Glee Fic: There's Nothing Ironic About Slaying (2/4)

[sceptick]

Wednesday

Quinn couldn’t get the Slayer out of her head.

She spent all of Wednesday shut up in the crypt she’d found with Santana and Brittany. They had vanished into the adjacent tomb immediately upon getting back from the confrontation, presumably to lick their wounds and, well... Quinn wasn’t going to finish that thought. The noises, which somehow made it through stone walls, finished it for her.

Quinn passed the time flipping through old yearbooks from McKinley High. That had been their real intention behind going to the school the previous night; running into the Slayer had been a lucky coincidence.

She noticed two things in the yearbooks: the Slayer, whose name was Rachel Berry, it turned out, was in so many clubs that Quinn hated her on principle, and Quinn’s sire must have had some kind of thrall over the principal to get these massive spreads for her Cheerios.

Quinn stared fervently at the pictures of the Master in last year’s yearbook. She was majestic, fierce, and alive. There was a quote at the bottom of the page from her saying, “Cheerleading is like torture. Legal torture. Legal, constitution-approved torture. God bless America.”

When Quinn had first heard, about a year back, that her sire had ditched her old life and gone undercover as a cheerleading coach, in as pathetic a town as Lima of all places, she had laughed herself hoarse. Then she’d been informed that her sire had been killed, and, well, she wasn’t laughing then.

People always said “Don’t shoot the messenger.” She hadn’t shot the demon unfortunate enough to be the bearer of that bad news. What she did to him was a lot messier than a simple bullet to the head. Quinn hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms with the Master -- or, as she’d been calling herself, apparently, ‘Sue Sylvester’ -- for a very long time, not since Quinn had left, but she was still Quinn’s sire.

She turned her focus back to the yearbook in her lap. In the picture, Sue stood on a grassy field, a megaphone clutched in one hand, surrounded by sweating, gorgeous cheerleaders. The sun beat down on her. How exactly had she managed that? Vampires and sunshine were a fatal combination.

Quinn lifted the yearbook up to eye-level, narrowing her eyes. Closer inspection of the photo revealed that the hand holding the megaphone was wearing a ring. Quinn frowned. The Master had never been big on jewelry in the time Quinn had known her. On special occasions, she might have pulled out a chain of pearls, but rings? Not her thing.

It was weird enough that Quinn pulled out one of her old books of lore from the duffel bag she’d brought with her, and flipped through it until she found a match. The ring of Amara, it said. Makes one invincible.

If the Master was invincible, then how did that runty little girl defeat her?

Quinn tossed the book aside and glanced back down to the Master’s page. Once she’d heard of Sue’s death, she’d begun to research the life her sire had created for herself. She’d read about all the trophies Sue had won, and she’d read about how, after her sire’s death, the cheerleading team she’d raised from nothing had gone on to win Nationals again, without her this time. Like none of Sue’s work had meant anything to them. Like they could just leave her behind and make it on their own.

Quinn had hated them. She’d torn their guts out for it. When Quinn brought the Master back, their blood would be the first the Master drank, followed shortly by the blood of absolutely everyone else in this stupid, crappy town.

There was another cry from through the wall, and Quinn growled. “Shut up!” she yelled. Her only answer was the sound of Santana cackling.

She couldn’t look at that picture anymore. She flipped past it, and found herself on another one of Rachel Berry’s club photos.

Perfect.

She took her frustration out on the... glee club? Whatever that was. She doodled in a few moustaches, but quickly moved on to adding gruesome, life-threatening injuries to all the members in red pen. The Slayer, in the middle, went untouched.

How had she defeated the Master? She was just a girl, Slayer powers aside. Just a little girl named Rachel Berry, wearing tacky knee socks and animal sweaters, who participated in millions of clubs to make her mark. Clearly kind of desperate. How had she defeated the Master?

Quinn sighed, putting her pen down. Defacing a picture wasn’t going to give her all the answers she was looking for. She slammed the yearbook shut and rose to her feet.

As she searched for the jacket she’d brought off that stupid bus, she thought about where she’d go. Before she’d looked at the yearbook, she would have thought to try the bowling alley, or the coffee house in town. They seemed to be the most popular hang-outs in Lima, which really, really said something about how lame this hick town was. But although it had brought her no closer to figuring out how Rachel Berry, of all people, had killed her sire, Quinn thought she had a better grasp on who Rachel was now. A loner, although definitely not by choice. The kind of person who alienated others just by virtue of being herself -- overinvested and overinvolved.

There was no way a person like Rachel Berry would be found in that coffee shop, or that bowling alley. Not because she wouldn’t want to, she would, she’d want it furiously, but because no one would want her there.

Quinn found her jacket, swung haphazardly over the giant stone cross in the back of the tomb. She frowned, and carefully lifted it off with just two fingers. Even so, she felt an uncomfortable heat nipping at her fingertips. She dropped the coat to the ground, a red and white and black leather stain over the dust and the dead leaves, and sucked on her fingers as she stared at the cross reproachfully.

That was her only regret, really, about the whole vampirism thing. Leaving her parents hadn’t been much of an issue, after the way they’d treated her, and it wasn’t like anyone else wanted anything to do with her after the scandal. Not that she cared about that anymore. When she was still young and angry, yes, but it had been over a hundred years. What’s a little illegal, unwanted abortion among friends? Well, parents.  She’d worked out her aggression over that ages ago. And she’d never been all that attached to the name “Lucy,” either.

She couldn’t remember how it felt, her cross hanging from her neck like an anchor. A reminder, a support. She couldn’t remember, and that was... sad.

“Crisis of faith, Q?” said a snide voice from the doorway.

Quinn spun around. Santana was leaning against the wall near the door, sweat-soaked and smiling like a python. She looked deliberately at Quinn, past her to the cross, and down to the floor, to Quinn’s jacket lying pathetically on the floor.

With an irritated huff, Quinn snatched her jacket up, muttering, “Why don’t you mind your own damn business, Santana.”

Santana just grinned. She didn’t even need to say anything; the very sight of her was a nuisance to Quinn. All loose and easy, nasty confidence and languid sexuality.

“Bless me, Quinnie, for I have sinned,” Santana purred, moving closer. “I slept with another girl. Although, is it really gay if we’re not human? Whatever. Point is, I totally nailed her, and it was beyond awesome.”

“Santana --”

“Ooh, moral me harder, Q,” Santana said, licking her lips. “I’m not done my confession. I had sex with a girl, and now I’m thinking threesome.”

“Santana!” Quinn said, narrowing her eyes.

“What? This whole tortured creature-of-the-night thing you’ve got going is kinda hot, Q --”

Santana wasn’t expecting the first punch, but Quinn wasn’t expecting to throw it. Still, she did, and Santana went down. She came up with a snarl of rage, grabbing Quinn by the neck of her uniform and pulling her down. Santana crawled on top of her, slamming her fist into Quinn’s nose. Quinn groaned with pain, but it didn’t stop her from grabbing hold of Santana’s hips with her knees and throwing her to the side. In a moment she was back on her feet, kicking Santana in the ribs for good measure.

“Ow, ow, Jesus,” Santana hissed, grabbing at Quinn’s foot when she went in for a second shot. Santana tugged her down again, but this time Quinn was on top of her, wailing on her face and her chests with all of the stress that’d been building up since they got back to this shit town.

“I made you, Santana,” Quinn raged. “I made you, and I can unmake you just as easily. You are mine.”

“Get off of me!”

Quinn landed one last punch, and got to her feet, breathing heavily. She smoothed out her skirt, staring down at Santana, mussed and bleeding on the floor. “I don’t get it, Santana. You think you’re hot stuff? You think you can lead us? What would you do if I left, huh?”

“Quinn,” Santana mumbled, avoiding her eyes.

“What would you do if I left? If your sire left, and then a few years down the line you found out I was dead? What would you do, Santana?”

“Quinn --”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know!” Santana shouted. She was crying, ugly sobs that ran in tracks through the blood trailing from her nose and lips. She repeated, quieter, “I -- I don’t know.”

“Don’t forget it,” Quinn advised, picking up her jacket again and pulling it on. “And don’t mess with me.”

She brushed past Santana, making her way out of the tomb. Once outside, she took a deep breath, then looked down at her hands. They were red.

Whatever, she thought. Santana would heal. The blood would wash off. Besides, Santana had pushed her. She was always pushing her. It wasn’t Quinn’s fault, not really.

Brittany came stumbling out of the tomb beside hers, hair a mess and wearing only her skirt and her bra. She took one look at Quinn, then shot her an extremely judgmental look, frowning sullenly. Brittany never liked it when they fought amongst themselves. She pushed by Quinn, already making sympathetic noises before she’d even entered the tomb.

“The moon is totally beside itself tonight,” Quinn heard Brittany say, and she rolled her eyes.

She couldn’t deal with either of their crap tonight. She zipped up her jacket, even though it wasn’t like she actually felt the cold, and jogged out of the graveyard.

Quinn ran through Lima, keeping a steady pace. She passed a few people despite the late hour, but she didn’t stop. She wasn’t really hungry -- she’d lost her appetite, dealing with Santana and her mind games. The people of Lima were safe from her, at least until Friday.

Somehow or other, her feet lead her back to McKinley High’s football field. It was like a magnetic pull. Some things never change, Quinn mused, coming to a stop in the center of the field. The Master had always had some kind of hold over her.

They’d buried her here, Quinn could feel it. Dug up the earth and lowered her bones down. Covered her in layers and layers of spells, metals, and charms, to keep vampires away. That wouldn’t be a problem, though. Quinn had a plan.

God, she ached. The stress, and the fighting, and just everything; it was all adding up to one giant crick in her neck. She rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, breathing lightly, enjoying the night air. She took out her hair elastic, brushed out the damage Santana did with her vicious hair-pulling, which was just cruel and unnecessary, and pulled it all up into a neater high ponytail.

Sometimes you have to take a break from the vengeance and slaughter, she thought, and just be a girl.

At that moment, Quinn was interrupted by the faint sound of voices, coming from the parking lot. One seemed to be complaining, loudly and plaintively. That whining tone, in addition to the prickling sensation at the back of Quinn’s neck, told her who it was.

Quinn crept towards the parking lot, and hid behind the same dumpster as before as she watched Rachel Berry and some other girl descend the steps of the school. For a moment, all she could think about was how disappointed her father would have been with her, hiding in the trash, but that only made her smirk.

“It’s not the end of the world, Rachel,” the other girl said. She had a comforting arm around the Slayer’s shoulders, and was rubbing her other arm gently. “You know how Kurt is, he’ll come around.”

“It is the end of the world, Mercedes!” Rachel wailed. “You don’t understand -- Kurt is your friend first and foremost, and if he leaves me, he’ll take you with him and I’ll be all alone. I won’t have anyone.”

“What, do you think Kurt is my master or something? He calls and I follow?” Mercedes said, stopping and withdrawing a little. “I thought you knew me better, Rachel.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant, Mercedes,” Rachel said, pulling her back. “It’s just... if it came down to it. Choosing between me and Kurt. You’d choose Kurt, of course you would, he’s your oldest friend and he’s more popular than me and he dresses better than me --”

“Who says I’d have to choose?” Mercedes said, “You’re my friend, Rachel. I can have more than one friend, and I’m not just gonna toss you aside like so much trash. I’d never do that, to you or Kurt.”

Rachel snuggled into Mercedes’ warmth as Quinn watched. Quinn thought back to Brittany and Santana and tried to imagine doing this with them. Just hugging them. Supporting each other.

She snorted indelicately. Yeah, right.

“He hasn’t said a word to me all day,” Rachel mumbled into Mercedes’ shoulder. It was so quiet that even Quinn barely heard it, despite the super-hearing and all. “I have enough stress right now, I -“ Rachel sniffed, glancing away from Mercedes. She looked afraid.

“He’ll come around,” Mercedes said again, stroking Rachel’s hair. “But you should consider where he’s coming from, Rachel. It’s not like Kurt just decided suddenly to hate Finn. He must have a reason.”

They resumed walking, making their way towards a car. Mercedes got into the driver’s seat while Rachel slumped down in the passenger’s seat. As they drove off, Quinn heard the opening strains of “Don’t Stop Believing” playing, with Mercedes singing along. They rounded the corner out of the lot, and vanished from sight just as Rachel Berry joined in, quietly.

Quinn stayed hidden in the shadows, watching long after the car was gone. She wondered, distantly, if she would get back to the tomb and find that Santana and Brittany had left. Maybe Santana knew that she couldn’t make it without Quinn, but Brittany didn’t. Brittany was just crazy enough to think they could survive on their own, and -- possibly -- just angry enough to give it a try, after the latest fight. If Brittany left, what would Santana do? Stick by her sire, or follow her -- whatever Brittany was to her?

Quinn realized that she had no idea. All she knew was that -- well, maybe she couldn’t make it without them, either. Maybe what she had said to Santana went for her as well. It wasn’t weakness, it wasn’t, but the Master was gone and Quinn was far from home. They were all she had now.

The crick was back in her neck. Quinn ignored it this time. She probably deserved it.

As she made her way out of the parking lot, back towards her dank, musty tomb, she felt the insane urge to break into song. For a moment, she hummed -- some will win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues -- but she stopped quickly, feeling foolish. She wasn’t Rachel freaking Berry. That was a good thing.

Thursday

Rachel watched Kurt out of the corner of her eye. They were in the library again, all three of them, with a little more information but making no real headway for the second day in a row.

Rachel flipped another page listlessly.

She wasn’t giving it her all. She was slacking, like her untalented compatriots -- not Kurt or Mercedes, of course, although they were still marginally less talented than her -- did in glee club. She knew it, but she couldn’t snap herself out of her daze. It was weak, it was pathetic, but every time she tried to muster up the energy to plan, to find the answer, to fix the problem, her epiphany pounded through her head like an arrhythmic, jarring drumbeat.

The Master.

Rachel turned the page, staring blindly down at her book. Instead of print and paper, all she could see was thin, starchy, blonde hair and a cold smile. Long, calloused fingers circling her throat and holding on as easily as they gripped a megaphone, despite her struggles. A low voice saying, “And now, Bernadette, I’m going to suck you dryer than a Brit’s sense of humor, and then I’m going to go and do the same to all of your little glee club friends. Because I can, and because you can’t stop me. Also because William’s hair is reaching society-threatening toxicity. I’m having research done by a crack-team of illegally immigrated scientists that will prove that the fumes emanating from his head are the number one cause of global warming.”

“Rachel?”

“Whuh-- huh?”

Mercedes chuckled nervously. “You’re seriously out of it, girl.”

“Sorry,” Rachel muttered shoving her bangs out of her face. She glanced down at her book. It was open to that page about Lucy the Bloody again.

“Listen, I’m just gonna go... get a drink of water, okay? A really long drink of water,” Mercedes said quietly in Rachel’s ear, glancing pointedly at Kurt.

“Right,” said Rachel.

Mercedes smiled encouragingly, giving her a thumbs-up, then headed for the door. She stopped once on her way to pat Kurt gently on the arm, sharing a weak grin with him, and then she was gone.

Rachel bit her lip. Mercedes’ intention was more than obvious, but it wasn’t as simple as she seemed to think it was. Kurt hadn’t said a single word to Rachel since their fight two days ago. He’d sat in icy silence whenever she was near, speaking only to Mercedes and even then in terse, unfriendly tones. He continued to help with research, but his back was always to her and the way he flicked the pages of his books made a quiet cracking sound. She felt like he was trying to make a point. And for Rachel’s part, she hadn’t been able to muster up the energy to confront him, not since the Master had been pushed back to the forefront of her brain.

She really did miss him, though.

Rachel sighed in frustration. What was she supposed to do here? It wasn’t her fault that Kurt had taken an irrational and baseless dislike to her … whatever Finn was. Boyfriend seemed too simple to explain their relationship, given the added levels of preordained enmity overcome and whatnot. Destined soulmate sounded better to Rachel, but it probably wouldn’t go over so well with other people.

Kurt turned another page, noisily.

Rachel pushed herself away from her table and strode over to where he was sitting. “I’m sorry, Kurt,” she said. “Is that what you need to hear? I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I’m sure I’ve done something wrong besides loving who I love, so if you could just tell me what it is so I can fix it --”

Kurt slammed the book shut. “You’re not in love with Finn, Rachel.”

Rachel gaped at him, then said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve loved Finn since the moment I met him.”

“Do you even know the guy, Rachel?” Kurt snapped. “Do you know what his favorite color is, his favorite band, his favorite book? Actually, I’ve met Finn, and I’m not sure he’s capable of reading, so skip that one. But seriously, how well do you know him, really?”

“I --” Rachel started, but she cut herself off when she realized she didn’t know. She didn’t have any answers. Finn’s mystery was part of his charm, she told herself. It’s all right to not know things.

It’s really, really not, the nosy part of her, the part that needed to know everything about everyone, screamed. That part was the majority, and Rachel’s resolve wavered.

Kurt leaned forward, nailing his point home. “Do you even know who he was, before he became a vampire?”

Rachel shook her head mutely.

“You’re not in love with him,” Kurt said smugly, turning back to his book.

“What is your problem?” Rachel demanded, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him to face her again. His face was white and unreadable. “Whether I’m in love with Finn or not is both none of your business and not the matter at hand. I asked you what I’m doing wrong, and I -- I need an answer, Kurt. I need to know.”

Kurt stared pointedly at her hand until she removed it, but he didn’t turn away again. He just stared at her in silence. Finally, he sighed grumpily, muttering, “Of course you do.”

There was a long pause, and then Kurt took a deep breath and said, “Finn’s -- not a good person, Rachel.”

“How --”

“No, shhh,” he said. He took her hand in his own absently, pulling her down to sit on the bench beside him. He stared down at the closed book in front of him as he continued. “Do you remember when we first started hanging out? Not just being friendly around glee club, but really hanging out.”

“Of course,” Rachel said immediately. It wasn’t like she would forget the first real friends she’d ever had.

“Then -- then you remember Blaine,” Kurt said.

Rachel stiffened.

“I don’t, anymore,” Kurt said, in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him over the humming of the heater. “Not the little things, anyway. I remember the things we did and the things we said, but I don’t remember what his voice sounded like anymore.” Kurt’s forced calm faltered, and his lower lip quivered. He kept his eyes fixed on the book. “I think that’s the worst part. He used to sing to me, but I don’t even remember what it sounded like.”

“And you blame me,” Rachel said quietly.

She couldn’t fault him for it. She wasn’t totally clear on the specifics, but Blaine would never have been taken by the vamps if him, Kurt, and Mercedes hadn’t been following her, trying to figure out her secret. If she’d told them the truth when Kurt had first started asking nosy, probing questions about her weird hours and the knives and that one unfortunate incident in the cafeteria, they would have known better than to follow her into the dark. Blaine wouldn’t have been taken, he wouldn’t have been turned, and he wouldn’t be dead.

It was a miracle Kurt and Mercedes had ever even looked at her after that, let alone stayed friends with her. Rachel’s eyes burned, and she pulled her hand away from Kurt to wipe at them, sniffling.

“Oh, Rachel,” Kurt said, softly, “Is that really what you think?”

She laughed weakly. “If I were you, I would.”

“No you wouldn’t,” said Kurt flatly. “If you were me, you’d realize that you saved me, and Mercedes, and you tried your hardest to save Blaine.”

Rachel stared at him hopefully. “So -- so you don’t blame me, then?”

Kurt swallowed roughly. “Maybe at first. You were an easy target -- you always have been. But I realized, eventually, that there are only two people to blame for what happened to Blaine.”

The silence was deafening following that statement. Rachel held her breath as long as she could, but eventually she burst out, “Who?”

“Well,” Kurt said, and his voice cracked and his eyes watered, “there’s me, obviously.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous, Kurt. I know you’re distraught right now, but that’s ridiculous.”

“He followed me,” Kurt said. “He was always saying he would follow me anywhere. So that’s my fault. I lost him when the vamps attacked us. And,” he cleared his throat roughly, “I’m the one who staked him, in the end. So. Three strikes, you’re out. That’s how it goes, right?”

He sniffed, wiping at his cheeks. Rachel’s heart ached, and she reached out to grasp his hands again. “You’re not to blame, Kurt,” she tried, but he just shook his head, smiling bitterly.

She squeezed his hands silently, then remembered something he’d said. “Did... did you say there were two people to blame, Kurt?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse, but he wasn’t crying anymore, so that was good. “Rachel, when did you first meet Finn?”

Rachel paused, thrown by the subject change, but she shrugged internally. Kurt was unpredictable, to say the least. “A week or so before, uh, that. He warned me about the Master. He’s been protecting me since the beginning, you know. That may seem unnecessary, given my advantages, but I think it’s sweet, and it really speaks to his character,” she said, smiling dreamily.

Kurt cleared his throat sharply, and she remembered where she was and what they’d just been talking about. Perhaps waxing poetic about her -- whatever Finn was -- wasn’t exactly polite, since Kurt had lost his -- whatever Blaine was. “Sorry,” she said, blushing.

Kurt shrugged. Then he paused, and caught her eye meaningfully. “You say he’s been protecting you from the start. He was watching over you?”

“Yes,” Rachel said, and she felt a quiet thrill at the knowledge of how much Finn cared.

“So how come he couldn’t have saved Blaine?”

Rachel took a breath to answer defensively, but the look on Kurt’s face stopped her short. He really wanted to know. He was one of her best friends, so he deserved that much, but when she thought about it, she honestly could not come up with a reason that wasn’t “Blaine isn’t me.”

She disentangled herself from Kurt, rising to her feet and starting to pace. Wringing her hands, she said, “I don’t have time to -- to think about that, Kurt, I’m sorry but I don’t. There are bigger things going on right now, and I need to be fully in the present. I can’t dwell on mistakes I’ve made in the past. I can’t -- I just can’t, not now, I need to be --”

The Master.

God, she would die. She would die if they raised her, if Quinn raised her, she would die, she would die like she did the last time. Poof. No more Rachel. No more shining future, just a cold unloved grave and the bitter smell of lost potential.

“Rachel?” Kurt said. He got to his feet, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Kurt,” Rachel stuttered. “I’m fine. I will be fine. I just need to -- to get my head back in the game.”

“Is this about the Master?” he asked, and she started to shake her head no, then bit her lip and nodded. Kurt sighed, and pulled her into a hug. “You’re right,” he said into her hair, “you are going to be fine. You’re Rachel Berry. You’re an unstoppable force, remember? Believe me, I’d hate to be anyone who stood in your way.”

“I don’t know if I can do this, Kurt,” she whispered. “I died.”

“And we brought you back,” he said, rubbing her back soothingly. “CPR ring a bell? Someday you’re going to have to tell me if that makes Mercedes your first kiss.”

“Kurt!” Rachel said, blushing, and she smacked him on the arm as she pulled away. She was smiling, though. Kurt smiled back, and finished, “We may not be Slayers, but we’ve got your back. Sue and Quinn aren’t going to lay a finger on you, not if we can help it.”

She yanked him into another hug, gripping him tightly. A moment later, Mercedes sauntered in, wiping at her mouth with an obviously deliberate attempt to look casual. Her acting was sub-par, and Kurt’s smirk indicated that he, too, had realized immediately what had happened, but Rachel decided she’d let it slide, at least for now. She couldn’t be more grateful to Mercedes. Or to Kurt.

“That was one awfully long water break, missy,” Kurt said. Mercedes shrugged, trying to keep a straight face, but a grin broke through. Rachel giggled at them both, squeezing Kurt’s shoulder.

That awful mantra was still repeating through her head, but it wasn’t as insistent now, and she wasn’t getting the same level of pre-show jitters as she had been before. “All right,” Rachel said, “let’s beat this thing.”

(Continued here.)