seconds to avoid retorting something equally scathing.
She couldn't take no for an answer. Not now.
"If we go to Los Angeles with a full ops team Fulcrum will get tipped off," she began, quiet and in control. "Quinn outed herself to me on purpose. She wants me to follow her. She wants to prove she can beat me."
The Major studied her intensely. "Why?"
"Because I beat her for cheerleading captain senior year," she answered, matter-of-fact.
Both the Private and the Major simply stared.
"And I took all her solos in Glee Club," Santana added.
"Well," the Major drawled sarcastically. "In that case, of COURSE!"
"Major-"
But the Major only waved her hand. "Go," she said, cutting her off. "You have a day. Exactly one day, to recover the Intersect before Fabray does. If you fail to both secure the Intersect, capture Fabray and maintain your cover, you will be extracted and removed from the candidacy. I'll have you transferred to some base in Arizona where you'll be waving the crazies out of Area 51. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Major."
"Good."
Heels swiveling against the floor, Santana headed for the door, digging out her phone to connect with her secretary.
Fucking Quinn Fabray, who thought she was better than everyone else, who had always been the world's biggest hypocrite, who had been her best friend and her worst enemy, had started a fucking game, taunting her.
Because Quinn had always thought she could beat her.
She wanted to play? Fine.
Santana would decimate her. There was no other option.
There was more on the line than just a fake name and an Intersect.
The last time Santana had heard anything about Rachel Berry was when Brittany had sent her an email to tell her they were thinking about becoming roommates in Los Angeles.
Santana believed enough in her promise to keep Brittany safe to die for it.
If Quinn was stupid enough to get in the way of that, to throw Rachel and Brittany and their past in the mix and think it was just a fucking complication? Then, all the better.
Even after all this time, Quinn had no clue who she was messing with.
****
"Brittany. Brittany!"
Brittany had always been a vivid dreamer, but they had never frightened her.
Usually, she thought of her dreams as alternate worlds; safe havens where fantasy merged with what was real and she could ride a unicorn or talk to her cat and no one would ever think her strange.
This felt different. Her brain felt heavy, weighting down her head and making it hard to move. And there were no dreams. Just a heavy blackness that made her uneasy.
Awareness came to her like little pricks of pain, tapping into her brain and making her wince.
Rachel's voice, booming into her like it was coming from one of Coach Sylvester's old megaphones didn't help.
"Brittany, you're scaring me now."
She frowned, felt her mouth stretch into an achy frown, but kept her eyes shut tight.
Fingers grabbed hold of her and shook, making her brain and the pricks digging into it rattle.
"Rachel, go away," she mumbled.
"I can't go away. You're on the floor of my bedroom, passed out."
Oh.
Brittany opened her eyes blearily. Staring down at her was a frighteningly close-up image of Rachel, who had a large nose and flared nostrils, and big brown eyes.
"You should blow your nose," Brittany informed her helpfully with a weak, strained voice. "I can see stuff."
Rachel frowned. Brittany turned her head, and winced at the sunlight streaming in though the window. "Is it daytime?"
"It's morningtime," Rachel corrected, in that voice that she only used when she was severely displeased. "Are you okay? I called and left you like, three messages to tell you shooting was running late and I'd be crashing in my dressing room. You never answered. "
The actual hardness of Rachel's floor finally seemed to sink in, and it occurred to Brittany that her body was actually stiff. She struggled to push off of the wood, aided by Rachel when the other woman tugged at her shoulder.
"Um..." she glanced down, intensely bewildered. "I think I spent the night here."
"You think?"
Her headache wasn't going away. Brittany was exhausted.
"Um... Yeah." She rubbed hard at her head. "Is it ringing? There's ringing. I want to scrub my brain."
"Did you pass out?"
"I guess?"
"Are you okay? I know a passable amount of First Aid but if there's any chance of a concussion-"
Brittany was in no mood for letting Rachel make her go cross-eyed. "No," she said, wincing when her voice went raspy. "No I didn't hit my head or anything. I don't think I did. I was just standing here and then-"
"Oh my God." Rachel's voice morphed into pure panic. "What happened to my computer?!"
Brittany arched her head. Where Rachel's laptop had resided there only remained a black, smoldering brick of plastic and electronics.
"Wow," she said. "That's... that's..."
"That's dead!" Rachel shrieked. "Oh My God- My files-"
"Let me see..."
"What happened?!"
Brittany tried hard to remember. "I don't... Um..." Her mind, feeling more sluggish and uncooperative than usual, refused to come up with a single reason as to why Rachel's computer suddenly imploded.
"Maybe there was a virus on it?" she tried feebly, reaching out a hesitant finger to the dead piece of plastic. "Or a short? I can probably save the hard drive..."
"But what happened?!"
"I don't know!" Brittany winced at the shouting, and rubbed hard at her face. "I don't ... " She couldn't even conjure up an actual reason for still being in Rachel's bedroom. "You had a spreadsheet and it didn't have Santana's name on it-"
"So you blew up my computer!?"
"No!" Brittany gathered up the laptop, poking at the singed monitor. "I can get your data off of it at work."
Rachel didn't respond; instead opting to regard her strangely. "I'm sorry," she said, voice suddenly gentle. "About not including Santana on the list. Given the circumstances-"
The tremble of Brittany's heart was too painful. Brittany shook her head, swallowing hard. "It's okay. I know it's stupid. I'll fix your computer-"
"Brittany-"
She was saved from any rehashing when Rachel's cell phone rang, buzzing from somewhere in her overflowing purse.
Brittany shut her mouth and ducked her head, plucking the cables away from Rachel's dead laptop, careful to leave the lone piece of paper that had survived underneath it in place.
Rachel sighed, loud and intrusive, before she fumbled into her bag and pulled out her cellphone. "This is Rachel Berry." Rachel's heels tapped, tapped against the floor in an annoyed rhythm, until they faltered suddenly. "Quinn! Quinn Fabray?"
Quinn Fabray. Brittany blinked and stumbled, nearly dropping the laptop.
Rachel's already round eyes went wider, but she was once again distracted by the caller. Who was Quinn.
Brittany's brain itched, and she shook it, trying to clear the sudden weird images that it wanted to conjure up.
"You're in LA? Today?" Rachel checked her watch, and shrugged helplessly at Brittany. "Um... well I've been working all night, but... of course, it would be lovely to see you, Quinn... yes, I guess now might work- of course. Sure. Sure. Quinn-" Rachel frowned, lowering the phone. "She must have been disconnected."
"What's a Fulcrum?"
"What?"
Brittany bit her lip and clutched the laptop to her chest, frowning hard. "Nothing. I just... Quinn's here? Quinn Fabray?"
"In LA on some last minute business," Rachel nodded, looking thoughtful. "She wants to meet for an early brunch right away."
Brittany felt nauseous. Uneasy.
The images of Quinn, a thousand images that burst upon her consciousness the second she had heard it was her on the phone... that was weird. That was really, really weird.
"Um... I have to go to work," she mumbled, and took Rachel's laptop with her. "I'll fix this."
"Brittany? Are you okay?"
Brittany paused, and took in a hard, unsure breath. "Yeah," she said, and managed a smile she didn't quite feel. "Totally. Say hi to Quinn for me," she said, and didn't tell Rachel to be careful, even if she suddenly wanted to.
It just felt silly.
****
Rachel Berry would never admit to double checking her hair and makeup before she stepped out of the car and rounded the corner to the café where Quinn said she would be waiting.
She wouldn't admit to stalling a bit, biting her lip nervously and feeling like an insecure teen freak at just the first glimpse of the glint of perfectly shiny blonde hair and a familiar red pout.
But the fact remained that in high school, Quinn Fabray had been both the head cheerleader who liked to torture her for the heck of it and the most conventionally beautiful person Rachel had ever known in real life.
Even now, eight years later, in her fashionably chic designer jeans and boots and a bored looking expression on a face partially hidden by expensive looking tinted sunglasses, Quinn was breathtakingly beautiful.
And this was Hollywood. It took a lot to get noticed here. The average of conventionally beautiful people was obscenely high.
All it took was one look at Quinn and suddenly Rachel felt awkward in her own skin, too aware of her big nose and her short stature, and every flaw Quinn had been only too happy to point out in high school.
Quinn caught sight of her, and her perfect mouth curled into a perfect smile, hand rising in a greeting, waving Rachel over.
Rachel sucked in a steadying breath.
She wasn't that girl anymore: that insecure high school teen who only had her voice and talent to offer and used them as collateral to bargain for friends. Who clung to Finn like a safety net and felt lonely all the while.
She had forged a life here, even with countless doors slammed into her face because of her nose and stature and everything else.
She could face Quinn as an equal.
Maybe even as a friend.
Rachel shook that thought off immediately. It was weak and silly, after all this time, to still want to try and win over Quinn so sincerely.
Squaring her shoulders, Rachel weaved her way around the patio tables, and a genuine smile formed on her face as she approached the still gorgeous Quinn Fabray.
"Rachel!" Quinn's voice was sugary sweet, genuinely glad to see her. When she clasped her hand, she wasn't content to just shake it, but she pulled forward, pressing her lips into Rachel's cheek. "It's been forever!"
Quinn's perfume was scented with lilacs and something musky and spicy.
It was entrancingly perfect.
Rachel expected nothing less.
"Quinn! You look... you look great," she said, breathlessly sincere as her eyes roved over Quinn's flawless skin and toned body.
"Thank you." Quinn took the compliment completely in stride. "So do you," she answered, and seemed so sweet about it, it caused a flush of uncontrolled pleasure to shiver down Rachel's spine. "Though I see you haven't quite given up on those short skirts," Quinn continued, head tilting to inspect the skirt that, as Rachel took her seat, rose to mid-thigh.
It made Rachel feel like an idiot. She flushed, and squirmed in her seat. "Well," she began, "Well... the show's stylist thinks they make my legs look longer."
A muscle in Quinn's jaw ticked, but her eyes, masked by the dark sunglasses, were unreadable. "They do," she said, as her mouth curved into a familiar smirk.
Rachel took in an unsteady breath.
"I'll just have a coffee, if that's okay," Quinn said, interrupting before Rachel could say a word. "I don't have that much time after all, so..."
It was an absolute relief. "No," Rachel said, bobbing her head like a monkey. "That's fine. I don't have much time myself. I have some lines to memorize."
"That's right." Quinn settled back in her chair, regarding her with a lazy smile. "You're a soap actress."
Rachel told herself that the way Quinn said 'soap actress' did not mean to come off as it might as well have been 'hobo'.
"It's the third highest daytime show in it's timeslot," Rachel offered lamely.
"That's great," Quinn, and it would have sounded like she was gushing if Rachel wasn't so terrified that it sounded like mockery. "Good for you."
"Right." Rachel's smile was uncertain. "So."
"So, how are you?" Quinn asked smoothly.
Rachel wasn't feeling nearly as easy going. "I'm fine," she answered. "How are you?"
Quinn didn't respond, not at first. Instead she only studied Rachel, like she was waiting for something.
Rachel didn't know what to do.
"Any blackouts recently?" Quinn asked, pointed and a little firm. "Nausea?"
Rachel blinked at the oddness of the question. "Not recently, no." Quinn's frown, there for a second, was gone just as quickly. "So, I was a little surprised to hear from you." Rachel smiled valiantly. "I mean, after all these years, and when we talked yesterday, I got the feeling you weren't too pleased to hear from me."
"I apologize for that, Rachel." When Quinn reached forward, covered Rachel's hand with her own, the movement was so quick it nearly caused Rachel to jump out of her seat. "The truth is, after hearing the sad, terrible news about Santana, I got to thinking that maybe it was time to reconnect with old friends. The people I lost touch with: tell them how much they really meant to me before it was too late."
Rachel blinked, overwhelmed. "But you hated me in high school," she stammered.
Quinn's smile grew. "Can I be honest, Rachel?"
The idea was terrifying. "Sure," Rachel said, and then shivered when Quinn's finger dragged along Rachel's palm. The tingle it produced was mortifying.
Quinn reached up, pulled off her sunglasses, and then Rachel was greeted with the absolute brilliance of Quinn's eyes.
They stared deep into her, like they were looking inside of her, at her very soul.
Quinn had never, ever looked at her like that in high school.
Rachel's knees snapped together.
"Whatever our differences were," Quinn began, voice soft and husky. "I always really admired you. And even though I said I hated you, truthfully, I thought you were the most beautiful girl at McKinley."
"Really?" Rachel squeaked, and flushed immediately.
Quinn nodded somberly. "Inside and out. I couldn't wait another day to tell you that. It meant that much to me."
"Um..." Rachel felt suddenly dizzy, unsure what to do with herself. "Wow."
When Quinn's finger smoothed against the most sensitive part of her wrist and swiped gently across it, she settled for reaching for a glass of water and taking a huge gulp.
****
What was going on in her head felt like a hangover, but Brittany didn't remember drinking anything.
It didn't seem fair.
Swallowing down some Advil, Brittany adjusted her tie and pulled her satchel over her shoulder. It was heavier than usual, weighted down with Rachel's burnt out computer, and honestly, Brittany felt a fair amount of remorse over that.
Except, Brittany didn't remember getting mad enough over the spreadsheet to fry it. She didn't even think she knew how to cause a short this bad.
She didn't even know if she could save the hard drive, though Rachel didn't really need to know that.
One thing hadn't changed since high school; Rachel still over-reacted like crazy.
Frowning, Brittany reached for her keys. The images, the ones she had seen when Rachel said she was going to meet up with Quinn, they were seared into her brain. Vivid, like files, and Brittany liked to make up stuff, she did, but it had never been this... real.
It made her uneasy, unsure, and it was because of that that Brittany picked up her phone and called Rachel.
When it went to voicemail, Brittany bit her lip, unsure how to even begin to explain what she was trying to say.
"Hi Rachel," she finally said, a fake cheer in her voice. "I just... there's something going on in my head. Like this... it's kind of like a file cabinet? I mean... it says that Quinn's... she's with something called Fulcrum? You know what, I'm crazy. Don't worry about it. Just... call me. Okay? I want to know you're safe. I don't..." The words stuck in Brittany's throat with a sudden swell of emotion. "Um, I just want to know you're safe. That's all."
Brittany hung up the phone, and stuffed it in her pocket, heading for the door.
Outside of the apartment building, she passed a man fixing a window.
She never met him once in her life. She was sure of that.
The gazillion images that came to her the moment she saw him told her otherwise-that he was with the something called Fulcrum. That his name was John Ramos.
That he had a gun.
Suddenly terrified, Brittany lowered her head and walked past him.
It's stupid, she told herself. You're crazy. If he was with the government, why would he be fixing a window?
Brittany got to her car and fumbled with the door, pulling it open and sliding into the MiniCooper with the emblazoned logo 'Nerd Herd'.
She just needed to make it to work.
Brittany prayed that the Advil would kick in before then, and then the flashes would stop. She didn't understand them. They didn't make sense.
Please, she prayed. Just make them stop.
****
So Rachel Berry was a little bit lesbian.
Who knew?
Quinn settled back in her seat and fought the urge to preen like a damn cat.
Fate, it seemed, had been handing her gems like she deserved them, and Quinn was not above making use of any advantage that she had.
Including the fact that she knew Rachel gobbled up compliments like a newborn guzzled milk. That Rachel blushed a cherry tomato red every time she touched her. That she seemed so nervous and awe-struck she came off like a damn teenager.
Quinn had come a long way since her conservative days in Lima. Oh, she still believed in the right to bear arms, but good looks were universal, and her job required getting closer to an intended target by any means necessary, using every weapon in her arsenal.
Consequently, Quinn had seduced more than her fair share of women.
The lovemaking was surprisingly good. In Quinn's line of work, there wasn't much time for a sexual identity crisis or big thoughts on whether or not it was a sin. Work was work, and though privately, Quinn would admit that she enjoyed the female seductions more than the male, it was only because, in her opinion, the women were always harder.
And there wasn't any chance of getting pregnant.
Still, going this route with Rachel Berry had been unexpected. She had expected to use Rachel's unchanging vanity to get to the woman. She hadn't expected be so openly salivated over, to the point where Quinn might as well have been on a stripper pole.
An experimental touch, a bat of the eyes, and Rachel looked almost ready to propose marriage.
It was disappointingly easy.
Quinn didn't want to process why exactly that was.
Her livelihood depended on extracting what she wanted from Rachel without Rachel realizing it as quickly as possible.
With Santana's cover blown, Quinn knew it was only a matter of time before the army figured out exactly where she sent the Intersect, and they would descend on Brittany and Rachel's apartment like locusts.
Quieter was better, and that meant taking Rachel away with Rachel's own permission.
If Rachel had actually gotten the email.
Which, it seemed, she genuinely hadn't.
"I'm sorry, Quinn." Rachel thumbed through her blackberry, scrolling through messages. "I don't see it. What did you say the subject was?"
"Surprise," she repeated, and clenched her jaw to keep the frustrated glare from emerging.
"I don't see it." Rachel frowned. "There's a voicemail from Brittany. Do you mind if I listen to it? She's got me really worried."
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" Her expression was carefully constructed to be casually concerned. "Santana again?"
"No. Well, yes, but... no. I don't know what she did, but she was in my room last night, and... I told you she's kind of been in a bad place... she must have done something to short out my computer. I found her this morning, sprawled out on my floor..."
Quinn's fingers curled into a fist, the easy smile fading from her mouth.
Rachel listened to the message, and her mouth pursed. "What's Fulcrum?" she asked her, and then shook her head in confusion.
Quinn inhaled sharply.
What had happened came together easily, and quickly. The email she had sent, meant for Rachel, had obviously been opened by Brittany. Which meant Brittany now had a working Intersect in her brain.
Brittany S. Pierce.
Who couldn't figure out how to tie her shoes until junior year.
That Brittany.
Awesome.
"Something wrong?" she asked lightly, when Rachel lowered the phone.
"I'm so sorry, Quinn." Rachel's brow was furrowed. Her eyes were concerned. "I'm really worried about Brittany. She's acting so...odd. Even for Brittany. I think I should go."
The easy smile stayed on Quinn's face. "Why don't I go with you?" she asked. "If something's wrong, maybe I can help."
Rachel looked uncertain. "I thought you said you had another engagement."
Quinn pushed out her chair and rose to her feet. "Honestly, Rachel? At the moment I can't think of anything more important than reconnecting with you and helping Brittany."
The look on Rachel's face when she smiled, thrilled and wanting so desperately to believe in this Quinn Fabray, caused an odd disconcerting feeling to flutter across Quinn's senses.
For the first time since Rachel had approached her at this table, Quinn felt a glimmer of her true self fight through the façade and it made her heart literally throb.
Smile growing unsteady, Quinn swallowed hard. An irrational spark of anger floated inside of her, and once again, it was easy to blame it on Rachel, with her dimpled smile and the surprising way she had grown into her looks.
She waited until Rachel's back was turned, ad then signaled to her team of agents that had been standing by to take Rachel away.
She ordered them to hold off. For now.
****
After all the tap-dancing that she did to avoid the obvious Fulcrum agents standing guard outside of Rachel's apartment, breaking in was the easy part.
And even that wasn't easy at all.
The faded writing on the mailboxes had explicitly stated that this apartment was co-habited: Pierce and Berry.
Edging the door open, gun gripped loosely and aimed in front of her, Santana tried to tell herself to treat this as if it was just another assignment.
Except she couldn't. It was literally beyond her comprehension, because even the hallway smelled like Brittany.
It permeated the air, and starved, she breathed it deep into her nostrils, taking in with it a thousand memories that had never been erased. Instead, they had been locked down, tempered, placed in boxes and compartments that Santana could file and manage in an effort to not bleed so damn much.
Brittany had always been her greatest strength and her biggest weakness.
Santana's grip trembled, her eyes watered.
"Fuck," she whispered, and sucked in a soldiering breath, reaching up with her shoulder to wipe a suddenly wet cheek on the collar of her black shirt before she edged forward.
Floorboards creaked underneath her boots, but there were no answering scuffles in return.
Her heart began to pound, and Santana inhaled again through her nose, struggling to keep her breath even, her mind clear.
She could be too late. Quinn could have already come and gone.
But there was nothing disturbed beyond the usual clutter in certain areas that must have been on account of Brittany.
A jacket lay strewn on a chair. Santana resisted the urge to touch it, smell it, and weep into it like a motherfucking baby.
Instead, she exhaled again and moved forward.
On the desk in the hallway, closer to the kitchen, Santana discovered a discarded Nerd Herd ID Badge.
With an unsteady grip, she took it between her fingers, and just looked. It was the same size and width of her NSA badge, but instead of Santana's stern expression, Brittany smiled at the camera.
It was the first time she had allowed herself to see Brittany, or any image of her, since she had entered the program.
In her dazed mind, Santana could only manage a dizzy, disbelieving, laugh. "Brittany is a Nerd Herder?"
The twist of a key in the door, the sudden bleat of a loud voice that could only ever belong to Rachel Berry, caused a startled Santana to slip the badge into her pocket and slide quickly into the nearest adjoining doorway.
It was a bathroom.
Santana flattened herself against the wall, and didn't breathe.
"Brittany?!" Definitely Rachel Berry. "Brittany? Are you here?"
Nothing.
"I brought Quinn!"
Quinn. Santana's jaw tightened. Her finger slid quietly to her trigger.
"Brittany?" The floorboard creaked again, this time with the weight of two individuals. When steps moved in her direction, Santana reacted quickly, silently squeezing behind the door. The dark head of Rachel peeked in, mercifully in every direction but directly where she was hidden. "She's not here. Oh, God, I hope she didn't go to work like that."
She ducked back out again. Closing her eyes, Santana checked her safety, and didn't move.
"She's not answering her cellphone. Quinn, I'm really worried."
"Rachel..." Quinn's tone positively dripped with fabricated concern. "This is very important. Did Brittany mention anything to you specifically about opening my email to you?"
Santana's heart jumped, so loud she could actually hear the beat drum against her chest.
Fuck, she thought, filled with sudden morbid dread. No, please God no-
"Quinn," Rachel sounded exasperated. "I told you, she didn't. I wasn't even home last night. I came home this morning, and she was on the floor passed out, and the computer was shorted out. She didn't remember anything, but she was acting weird, and then you called me."
SHIT. Her chest tightened to the point of suffocation, as a horrible, horrible realization flooded inside of her.
"But she specifically mentioned Fulcrum?"
This isn't real life, Santana thought helplessly. This can't be fucking happening. The Intersect has NOT been downloaded into my girlfriend's brain.
Brittany downloaded the Intersect into her brain.
Brittany.
Santana struggled to hold on to herself, to keep still, even as her very world came apart.
"Twice, come to think of it. Quinn, is there something you're not telling me?"
"Rachel, do you trust me?"
Say no, Santana pleaded silently. Grow a brain and realize you haven't seen her in years, and it's weird that she just suddenly shows up here, unannounced. Say that she obviously wants something, and you need to know what that is.
"Quinn, you're scaring me. Why wouldn't I trust you?"
Santana winced in frustration, biting hard into her lower lip. Because she's a fucking hypocrite, Santana thought furiously, because she lied to every person she's claimed to love, and the one fucking selfless thing she's ever done is give up a baby that she's never seen since the minute she popped it out.
"Rachel, I haven't been completely honest with you. I did come to reconnect with you, but that isn't the only reason I came to Los Angeles so quickly. The truth is, I'm a secret agent, working for the government."
Santana's eyes rolled up into her head, fighting to contain her exasperated sigh.
"What?"
"That email I sent you? It contains a really dangerous file, and I had to keep it safe. That's why I sent it to you. You were the only person I could think of to trust it with."
Quinn's tone was so very sincere. All sugary sweetness and dripping with honey, appealing to Rachel Berry's vanity, and skewing the truth to get exactly what she wanted, as usual.
God. And people used to think Santana was the evil one.
"Quinn..." Rachel, at least, had some suspicion creeping into her voice. "Are you serious? ... this is a prank, right?"
"Rachel, it's not a prank. If Brittany opened that email, then she could be in very big trouble. Some very bad people will come after her and I need to protect her."
The thought... the very idea...
It was enough to make Santana so infuriated she was literally nauseous.
Swallowing down the bile, Santana shook her head and shoved at the door, sliding into the open hallway and pointing her gun directly at Quinn Fabray's heart.
At least it would have been. It should have been. And if it had, she would have pulled the trigger, put an end to this in half a second, government rules and regulations be damned.
Except Rachel Berry was standing directly in the way, looking at her pale-faced, like she had seen a ghost.
Eyes stormy with furious indecision, Santana took her first good look at Quinn Fabray in eight years.
"You are such a fucking bitch," she rasped, livid in her anger. "You've got some damn nerve, you know that?"
Quinn's brief shock of coming face to face with Santana so quickly faded after a moment, and in its place came a lingering smugness.
With a slow, private grin growing on her face, Quinn stepped forward to place her hands reassuringly on Rachel's shoulders, bringing her in and making her an oblivious, but perfect human shield.
"Rachel, be careful!" Quinn said, so concerned and protective she could have been looking to win a damned Emmy.
Santana couldn't lower the gun, but to point it at Rachel...
The barrel wavered.
"Rachel," she whispered, trying to sound just as calm, just as reassuring, even as her voice shook from the emotion that coursed through her. "Move away from Quinn."
But Rachel, staring at her with wide-eyed muted surprise, could only babble and gasp. "You-You-Quinn-"
When Santana took a step forward, Quinn took one back, keeping Rachel close, and silently shaking her head dangerously at Santana, the unspoken warning glittering in her eyes.
Santana stopped.
"Santana, I won't let you do it," she said, eyes flashing dangerously. "I won't let you waltz back in here like nothing's happened."
"S-Santana?!" Rachel breathed, voice barely above a whisper in her own shock. "You-"
Swallowing hard, Santana kept her focus on Quinn, moving her line of sight to Quinn's head.
She had no shot. Not without endangering Rachel. Quinn fucking knew it.
"Rachel," she began, as firmly as she could. "Listen to me very carefully."
"But you're dead," Rachel blurted, and Santana winced, heartbeat thundering erratically. "You're supposed to be dead. We had a funeral-"
"Rach-" Her voice croaked, and she choked. She wanted to explain. She didn't know how. Shaking her head in deep frustration, Santana readjusted her grip on the handle of her gun and took another half step forward.
"Santana faked her death to go rogue, Rachel." Quinn's glare glittered at her, fingers rubbing Rachel's shoulders, keeping Rachel centered right in front of her. "I didn't want to tell you. I knew it would hurt you. But she's the bad guy. She's after what I sent you."
Goddammit. Santana sighed raggedly, finger itching on her trigger as a flash of hate rose in her.
"Rachel, she's lying."
Rachel's wide brown eyes were nearly liquid now, and she leaned into Quinn, borrowing her strength as she stared at Santana.
She wouldn't stop fucking staring.
"You... you didn't fake your death?"
Santana winced. "Okay, she's not lying about that," she admitted, and immediately she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Rachel looked fucking wounded. "But don't believe anything she says, Rachel. I'm here to protect you. To help Brittany."
"Do you really think she'll believe you?"
"Shut the FUCK up, Quinn!"
"When you're the one pointing a gun at her?"
"I'm not pointing a gun at her," she pointed out helpfully. "I'm pointing it at you. If you weren't such a damn coward you'd stop using her as a damn shield."
And maybe that got through to Rachel, because the conflicted dark eyes rose from the gun in Santana's hands to Quinn, standing behind her, clutching her so damn closely.
Quinn's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. With a glint in her eye, she lifted her chin and arched a brow. "Why should she trust anything you say, Santana? You're not who you were. The Santana we knew wouldn't fake her death, knowing what it would do to Brittany."
Quinn might as well have taken that same knife that she had shoved between Santana's shoulder blades junior year and stabbed her in the heart.
The statement hit Santana like a blow, and she nearly stumbled from the impact from it.
Quinn's face was unreadable.
"You know it as well as I do, Rachel."
"Rachel," Santana tried, even though her voice was scratchy and her hands were shaking. "I need you to trust me and listen to me. Yes, I faked my death. I did it for a very good reason. But Quinn? She's the bad guy. She's stolen a very important government weapon. She's a liar, and a killer, and she's using you."
But Quinn didn't need to say anything. Santana could see it in Rachel's face, in those ever expressive eyes.
And the way she looked at Santana... it was chilling.
She was seeing her, but she was seeing a stranger.
"You... faked your death," Rachel said slowly, voice low and soft, aching in disbelief. "Why would you do that? How could you do that to Brittany?"
Santana pressed her mouth together, and shook her head slowly.
"You destroyed her. You killed her-"
"I was trying to protect her."
"By breaking her?" Rachel's voice cracked in righteous fury. "She blamed herself! Santana, she doesn't even dance!"
The lump in her throat was painful now, and Santana had to gulp and wince to swallow it away. "Rachel," she began, as kindly as she dared. "I'm going to reach into my pocket very slowly, and I'm going to show you my badge. It's going to prove to you that I'm one of the good guys."
"Don't fall for it, Rachel." Quinn's voice was dark, as sly as a serpent's. "She'll shoot us both without blinking. Santana's a killer."
"She's lying, Rachel," Santana snapped, pleading for her to believe her.
"You haven't killed anyone?" Rachel asked, and god-dammit, why the hell did she focus on the fucking wrong things?
"No, I have." Rachel blanched, stepped back, and Santana felt a shudder of desperation go through her. "Rachel, but they were all bad!"
She had been suckered into playing Quinn's game, and she was losing. Badly.
She was over it. Rachel's injured sensibilities could go to hell.
"Rachel, I don't have time for this," she snapped. "Get the fuck out of the way, or I will shoot you and not give a damn."
She was so involved in her own emotional trauma, courtesy of Quinn Fabray, she didn't notice the man sneaking up behind her until Rachel's eyes drifted from hers, and the floorboard creaked.
She swiveled, just in time to see a man in a dark jacket lifting up a gun with a silencer.
Instinct overtook her, and she fired. Point blank. Into his chest.
Rachel's horrifying cry bled into her ears, as the man staggered back, stumbling into the desk and sending a lamp tumbling.
The wound on his side began to seep; a dark stain spreading on his shirt.
The door opened wider, and another goon with a gun entered, popping a shot at her that grazed her arm.
She backpedaled, lost sight of Rachel in the fray.
As she jerked into the kitchen, bullets chinked into tile, and Santana had no choice.
She shot once, twice, and then grabbed hold of the steel railing that held Rachel's pots and pans, vaulting herself over the counter and crashing through the glass window above it.
Landing clumsily on the lawn, and Santana rolled into a running sprint. She ran; away from Rachel, Quinn's goons, and the mess of a scene she had just created.
Santana made it to her car, jerking into her seat and shutting the door. Her heart was hammering. Her chest was tight. She couldn't breathe.
She had proved Quinn's damn point. Been used as a pawn, her weaknesses glaring and open and seeping and perfect for Quinn to take advantage of.
She wanted to kick something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to murder Quinn Fabray with her bare hands.
Instead, she took a moment to breathe, and then turned on the ignition, glancing over her shoulder to check for traffic before peeling out into the street.
This wasn't about Quinn anymore.
As she drove, Santana dug into her pocket and found the little hard rectangle of plastic she had hurriedly stuffed away.
From the Nerd Herd ID Badge, Brittany smiled at her.
****
Part Three
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
NOTES: For the Glee Femslash Big Bang Challenge. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
****
PART TWO
It's a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you
It's too close for comfort
Throw on your brake lights
We're in the city of wonder
-‘Disturbia’, Rihanna
****
Major Mathews had been ambushed, knocked out and locked in a utility closet on her way to her briefing with Lieutenant Chambers.
Her badge had been stolen and used to gain access to the lab that held the working model of the Intersect, designed to be downloaded and in executable form, ready for upload into whoever the agency had decided was the worthy candidate.
Quinn Fabray, a known associate of Fulcrum, had taken the program. Had she not tripped the wire, had First Lieutenant Molly Chambers and Private Morris not been in the usually empty hallway at that exact time, she would have slipped in and out of the highly secure government agency almost completely undetected.
But the damage had been done, and the only evidence of it was in the burnt and mangled phone that Santana had recovered after an exhausting fruitless chase in sludge infested tunnels underneath the building.
It was proof that Quinn had sent the executable file before she had stepped out of the building, using the security's own wi-fi to do it.
And to Santana, that wasn't the worst of it.
"This is more than just an extreme threat to national security," Major Matthews said, leaning over Private Morris, as he typed furiously into the computer. "It's a god-damn embarrassment. How the hell did one agent sneak into this building and manage to fucking blindside me in my own hallway?"
"We're sorting it out," Private Morris stammered quickly, wincing as he braced his injured and bandaged leg against the desk and kept on typing. "She managed to sneak past security on the Main Level and then disabled the sentries-"
"I don't fucking care, Private," Matthews interrupted, shooting Santana an exasperated glance. "All I care about right now is finding out where the hell the Intersect went."
"Sorry," he said immediately, ducking his head. "Um... here! It was sent to an email address: goldstardiva@gmail.com. Routed to Los Angeles."
Oh, God-dammit. A jolt of sudden panic struck deep inside her. It was audible enough for both the Major and her trembling assistant to swivel their attention in her direction.
"You have to let me go," she said immediately. "You have to let me be the one to get it back."
"I don't have to let you do anything," Mathews sniped, clearly without patience.
"Major-"
"Is there something you'd like to share, Lieutenant?"
God, of all the fucking coincidences in the fucking planet, she and Quinn had ended up in some sort of Western Standoff, and she was the god-damn good guy.
Quinn, who recognized her, who knew that Santana still existed and hadn't died, who had every motivation in the world to completely fuck her over.
Who hadn't wasted any time doing exactly that.
Santana squared her shoulders, bit her lip. "I know that email address," she finally admitted. "It belongs to a girl named Rachel Berry who I went to high school with. Who we went to high school with."
"Rachel Berry?" Private Morris' eyes widened. "I know her! She's on 'Guiding Hope'!"
The Major focused on a different part of Santana's statement. "We?"
Fucking God-Dammit.
"Me and Quinn Fabray. Back before. .. Before I entered the program."
Private Morris let out a high pitched squeal when Major Matthews suddenly dug sharp nails into his shoulder, the implications settling in. "Do you mean to tell me that you personally know this Quinn Fabray?"
"Knew," Santana corrected softly. "And yes."
"Did she recognize you?"
"I'm afraid she did."
"Well this just gets better and better," Mathews breathed. "And this Rachel Berry?"
"She's just an actress," Santana said, shrugging. "She has no ties to Fulcrum."
"That you know of."
"That I know of," she agreed haltingly.
"Well, isn't this nice," Mathews sneered. "A fucking high school reunion. So the woman who broke in here and took our most highly prized asset not only knows exactly who you are, but has sent an executable file to some nobody in Los Angeles."
"A soap actress," Private Morris interrupted. "She's actually really good-"
"Shut up, Morris." Mathew's eyes never left hers.
He blanched, flushing. "Yes, Major."
"And despite the fact that this will utterly decimate your cover, you'd like to be the one to extract the Intersect."
"My cover is already compromised," Santana pointed out. "If Quinn sent the file to Rachel, then she's going to get it personally, which means Rachel is in danger. Not that I really care because Rachel has always been annoying as hell, but I know Quinn. I've beat her before, and I can beat her again."
"You couldn't even keep up with her in a sewer," Matthews snapped.
Santana flushed, and kept her mouth shut for a full three seconds to avoid retorting something equally scathing.
She couldn't take no for an answer. Not now.
"If we go to Los Angeles with a full ops team Fulcrum will get tipped off," she began, quiet and in control. "Quinn outed herself to me on purpose. She wants me to follow her. She wants to prove she can beat me."
The Major studied her intensely. "Why?"
"Because I beat her for cheerleading captain senior year," she answered, matter-of-fact.
Both the Private and the Major simply stared.
"And I took all her solos in Glee Club," Santana added.
"Well," the Major drawled sarcastically. "In that case, of COURSE!"
"Major-"
But the Major only waved her hand. "Go," she said, cutting her off. "You have a day. Exactly one day, to recover the Intersect before Fabray does. If you fail to both secure the Intersect, capture Fabray and maintain your cover, you will be extracted and removed from the candidacy. I'll have you transferred to some base in Arizona where you'll be waving the crazies out of Area 51. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Major."
"Good."
Heels swiveling against the floor, Santana headed for the door, digging out her phone to connect with her secretary.
Fucking Quinn Fabray, who thought she was better than everyone else, who had always been the world's biggest hypocrite, who had been her best friend and her worst enemy, had started a fucking game, taunting her.
Because Quinn had always thought she could beat her.
She wanted to play? Fine.
Santana would decimate her. There was no other option.
There was more on the line than just a fake name and an Intersect.
The last time Santana had heard anything about Rachel Berry was when Brittany had sent her an email to tell her they were thinking about becoming roommates in Los Angeles.
Santana believed enough in her promise to keep Brittany safe to die for it.
If Quinn was stupid enough to get in the way of that, to throw Rachel and Brittany and their past in the mix and think it was just a fucking complication? Then, all the better.
Even after all this time, Quinn had no clue who she was messing with.
****
"Brittany. Brittany!"
Brittany had always been a vivid dreamer, but they had never frightened her.
Usually, she thought of her dreams as alternate worlds; safe havens where fantasy merged with what was real and she could ride a unicorn or talk to her cat and no one would ever think her strange.
This felt different. Her brain felt heavy, weighting down her head and making it hard to move. And there were no dreams. Just a heavy blackness that made her uneasy.
Awareness came to her like little pricks of pain, tapping into her brain and making her wince.
Rachel's voice, booming into her like it was coming from one of Coach Sylvester's old megaphones didn't help.
"Brittany, you're scaring me now."
She frowned, felt her mouth stretch into an achy frown, but kept her eyes shut tight.
Fingers grabbed hold of her and shook, making her brain and the pricks digging into it rattle.
"Rachel, go away," she mumbled.
"I can't go away. You're on the floor of my bedroom, passed out."
Oh.
Brittany opened her eyes blearily. Staring down at her was a frighteningly close-up image of Rachel, who had a large nose and flared nostrils, and big brown eyes.
"You should blow your nose," Brittany informed her helpfully with a weak, strained voice. "I can see stuff."
Rachel frowned. Brittany turned her head, and winced at the sunlight streaming in though the window. "Is it daytime?"
"It's morningtime," Rachel corrected, in that voice that she only used when she was severely displeased. "Are you okay? I called and left you like, three messages to tell you shooting was running late and I'd be crashing in my dressing room. You never answered. "
The actual hardness of Rachel's floor finally seemed to sink in, and it occurred to Brittany that her body was actually stiff. She struggled to push off of the wood, aided by Rachel when the other woman tugged at her shoulder.
"Um..." she glanced down, intensely bewildered. "I think I spent the night here."
"You think?"
Her headache wasn't going away. Brittany was exhausted.
"Um... Yeah." She rubbed hard at her head. "Is it ringing? There's ringing. I want to scrub my brain."
"Did you pass out?"
"I guess?"
"Are you okay? I know a passable amount of First Aid but if there's any chance of a concussion-"
Brittany was in no mood for letting Rachel make her go cross-eyed. "No," she said, wincing when her voice went raspy. "No I didn't hit my head or anything. I don't think I did. I was just standing here and then-"
"Oh my God." Rachel's voice morphed into pure panic. "What happened to my computer?!"
Brittany arched her head. Where Rachel's laptop had resided there only remained a black, smoldering brick of plastic and electronics.
"Wow," she said. "That's... that's..."
"That's dead!" Rachel shrieked. "Oh My God- My files-"
"Let me see..."
"What happened?!"
Brittany tried hard to remember. "I don't... Um..." Her mind, feeling more sluggish and uncooperative than usual, refused to come up with a single reason as to why Rachel's computer suddenly imploded.
"Maybe there was a virus on it?" she tried feebly, reaching out a hesitant finger to the dead piece of plastic. "Or a short? I can probably save the hard drive..."
"But what happened?!"
"I don't know!" Brittany winced at the shouting, and rubbed hard at her face. "I don't ... " She couldn't even conjure up an actual reason for still being in Rachel's bedroom. "You had a spreadsheet and it didn't have Santana's name on it-"
"So you blew up my computer!?"
"No!" Brittany gathered up the laptop, poking at the singed monitor. "I can get your data off of it at work."
Rachel didn't respond; instead opting to regard her strangely. "I'm sorry," she said, voice suddenly gentle. "About not including Santana on the list. Given the circumstances-"
The tremble of Brittany's heart was too painful. Brittany shook her head, swallowing hard. "It's okay. I know it's stupid. I'll fix your computer-"
"Brittany-"
She was saved from any rehashing when Rachel's cell phone rang, buzzing from somewhere in her overflowing purse.
Brittany shut her mouth and ducked her head, plucking the cables away from Rachel's dead laptop, careful to leave the lone piece of paper that had survived underneath it in place.
Rachel sighed, loud and intrusive, before she fumbled into her bag and pulled out her cellphone. "This is Rachel Berry." Rachel's heels tapped, tapped against the floor in an annoyed rhythm, until they faltered suddenly. "Quinn! Quinn Fabray?"
Quinn Fabray. Brittany blinked and stumbled, nearly dropping the laptop.
Rachel's already round eyes went wider, but she was once again distracted by the caller. Who was Quinn.
Brittany's brain itched, and she shook it, trying to clear the sudden weird images that it wanted to conjure up.
"You're in LA? Today?" Rachel checked her watch, and shrugged helplessly at Brittany. "Um... well I've been working all night, but... of course, it would be lovely to see you, Quinn... yes, I guess now might work- of course. Sure. Sure. Quinn-" Rachel frowned, lowering the phone. "She must have been disconnected."
"What's a Fulcrum?"
"What?"
Brittany bit her lip and clutched the laptop to her chest, frowning hard. "Nothing. I just... Quinn's here? Quinn Fabray?"
"In LA on some last minute business," Rachel nodded, looking thoughtful. "She wants to meet for an early brunch right away."
Brittany felt nauseous. Uneasy.
The images of Quinn, a thousand images that burst upon her consciousness the second she had heard it was her on the phone... that was weird. That was really, really weird.
"Um... I have to go to work," she mumbled, and took Rachel's laptop with her. "I'll fix this."
"Brittany? Are you okay?"
Brittany paused, and took in a hard, unsure breath. "Yeah," she said, and managed a smile she didn't quite feel. "Totally. Say hi to Quinn for me," she said, and didn't tell Rachel to be careful, even if she suddenly wanted to.
It just felt silly.
****
Rachel Berry would never admit to double checking her hair and makeup before she stepped out of the car and rounded the corner to the café where Quinn said she would be waiting.
She wouldn't admit to stalling a bit, biting her lip nervously and feeling like an insecure teen freak at just the first glimpse of the glint of perfectly shiny blonde hair and a familiar red pout.
But the fact remained that in high school, Quinn Fabray had been both the head cheerleader who liked to torture her for the heck of it and the most conventionally beautiful person Rachel had ever known in real life.
Even now, eight years later, in her fashionably chic designer jeans and boots and a bored looking expression on a face partially hidden by expensive looking tinted sunglasses, Quinn was breathtakingly beautiful.
And this was Hollywood. It took a lot to get noticed here. The average of conventionally beautiful people was obscenely high.
All it took was one look at Quinn and suddenly Rachel felt awkward in her own skin, too aware of her big nose and her short stature, and every flaw Quinn had been only too happy to point out in high school.
Quinn caught sight of her, and her perfect mouth curled into a perfect smile, hand rising in a greeting, waving Rachel over.
Rachel sucked in a steadying breath.
She wasn't that girl anymore: that insecure high school teen who only had her voice and talent to offer and used them as collateral to bargain for friends. Who clung to Finn like a safety net and felt lonely all the while.
She had forged a life here, even with countless doors slammed into her face because of her nose and stature and everything else.
She could face Quinn as an equal.
Maybe even as a friend.
Rachel shook that thought off immediately. It was weak and silly, after all this time, to still want to try and win over Quinn so sincerely.
Squaring her shoulders, Rachel weaved her way around the patio tables, and a genuine smile formed on her face as she approached the still gorgeous Quinn Fabray.
"Rachel!" Quinn's voice was sugary sweet, genuinely glad to see her. When she clasped her hand, she wasn't content to just shake it, but she pulled forward, pressing her lips into Rachel's cheek. "It's been forever!"
Quinn's perfume was scented with lilacs and something musky and spicy.
It was entrancingly perfect.
Rachel expected nothing less.
"Quinn! You look... you look great," she said, breathlessly sincere as her eyes roved over Quinn's flawless skin and toned body.
"Thank you." Quinn took the compliment completely in stride. "So do you," she answered, and seemed so sweet about it, it caused a flush of uncontrolled pleasure to shiver down Rachel's spine. "Though I see you haven't quite given up on those short skirts," Quinn continued, head tilting to inspect the skirt that, as Rachel took her seat, rose to mid-thigh.
It made Rachel feel like an idiot. She flushed, and squirmed in her seat. "Well," she began, "Well... the show's stylist thinks they make my legs look longer."
A muscle in Quinn's jaw ticked, but her eyes, masked by the dark sunglasses, were unreadable. "They do," she said, as her mouth curved into a familiar smirk.
Rachel took in an unsteady breath.
"I'll just have a coffee, if that's okay," Quinn said, interrupting before Rachel could say a word. "I don't have that much time after all, so..."
It was an absolute relief. "No," Rachel said, bobbing her head like a monkey. "That's fine. I don't have much time myself. I have some lines to memorize."
"That's right." Quinn settled back in her chair, regarding her with a lazy smile. "You're a soap actress."
Rachel told herself that the way Quinn said 'soap actress' did not mean to come off as it might as well have been 'hobo'.
"It's the third highest daytime show in it's timeslot," Rachel offered lamely.
"That's great," Quinn, and it would have sounded like she was gushing if Rachel wasn't so terrified that it sounded like mockery. "Good for you."
"Right." Rachel's smile was uncertain. "So."
"So, how are you?" Quinn asked smoothly.
Rachel wasn't feeling nearly as easy going. "I'm fine," she answered. "How are you?"
Quinn didn't respond, not at first. Instead she only studied Rachel, like she was waiting for something.
Rachel didn't know what to do.
"Any blackouts recently?" Quinn asked, pointed and a little firm. "Nausea?"
Rachel blinked at the oddness of the question. "Not recently, no." Quinn's frown, there for a second, was gone just as quickly. "So, I was a little surprised to hear from you." Rachel smiled valiantly. "I mean, after all these years, and when we talked yesterday, I got the feeling you weren't too pleased to hear from me."
"I apologize for that, Rachel." When Quinn reached forward, covered Rachel's hand with her own, the movement was so quick it nearly caused Rachel to jump out of her seat. "The truth is, after hearing the sad, terrible news about Santana, I got to thinking that maybe it was time to reconnect with old friends. The people I lost touch with: tell them how much they really meant to me before it was too late."
Rachel blinked, overwhelmed. "But you hated me in high school," she stammered.
Quinn's smile grew. "Can I be honest, Rachel?"
The idea was terrifying. "Sure," Rachel said, and then shivered when Quinn's finger dragged along Rachel's palm. The tingle it produced was mortifying.
Quinn reached up, pulled off her sunglasses, and then Rachel was greeted with the absolute brilliance of Quinn's eyes.
They stared deep into her, like they were looking inside of her, at her very soul.
Quinn had never, ever looked at her like that in high school.
Rachel's knees snapped together.
"Whatever our differences were," Quinn began, voice soft and husky. "I always really admired you. And even though I said I hated you, truthfully, I thought you were the most beautiful girl at McKinley."
"Really?" Rachel squeaked, and flushed immediately.
Quinn nodded somberly. "Inside and out. I couldn't wait another day to tell you that. It meant that much to me."
"Um..." Rachel felt suddenly dizzy, unsure what to do with herself. "Wow."
When Quinn's finger smoothed against the most sensitive part of her wrist and swiped gently across it, she settled for reaching for a glass of water and taking a huge gulp.
****
What was going on in her head felt like a hangover, but Brittany didn't remember drinking anything.
It didn't seem fair.
Swallowing down some Advil, Brittany adjusted her tie and pulled her satchel over her shoulder. It was heavier than usual, weighted down with Rachel's burnt out computer, and honestly, Brittany felt a fair amount of remorse over that.
Except, Brittany didn't remember getting mad enough over the spreadsheet to fry it. She didn't even think she knew how to cause a short this bad.
She didn't even know if she could save the hard drive, though Rachel didn't really need to know that.
One thing hadn't changed since high school; Rachel still over-reacted like crazy.
Frowning, Brittany reached for her keys. The images, the ones she had seen when Rachel said she was going to meet up with Quinn, they were seared into her brain. Vivid, like files, and Brittany liked to make up stuff, she did, but it had never been this... real.
It made her uneasy, unsure, and it was because of that that Brittany picked up her phone and called Rachel.
When it went to voicemail, Brittany bit her lip, unsure how to even begin to explain what she was trying to say.
"Hi Rachel," she finally said, a fake cheer in her voice. "I just... there's something going on in my head. Like this... it's kind of like a file cabinet? I mean... it says that Quinn's... she's with something called Fulcrum? You know what, I'm crazy. Don't worry about it. Just... call me. Okay? I want to know you're safe. I don't..." The words stuck in Brittany's throat with a sudden swell of emotion. "Um, I just want to know you're safe. That's all."
Brittany hung up the phone, and stuffed it in her pocket, heading for the door.
Outside of the apartment building, she passed a man fixing a window.
She never met him once in her life. She was sure of that.
The gazillion images that came to her the moment she saw him told her otherwise-that he was with the something called Fulcrum. That his name was John Ramos.
That he had a gun.
Suddenly terrified, Brittany lowered her head and walked past him.
It's stupid, she told herself. You're crazy. If he was with the government, why would he be fixing a window?
Brittany got to her car and fumbled with the door, pulling it open and sliding into the MiniCooper with the emblazoned logo 'Nerd Herd'.
She just needed to make it to work.
Brittany prayed that the Advil would kick in before then, and then the flashes would stop. She didn't understand them. They didn't make sense.
Please, she prayed. Just make them stop.
****
So Rachel Berry was a little bit lesbian.
Who knew?
Quinn settled back in her seat and fought the urge to preen like a damn cat.
Fate, it seemed, had been handing her gems like she deserved them, and Quinn was not above making use of any advantage that she had.
Including the fact that she knew Rachel gobbled up compliments like a newborn guzzled milk. That Rachel blushed a cherry tomato red every time she touched her. That she seemed so nervous and awe-struck she came off like a damn teenager.
Quinn had come a long way since her conservative days in Lima. Oh, she still believed in the right to bear arms, but good looks were universal, and her job required getting closer to an intended target by any means necessary, using every weapon in her arsenal.
Consequently, Quinn had seduced more than her fair share of women.
The lovemaking was surprisingly good. In Quinn's line of work, there wasn't much time for a sexual identity crisis or big thoughts on whether or not it was a sin. Work was work, and though privately, Quinn would admit that she enjoyed the female seductions more than the male, it was only because, in her opinion, the women were always harder.
And there wasn't any chance of getting pregnant.
Still, going this route with Rachel Berry had been unexpected. She had expected to use Rachel's unchanging vanity to get to the woman. She hadn't expected be so openly salivated over, to the point where Quinn might as well have been on a stripper pole.
An experimental touch, a bat of the eyes, and Rachel looked almost ready to propose marriage.
It was disappointingly easy.
Quinn didn't want to process why exactly that was.
Her livelihood depended on extracting what she wanted from Rachel without Rachel realizing it as quickly as possible.
With Santana's cover blown, Quinn knew it was only a matter of time before the army figured out exactly where she sent the Intersect, and they would descend on Brittany and Rachel's apartment like locusts.
Quieter was better, and that meant taking Rachel away with Rachel's own permission.
If Rachel had actually gotten the email.
Which, it seemed, she genuinely hadn't.
"I'm sorry, Quinn." Rachel thumbed through her blackberry, scrolling through messages. "I don't see it. What did you say the subject was?"
"Surprise," she repeated, and clenched her jaw to keep the frustrated glare from emerging.
"I don't see it." Rachel frowned. "There's a voicemail from Brittany. Do you mind if I listen to it? She's got me really worried."
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" Her expression was carefully constructed to be casually concerned. "Santana again?"
"No. Well, yes, but... no. I don't know what she did, but she was in my room last night, and... I told you she's kind of been in a bad place... she must have done something to short out my computer. I found her this morning, sprawled out on my floor..."
Quinn's fingers curled into a fist, the easy smile fading from her mouth.
Rachel listened to the message, and her mouth pursed. "What's Fulcrum?" she asked her, and then shook her head in confusion.
Quinn inhaled sharply.
What had happened came together easily, and quickly. The email she had sent, meant for Rachel, had obviously been opened by Brittany. Which meant Brittany now had a working Intersect in her brain.
Brittany S. Pierce.
Who couldn't figure out how to tie her shoes until junior year.
That Brittany.
Awesome.
"Something wrong?" she asked lightly, when Rachel lowered the phone.
"I'm so sorry, Quinn." Rachel's brow was furrowed. Her eyes were concerned. "I'm really worried about Brittany. She's acting so...odd. Even for Brittany. I think I should go."
The easy smile stayed on Quinn's face. "Why don't I go with you?" she asked. "If something's wrong, maybe I can help."
Rachel looked uncertain. "I thought you said you had another engagement."
Quinn pushed out her chair and rose to her feet. "Honestly, Rachel? At the moment I can't think of anything more important than reconnecting with you and helping Brittany."
The look on Rachel's face when she smiled, thrilled and wanting so desperately to believe in this Quinn Fabray, caused an odd disconcerting feeling to flutter across Quinn's senses.
For the first time since Rachel had approached her at this table, Quinn felt a glimmer of her true self fight through the façade and it made her heart literally throb.
Smile growing unsteady, Quinn swallowed hard. An irrational spark of anger floated inside of her, and once again, it was easy to blame it on Rachel, with her dimpled smile and the surprising way she had grown into her looks.
She waited until Rachel's back was turned, ad then signaled to her team of agents that had been standing by to take Rachel away.
She ordered them to hold off. For now.
****
After all the tap-dancing that she did to avoid the obvious Fulcrum agents standing guard outside of Rachel's apartment, breaking in was the easy part.
And even that wasn't easy at all.
The faded writing on the mailboxes had explicitly stated that this apartment was co-habited: Pierce and Berry.
Edging the door open, gun gripped loosely and aimed in front of her, Santana tried to tell herself to treat this as if it was just another assignment.
Except she couldn't. It was literally beyond her comprehension, because even the hallway smelled like Brittany.
It permeated the air, and starved, she breathed it deep into her nostrils, taking in with it a thousand memories that had never been erased. Instead, they had been locked down, tempered, placed in boxes and compartments that Santana could file and manage in an effort to not bleed so damn much.
Brittany had always been her greatest strength and her biggest weakness.
Santana's grip trembled, her eyes watered.
"Fuck," she whispered, and sucked in a soldiering breath, reaching up with her shoulder to wipe a suddenly wet cheek on the collar of her black shirt before she edged forward.
Floorboards creaked underneath her boots, but there were no answering scuffles in return.
Her heart began to pound, and Santana inhaled again through her nose, struggling to keep her breath even, her mind clear.
She could be too late. Quinn could have already come and gone.
But there was nothing disturbed beyond the usual clutter in certain areas that must have been on account of Brittany.
A jacket lay strewn on a chair. Santana resisted the urge to touch it, smell it, and weep into it like a motherfucking baby.
Instead, she exhaled again and moved forward.
On the desk in the hallway, closer to the kitchen, Santana discovered a discarded Nerd Herd ID Badge.
With an unsteady grip, she took it between her fingers, and just looked. It was the same size and width of her NSA badge, but instead of Santana's stern expression, Brittany smiled at the camera.
It was the first time she had allowed herself to see Brittany, or any image of her, since she had entered the program.
In her dazed mind, Santana could only manage a dizzy, disbelieving, laugh. "Brittany is a Nerd Herder?"
The twist of a key in the door, the sudden bleat of a loud voice that could only ever belong to Rachel Berry, caused a startled Santana to slip the badge into her pocket and slide quickly into the nearest adjoining doorway.
It was a bathroom.
Santana flattened herself against the wall, and didn't breathe.
"Brittany?!" Definitely Rachel Berry. "Brittany? Are you here?"
Nothing.
"I brought Quinn!"
Quinn. Santana's jaw tightened. Her finger slid quietly to her trigger.
"Brittany?" The floorboard creaked again, this time with the weight of two individuals. When steps moved in her direction, Santana reacted quickly, silently squeezing behind the door. The dark head of Rachel peeked in, mercifully in every direction but directly where she was hidden. "She's not here. Oh, God, I hope she didn't go to work like that."
She ducked back out again. Closing her eyes, Santana checked her safety, and didn't move.
"She's not answering her cellphone. Quinn, I'm really worried."
"Rachel..." Quinn's tone positively dripped with fabricated concern. "This is very important. Did Brittany mention anything to you specifically about opening my email to you?"
Santana's heart jumped, so loud she could actually hear the beat drum against her chest.
Fuck, she thought, filled with sudden morbid dread. No, please God no-
"Quinn," Rachel sounded exasperated. "I told you, she didn't. I wasn't even home last night. I came home this morning, and she was on the floor passed out, and the computer was shorted out. She didn't remember anything, but she was acting weird, and then you called me."
SHIT. Her chest tightened to the point of suffocation, as a horrible, horrible realization flooded inside of her.
"But she specifically mentioned Fulcrum?"
This isn't real life, Santana thought helplessly. This can't be fucking happening. The Intersect has NOT been downloaded into my girlfriend's brain.
Brittany downloaded the Intersect into her brain.
Brittany.
Santana struggled to hold on to herself, to keep still, even as her very world came apart.
"Twice, come to think of it. Quinn, is there something you're not telling me?"
"Rachel, do you trust me?"
Say no, Santana pleaded silently. Grow a brain and realize you haven't seen her in years, and it's weird that she just suddenly shows up here, unannounced. Say that she obviously wants something, and you need to know what that is.
"Quinn, you're scaring me. Why wouldn't I trust you?"
Santana winced in frustration, biting hard into her lower lip. Because she's a fucking hypocrite, Santana thought furiously, because she lied to every person she's claimed to love, and the one fucking selfless thing she's ever done is give up a baby that she's never seen since the minute she popped it out.
"Rachel, I haven't been completely honest with you. I did come to reconnect with you, but that isn't the only reason I came to Los Angeles so quickly. The truth is, I'm a secret agent, working for the government."
Santana's eyes rolled up into her head, fighting to contain her exasperated sigh.
"What?"
"That email I sent you? It contains a really dangerous file, and I had to keep it safe. That's why I sent it to you. You were the only person I could think of to trust it with."
Quinn's tone was so very sincere. All sugary sweetness and dripping with honey, appealing to Rachel Berry's vanity, and skewing the truth to get exactly what she wanted, as usual.
God. And people used to think Santana was the evil one.
"Quinn..." Rachel, at least, had some suspicion creeping into her voice. "Are you serious? ... this is a prank, right?"
"Rachel, it's not a prank. If Brittany opened that email, then she could be in very big trouble. Some very bad people will come after her and I need to protect her."
The thought... the very idea...
It was enough to make Santana so infuriated she was literally nauseous.
Swallowing down the bile, Santana shook her head and shoved at the door, sliding into the open hallway and pointing her gun directly at Quinn Fabray's heart.
At least it would have been. It should have been. And if it had, she would have pulled the trigger, put an end to this in half a second, government rules and regulations be damned.
Except Rachel Berry was standing directly in the way, looking at her pale-faced, like she had seen a ghost.
Eyes stormy with furious indecision, Santana took her first good look at Quinn Fabray in eight years.
"You are such a fucking bitch," she rasped, livid in her anger. "You've got some damn nerve, you know that?"
Quinn's brief shock of coming face to face with Santana so quickly faded after a moment, and in its place came a lingering smugness.
With a slow, private grin growing on her face, Quinn stepped forward to place her hands reassuringly on Rachel's shoulders, bringing her in and making her an oblivious, but perfect human shield.
"Rachel, be careful!" Quinn said, so concerned and protective she could have been looking to win a damned Emmy.
Santana couldn't lower the gun, but to point it at Rachel...
The barrel wavered.
"Rachel," she whispered, trying to sound just as calm, just as reassuring, even as her voice shook from the emotion that coursed through her. "Move away from Quinn."
But Rachel, staring at her with wide-eyed muted surprise, could only babble and gasp. "You-You-Quinn-"
When Santana took a step forward, Quinn took one back, keeping Rachel close, and silently shaking her head dangerously at Santana, the unspoken warning glittering in her eyes.
Santana stopped.
"Santana, I won't let you do it," she said, eyes flashing dangerously. "I won't let you waltz back in here like nothing's happened."
"S-Santana?!" Rachel breathed, voice barely above a whisper in her own shock. "You-"
Swallowing hard, Santana kept her focus on Quinn, moving her line of sight to Quinn's head.
She had no shot. Not without endangering Rachel. Quinn fucking knew it.
"Rachel," she began, as firmly as she could. "Listen to me very carefully."
"But you're dead," Rachel blurted, and Santana winced, heartbeat thundering erratically. "You're supposed to be dead. We had a funeral-"
"Rach-" Her voice croaked, and she choked. She wanted to explain. She didn't know how. Shaking her head in deep frustration, Santana readjusted her grip on the handle of her gun and took another half step forward.
"Santana faked her death to go rogue, Rachel." Quinn's glare glittered at her, fingers rubbing Rachel's shoulders, keeping Rachel centered right in front of her. "I didn't want to tell you. I knew it would hurt you. But she's the bad guy. She's after what I sent you."
Goddammit. Santana sighed raggedly, finger itching on her trigger as a flash of hate rose in her.
"Rachel, she's lying."
Rachel's wide brown eyes were nearly liquid now, and she leaned into Quinn, borrowing her strength as she stared at Santana.
She wouldn't stop fucking staring.
"You... you didn't fake your death?"
Santana winced. "Okay, she's not lying about that," she admitted, and immediately she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Rachel looked fucking wounded. "But don't believe anything she says, Rachel. I'm here to protect you. To help Brittany."
"Do you really think she'll believe you?"
"Shut the FUCK up, Quinn!"
"When you're the one pointing a gun at her?"
"I'm not pointing a gun at her," she pointed out helpfully. "I'm pointing it at you. If you weren't such a damn coward you'd stop using her as a damn shield."
And maybe that got through to Rachel, because the conflicted dark eyes rose from the gun in Santana's hands to Quinn, standing behind her, clutching her so damn closely.
Quinn's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. With a glint in her eye, she lifted her chin and arched a brow. "Why should she trust anything you say, Santana? You're not who you were. The Santana we knew wouldn't fake her death, knowing what it would do to Brittany."
Quinn might as well have taken that same knife that she had shoved between Santana's shoulder blades junior year and stabbed her in the heart.
The statement hit Santana like a blow, and she nearly stumbled from the impact from it.
Quinn's face was unreadable.
"You know it as well as I do, Rachel."
"Rachel," Santana tried, even though her voice was scratchy and her hands were shaking. "I need you to trust me and listen to me. Yes, I faked my death. I did it for a very good reason. But Quinn? She's the bad guy. She's stolen a very important government weapon. She's a liar, and a killer, and she's using you."
But Quinn didn't need to say anything. Santana could see it in Rachel's face, in those ever expressive eyes.
And the way she looked at Santana... it was chilling.
She was seeing her, but she was seeing a stranger.
"You... faked your death," Rachel said slowly, voice low and soft, aching in disbelief. "Why would you do that? How could you do that to Brittany?"
Santana pressed her mouth together, and shook her head slowly.
"You destroyed her. You killed her-"
"I was trying to protect her."
"By breaking her?" Rachel's voice cracked in righteous fury. "She blamed herself! Santana, she doesn't even dance!"
The lump in her throat was painful now, and Santana had to gulp and wince to swallow it away. "Rachel," she began, as kindly as she dared. "I'm going to reach into my pocket very slowly, and I'm going to show you my badge. It's going to prove to you that I'm one of the good guys."
"Don't fall for it, Rachel." Quinn's voice was dark, as sly as a serpent's. "She'll shoot us both without blinking. Santana's a killer."
"She's lying, Rachel," Santana snapped, pleading for her to believe her.
"You haven't killed anyone?" Rachel asked, and god-dammit, why the hell did she focus on the fucking wrong things?
"No, I have." Rachel blanched, stepped back, and Santana felt a shudder of desperation go through her. "Rachel, but they were all bad!"
She had been suckered into playing Quinn's game, and she was losing. Badly.
She was over it. Rachel's injured sensibilities could go to hell.
"Rachel, I don't have time for this," she snapped. "Get the fuck out of the way, or I will shoot you and not give a damn."
She was so involved in her own emotional trauma, courtesy of Quinn Fabray, she didn't notice the man sneaking up behind her until Rachel's eyes drifted from hers, and the floorboard creaked.
She swiveled, just in time to see a man in a dark jacket lifting up a gun with a silencer.
Instinct overtook her, and she fired. Point blank. Into his chest.
Rachel's horrifying cry bled into her ears, as the man staggered back, stumbling into the desk and sending a lamp tumbling.
The wound on his side began to seep; a dark stain spreading on his shirt.
The door opened wider, and another goon with a gun entered, popping a shot at her that grazed her arm.
She backpedaled, lost sight of Rachel in the fray.
As she jerked into the kitchen, bullets chinked into tile, and Santana had no choice.
She shot once, twice, and then grabbed hold of the steel railing that held Rachel's pots and pans, vaulting herself over the counter and crashing through the glass window above it.
Landing clumsily on the lawn, and Santana rolled into a running sprint. She ran; away from Rachel, Quinn's goons, and the mess of a scene she had just created.
Santana made it to her car, jerking into her seat and shutting the door. Her heart was hammering. Her chest was tight. She couldn't breathe.
She had proved Quinn's damn point. Been used as a pawn, her weaknesses glaring and open and seeping and perfect for Quinn to take advantage of.
She wanted to kick something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to murder Quinn Fabray with her bare hands.
Instead, she took a moment to breathe, and then turned on the ignition, glancing over her shoulder to check for traffic before peeling out into the street.
This wasn't about Quinn anymore.
As she drove, Santana dug into her pocket and found the little hard rectangle of plastic she had hurriedly stuffed away.
From the Nerd Herd ID Badge, Brittany smiled at her.
****
Part Three