fic: this is how an angel dies II
Title: this is how an angel dies
Rating: M
Length: 3500
Spoilers: 4x08
Summary: A gift for the Quinntana fic exchange. Prompt: Quinntana in a zombie apocalypse.
Part I
July 1, 2015
The combination of overindulgence and jet lag are taking more out of me than usual. My flight was delayed, it took over an hour to clear customs and by the time I got to the hotel, I’d been traveling for over 24 hours. My head has been aching since boarding and I found myself unable to get even the slightest amount of sleep on the plane. I’m putting that down as the reason I almost took the flight attendant’s head off when she spilled a drink in my lap. I just want to eat something and manage to keep it down and then sleep for a full eight hours.
-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D.
____
The door reopens before she can raise her hand to knock again.
“Are you dying?”
Quinn wonders how bad she must look for that to even be a legitimate question. She shakes her head no and Santana steps back from the door and gestures her in with a jerk of her head. The TV is off and the only light is coming from the hall fixture. Santana glances back over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
“You can sleep on the couch. Or not. I don’t really care. It’s too late to deal with anything right now.”
Quinn nods. She’s tired and sleeping seems like a great idea. Not only is she doubtful Santana will believe her but also there’s no way she’ll be able to explain in any coherent fashion right now. Santana reaches into the hall closet and tosses a pillow and a blanket haphazardly in the direction of the couch.
“We’ll deal in the morning. If you manage not to just disappear.”
___
The next morning she opens her eyes to Santana looming over her. She’s perched on the coffee table clearly waiting for Quinn to wake up. The light coming through the windows is still faint so it must be pretty early. She wonders how long Santana’s been sitting there.
“Speak.”
Quinn forgot how snappy Santana can be. Resisting the urge to respond to rudeness in kind, she sits up, pushes her hair out of her face and tells the truth.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
“No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.” The venom in her voice is the first clue that something’s wrong. Santana isn’t just aloof anymore. She’s angry.
“What do you mean?”
Rolling one’s eyes that hard should physically be painful. Possibly as painful as the force with which Santana slaps the newspaper onto Quinn’s lap.
“I knew there’d be a day when you finally went psycho bitch. I just didn’t think you’d take me down with you. “
The headline reads “Prominent professor found shot in lab.” It catalogues the Dr. Phillips’ gunshot wounds, the other signs of foul play, and that the police are currently looking for his lab assistants as persons of interest. Namely, Quinn and Mark. This was bad.
“Now, do you want to explain what the fuck you did and more importantly why the fuck you’re here?”
There’s a feeling you get when you stand up too fast and it feels like the floor is moving. Quinn experiences that magnified several times. She keeps trying to focus on the words printed on the page but the folded newspaper is shaking wildly in her hands. She tightens her grip, her clammy hands wrinkling it even further. Even though she’s no longer really reading, everything has narrowed down to those tiny black characters that spell nothing but bad news. Words stop being words and become letters, which in turn become shapes that mean nothing over the pounding of her heart in her chest. The sound is nearly deafening to her ears. She vaguely registers that Santana is still waiting for an answer, but when she opens her mouth it’s only to take in large mouthfuls of air that do nothing to assuage the feeling that she’s drowning without any water. It feels like a combination of a sauna and trying to breathe through a damp towel. No matter how wide she opens her mouth there isn’t enough air.
Quinn is seconds away from vomiting, passing out, or both when Santana shifts to sit beside her. Her body is warm and it’s too much. It’s like the inside of an oven and she’s sweating and she can’t breathe. Quinn shoots to her feet and backs away stumbling into the couch before her back collides with the wall. She doesn’t realize she’s still gripping the paper until Santana gently pries it from her fingers.
“Quinn.” Santana’s voice is still sharp but there is an underlying note of distress that isn’t helping. Though her voice wavers, her hands are firm when she grasps Quinn’s in between them and squeezes.
“Please don’t make me have to take you to the hospital. They could probably get me for aiding and abetting even if you die.”
Objectively that’s an awful thing to say but it snaps her out of it enough to make eye contact with Santana and listen to what she’s saying.
“Quinn. Focus. It’ll be alright.” They stand there against the living room wall until Quinn stops panting in audible rasps and her heart beats in time with the brushes of Santana’s fingers. As if sensing she’s calmer, Santana shifts to circle her wrist and pulls her back to the couch. She hesitates for a moment but slides her arm across Quinn’s shoulders and pulls so Quinn is slightly leaning against her.
“It’s OK. Tell me what happened.”
Once Quinn has calmed down enough to pull herself upright, Santana immediately shifts out of her personal space. She folds her arms across her chest and waits for Quinn to start talking. Oddly enough, Quinn wishes Santana would at least have held her hand for a little while longer. That thought is uncomfortable so she glances around the room until her eyes fall back on that damn newspaper. The words start trickling out of her, disjointed and hushed starting from the lab to the police station and to Santana’s front door. When she’s finished, there isn’t a sound in the apartment save for a light drizzle against the window.
“Do you believe me?”
Santana stares at her like she’s trying to figure something out. Most likely if she needs to have Quinn put in 72 hour lockdown.
“I believe tha you believe what you said. I still don’t know what that means.”
“Santana. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
“Yeah well, too late. I’m sure you don’t mean to do a lot of the shit you do. Go in my closet and grab whatever you want and take a shower because you still look like shit and I still need coffee.”
When Quinn comes back from the shower in a pair of faded Cheerio sweats and one of the few shirts in Santana’s closet that actually covers her cleavage, there is a mug of coffee on the counter. She doesn’t see any cream or sugar even though she knows Santana takes copious amounts of both in hers. She’s not sure if Santana is still angry about whatever she’s angry about or if she just remembered Quinn prefers her coffee black. Either way, she’s nowhere to be found. Quinn considers leaving, but there’s really nowhere to go. She’s standing in the kitchen feeling uncomfortable when her phone pings. It’s still in the bottom of her bag along with the vial and the note that Mark gave her. She pulls those out as well. The text is from Santana.
At work. stay. trust me.
It’s only five words, but it’s all she has right now. That and a name.
When Santana returns, Quinn’s on the couch with her VAIO and a notepad on her lap. She shrugs out of a maroon barista apron. Quinn didn’t think Santana had it in her to work in a service industry, but she catches herself before saying it aloud. There’s probably a lot Quinn doesn’t know about her anymore. Santana leans a hip against the couch and peers over at her notes.
“What are you doing?”
“The last thing Mark told me was to find a Dr. S Ahmed. So I’m trying to narrow it down.”
“Never considered just how many Dr. Ahmed's would be based in Manhattan?” The mocking laughter is a preferable to her earlier hostility. Sardonic Santana is much easier to deal with.
“ActualIy, I found her. She’s a professor at Columbia specializing in infectious diseases. Mark got his Ph.D there.”
“Resourceful as ever Q. How exactly is this going to help with your impending murder trial and conviction?”
“I don’t know, but it’s better than sitting here and letting you bitch at me all day.”
“True. Also orange isn’t your color at all. Let’s go.”
___
Dr. Ahmed is an short middle-aged woman with a broad smile more suited to a kindergarten teacher than someone who spends a large amount of time in a lab. Once they’d mention Mark, the smile fades and she becomes all business. Quinn leaves out some of the more gruesome details but apparently news of Dr. Phillips’ death has traveled fast enough for her to hear about it. Quinn shows her the note and the vial, hoping for any information that will make the past twenty-four hours make sense. Unfortunately Dr. Ahmed has no answers.
“I honestly have no idea why Mark would send you to me. Unless, it has something to do with this.” She holds the vial up to the light for closer scrutiny.
“Tell you what; your description of his erratic behavior does sound like it could be a side effect of a virus. I’ll rush this through all the standard tests and see what we find.”
Contrary to every police procedural ever, it takes just over an hour to run the tests. Bureaucracy really does complicate everything. Santana has wandered off somewhere, probably to go smoke a cigarette. She does that now. Something else that Quinn didn’t know. After a while, Dr. Ahmed rushes in in looking mildly panicked.
“Quinn, where did you get this sample?”
“From Mark. He gave it to me yesterday. Did you find out why everyone was acting strangely? Is it a virus?”
“No. It’s much worse. This sample contained both strains of African trypanosomiasis and prions associated with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but they’re reacting with each other in such a way that makes each individual disease look like the common cold. The rate at which the cells are degenerating is alarming. Dr. Ahmed trails off. She looks like she’s trying valiantly to stay calm. “If anyone has been exposed to this, it has all the markings of a highly aggressive epidemic. I’m going to need to contact the CDC.”
She turns away from Quinn and picks up the phone, presumably to contact the Center for Disease Control. They put her on hold, so Quinn waits awkwardly, wondering how exactly this situation could get any worse.
“Quinn.” Santana’s harsh whisper breaks her out of her thoughts, she slips out into the hallway. Santana waits for her to clear the door before stalking off, pulling Quinn behind her.
“We need to leave. Now.”
“What? Why? We’re finally getting answers.”
“Yeah and we’re also going to get booked. The good doctor told her receptionist to call the police about two minutes ago.”
They end up taking the emergency stairs and Santana moves surprisingly fast considering the heels on the boots she’s wearing. Running from the police isn’t as exciting as Quinn would have expected it to be. There’s no chase and no sirens but they do turn the corner just as what Santana points out as an unmarked car pulls in front of the building. The cab ride back is silent except for the driver faintly singing along to the radio up front. It’s not until they're standing in her living room that Santana explodes.
“Shit. What the fuck is even with you white chicks always bringing drama into my life?”
“You know, your casual racism stopped being funny in high school.”
“You know what else stopped being funny in high school? Me cleaning up your mess.”
“Cut it, Santana. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, why don’t you enlighten me?” She takes seat on the edge of the table and smiles up at Quinn with a faux earnestness that makes Quinn want to hit her.
“The vial I had was blood. Probably Mark’s or Dr. Phillips’. We were working on a kind of vaccine for this disease called African sleeping sickness. It spreads via insect bite and gets really nasty.” Santana face twists into a mix of fear and disgust as she lists the symptoms.
“The sample also contained a really virulent strain of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. From what Dr. Ahmed told me, its more aggressive than any of the variants we’ve ever seen-“
“Wait”, Santana interupts her. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that like Mad Cow?”
“Yes. But the human form is called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
“Whatever.” Santana rolls her eyes. “Isn’t that the shit that makes cows go on wild rampages?”
Quinn shrugs a little. Santana has a way of sensationalizing facts, but she’s not really wrong enough that it’s worth correcting her again. She looks a lot calmer than Quinn feels at the moment.
“So you were working on a disease that essentially eats people’s brains and that somehow combined with a disease that could turns them into mindless attack cows.”
“Well when you put it like that” Quinn rolls her eyes. Santana watches too many science fiction movies.
“So. How’s this going to play out?”
“The CDC will take care of it. Then someone should find Mark and I’ll just wait until everything is cleared up.”
Santana nods. “OK. Well. Guess you’ll be hanging around for a while until you get off the America’s most wanted list.” She points to her room again. “Get changed, we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“To see an old friend.”
___
The old friend turns out to be Rachel. She doesn’t seem too surprised to see Santana and is unfazed when she brushes past her and into the apartment. She does look taken aback to see Quinn. When Rachel steps back to let her in, it feels a little bit like high school. Rachel has always had the unique ability to make her feel guilty and then angry for feeling guilty. She’s picturing all those ignored emails and unused train passes. She feels like she just kicked a puppy. Predictably, she can also feel herself growing defensive as each awkward second passes.
“It’s good to see you, Rachel.”
Rachel recovers quickly. “It’s lovely to see you as well., Quinn. Especially after all these years.”
“You know, I just wanted to get back in touch with old friends.” Quinn puts on her best cheerleader smile as she says it but Rachel doesn’t seem to buy it. Everything about this feels like every awkward conversation she had with Rachel once she stopped being an outright bitch and they became ‘sort of’ friends. Rachel keeps glancing back and forth between Quinn and Santana like she expects something to happen. The buzz of the blender seems to distract her enough to follow Santana into the kitchen where she’s pulling a bottle of tequila out of the freezer.
“You know, it’s considered polite to let people know when you can’t make scheduled appointments. We were supposed to meet for lunch today.”
Santana shrugs and keeps mixing what Quinn thinks are margaritas. “It’s Quinn’s fault.”
“You could have called though.”
Santana sets a drink in front of Rachel and heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “Jeez, Rachel. I’m sorry. My treat next time.”
The apartment is nice and spacious, with an open design. It’s leaps and bounds nicer than the one Rachel shared with Kurt freshman year .The kitchen is in a corner partially isolated by a breakfast bar. The main living area houses a TV and an overstuffed leather couch.
Rachel comes back into the room with a second drink and hands it to Quinn.
“Your arrival was unexpected, but is still cause for celebration. I’ve been looking for an excuse to let my hair down and Santana’s been looking for an excuse to open the tequila she bought for my birthday, so. Cheers!”
Quinn takes the drink. Despite the grave situation, she’s unable to quite say no to Rachel’s enthusiasm.
“Cheers.” she echoes taking a small sip. It’s way too strong, but Santana made it so that’s to be expected.
____
It’s weird sitting here making small talk considering everything that has happened in the past 48 hours. Almost as weird as the fact that Santana is close friends with Rachel Berry. It’s clear they’ve hung out enough that Rachel’s no longer perpetually offended by the things that come out of Santana’s mouth. Tonight however, Santana is mostly silent. Rachel has no problem making up for it though. Filling awkward silence with inane chatter has always been one of her strong suits. Quinn can feel dark eyes on her every few minutes. One of the few times she catches Santana glowering at her, she just purses her lips and knocks back her drink. Quinn has seen enough today to tell Santana isn’t actually the bitch she used to be, especially not to Rachel. Which means her bad attitude is being explicitly saved for Quinn.
The handle of tequila is nearly gone by the time Rachel shakily stands and announces that she’s going to bed.
“So I guess you two can share the sofa bed?” She looks really tired and is rubbing her eyes as she rises to pull it out.
Santana shrugs and takes the glasses back into the kitchen. Rachel is either ignoring the tension or doesn’t notice, but once she’s in her room with the door closed, Quinn confronts Santana, stepping directly into her path and raising an eyebrow in challenge. She knows Santana is way to stubborn to back down from a fight.
“You’ve been acting like a grade A bitch all day. I know I’ve inconvenienced you, but these were extenuating circumstances.”
“They’re also not my problem.”
“Then what is your damn problem?” Quinn has had about enough of this passive aggressive bullshit. Quinn grabs the collar of Santana’s jacket and yanks her to her toes.
“My problem? You show up out of the fucking blue and bring your fucking issues to me. If this shit isn’t cleared up I could potentially go jail for a selfish bitch that doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.”
The rancor in Santana’s voice shocks Quinn into letting her go. “Where is this even coming from? Please, Santana tell me whatever petty reason you've decided to hate me for today.”
Santana deflates a little and she tips her chin downward so Quinn can no longer see her eyes. “I don't hate you.”
“Really? Because this is reminding me of the last time we spoke. We both know how well that ended. I don’t think Rachel would approve of violence in her apartment. So just spit it out. Why are you acting like this?”
“Because you fucking suck.” She pushes Quinn away from her and raises her hands between them. They clench into fists before Santana visibly forces the tension from her body.
“You had just enough time to swoop in and drop your wisdom on me, but not enough time to actually be my friend.”
Wait. Is Santana crying?
“I hated school, I hated Kentucky, I hated being alone. I didn’t have Brittany. She had Sam though. I needed someone. I needed you.”
Santana is pacing now and she’s not even be yelling at Quinn anymore, just pouring out all the feelings that have been kept simmering inside.
“You were supposed to be my best friend. But you were too busy screwing some professor to give a shit and then you just disappeared. Well fucking played Quinn. I guess all that shit you said about caring about us was just to get what you wanted.”
Quinn doesn’t know what to say. She really never knows what to say when Santana reveals that she actually has emotions under that prickly exterior. It’s usually enough to just be there but this time Santana is hurt because of her. The guilt seeing Rachel generated is nothing compared to the icy lump settling in her stomach. This is her ault and she doesn’t know how to make it better.
“Santana, I-”
“No, just stop. It is what it is. You said it yourself. Growing up is about losing things. Let’s just go to sleep and hope everything is back to normal tomorrow. I’m going to uh…crash with Rachel.”
Santana swipes her forearm across her cheeks as if it isn’t going to make her runny mascara worse. She crosses her arms in a way Quinn recognizes. It means keep away. With a final glance, Santana leaves her by the couch alone.
Rating: M
Length: 3500
Spoilers: 4x08
Summary: A gift for the Quinntana fic exchange. Prompt: Quinntana in a zombie apocalypse.
Part I
July 1, 2015
The combination of overindulgence and jet lag are taking more out of me than usual. My flight was delayed, it took over an hour to clear customs and by the time I got to the hotel, I’d been traveling for over 24 hours. My head has been aching since boarding and I found myself unable to get even the slightest amount of sleep on the plane. I’m putting that down as the reason I almost took the flight attendant’s head off when she spilled a drink in my lap. I just want to eat something and manage to keep it down and then sleep for a full eight hours.
-From the personal journal of Dr. Lee Phillips Ph.D.
____
The door reopens before she can raise her hand to knock again.
“Are you dying?”
Quinn wonders how bad she must look for that to even be a legitimate question. She shakes her head no and Santana steps back from the door and gestures her in with a jerk of her head. The TV is off and the only light is coming from the hall fixture. Santana glances back over her shoulder as she leaves the room.
“You can sleep on the couch. Or not. I don’t really care. It’s too late to deal with anything right now.”
Quinn nods. She’s tired and sleeping seems like a great idea. Not only is she doubtful Santana will believe her but also there’s no way she’ll be able to explain in any coherent fashion right now. Santana reaches into the hall closet and tosses a pillow and a blanket haphazardly in the direction of the couch.
“We’ll deal in the morning. If you manage not to just disappear.”
___
The next morning she opens her eyes to Santana looming over her. She’s perched on the coffee table clearly waiting for Quinn to wake up. The light coming through the windows is still faint so it must be pretty early. She wonders how long Santana’s been sitting there.
“Speak.”
Quinn forgot how snappy Santana can be. Resisting the urge to respond to rudeness in kind, she sits up, pushes her hair out of her face and tells the truth.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
“No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.” The venom in her voice is the first clue that something’s wrong. Santana isn’t just aloof anymore. She’s angry.
“What do you mean?”
Rolling one’s eyes that hard should physically be painful. Possibly as painful as the force with which Santana slaps the newspaper onto Quinn’s lap.
“I knew there’d be a day when you finally went psycho bitch. I just didn’t think you’d take me down with you. “
The headline reads “Prominent professor found shot in lab.” It catalogues the Dr. Phillips’ gunshot wounds, the other signs of foul play, and that the police are currently looking for his lab assistants as persons of interest. Namely, Quinn and Mark. This was bad.
“Now, do you want to explain what the fuck you did and more importantly why the fuck you’re here?”
There’s a feeling you get when you stand up too fast and it feels like the floor is moving. Quinn experiences that magnified several times. She keeps trying to focus on the words printed on the page but the folded newspaper is shaking wildly in her hands. She tightens her grip, her clammy hands wrinkling it even further. Even though she’s no longer really reading, everything has narrowed down to those tiny black characters that spell nothing but bad news. Words stop being words and become letters, which in turn become shapes that mean nothing over the pounding of her heart in her chest. The sound is nearly deafening to her ears. She vaguely registers that Santana is still waiting for an answer, but when she opens her mouth it’s only to take in large mouthfuls of air that do nothing to assuage the feeling that she’s drowning without any water. It feels like a combination of a sauna and trying to breathe through a damp towel. No matter how wide she opens her mouth there isn’t enough air.
Quinn is seconds away from vomiting, passing out, or both when Santana shifts to sit beside her. Her body is warm and it’s too much. It’s like the inside of an oven and she’s sweating and she can’t breathe. Quinn shoots to her feet and backs away stumbling into the couch before her back collides with the wall. She doesn’t realize she’s still gripping the paper until Santana gently pries it from her fingers.
“Quinn.” Santana’s voice is still sharp but there is an underlying note of distress that isn’t helping. Though her voice wavers, her hands are firm when she grasps Quinn’s in between them and squeezes.
“Please don’t make me have to take you to the hospital. They could probably get me for aiding and abetting even if you die.”
Objectively that’s an awful thing to say but it snaps her out of it enough to make eye contact with Santana and listen to what she’s saying.
“Quinn. Focus. It’ll be alright.” They stand there against the living room wall until Quinn stops panting in audible rasps and her heart beats in time with the brushes of Santana’s fingers. As if sensing she’s calmer, Santana shifts to circle her wrist and pulls her back to the couch. She hesitates for a moment but slides her arm across Quinn’s shoulders and pulls so Quinn is slightly leaning against her.
“It’s OK. Tell me what happened.”
Once Quinn has calmed down enough to pull herself upright, Santana immediately shifts out of her personal space. She folds her arms across her chest and waits for Quinn to start talking. Oddly enough, Quinn wishes Santana would at least have held her hand for a little while longer. That thought is uncomfortable so she glances around the room until her eyes fall back on that damn newspaper. The words start trickling out of her, disjointed and hushed starting from the lab to the police station and to Santana’s front door. When she’s finished, there isn’t a sound in the apartment save for a light drizzle against the window.
“Do you believe me?”
Santana stares at her like she’s trying to figure something out. Most likely if she needs to have Quinn put in 72 hour lockdown.
“I believe tha you believe what you said. I still don’t know what that means.”
“Santana. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
“Yeah well, too late. I’m sure you don’t mean to do a lot of the shit you do. Go in my closet and grab whatever you want and take a shower because you still look like shit and I still need coffee.”
When Quinn comes back from the shower in a pair of faded Cheerio sweats and one of the few shirts in Santana’s closet that actually covers her cleavage, there is a mug of coffee on the counter. She doesn’t see any cream or sugar even though she knows Santana takes copious amounts of both in hers. She’s not sure if Santana is still angry about whatever she’s angry about or if she just remembered Quinn prefers her coffee black. Either way, she’s nowhere to be found. Quinn considers leaving, but there’s really nowhere to go. She’s standing in the kitchen feeling uncomfortable when her phone pings. It’s still in the bottom of her bag along with the vial and the note that Mark gave her. She pulls those out as well. The text is from Santana.
At work. stay. trust me.
It’s only five words, but it’s all she has right now. That and a name.
When Santana returns, Quinn’s on the couch with her VAIO and a notepad on her lap. She shrugs out of a maroon barista apron. Quinn didn’t think Santana had it in her to work in a service industry, but she catches herself before saying it aloud. There’s probably a lot Quinn doesn’t know about her anymore. Santana leans a hip against the couch and peers over at her notes.
“What are you doing?”
“The last thing Mark told me was to find a Dr. S Ahmed. So I’m trying to narrow it down.”
“Never considered just how many Dr. Ahmed's would be based in Manhattan?” The mocking laughter is a preferable to her earlier hostility. Sardonic Santana is much easier to deal with.
“ActualIy, I found her. She’s a professor at Columbia specializing in infectious diseases. Mark got his Ph.D there.”
“Resourceful as ever Q. How exactly is this going to help with your impending murder trial and conviction?”
“I don’t know, but it’s better than sitting here and letting you bitch at me all day.”
“True. Also orange isn’t your color at all. Let’s go.”
___
Dr. Ahmed is an short middle-aged woman with a broad smile more suited to a kindergarten teacher than someone who spends a large amount of time in a lab. Once they’d mention Mark, the smile fades and she becomes all business. Quinn leaves out some of the more gruesome details but apparently news of Dr. Phillips’ death has traveled fast enough for her to hear about it. Quinn shows her the note and the vial, hoping for any information that will make the past twenty-four hours make sense. Unfortunately Dr. Ahmed has no answers.
“I honestly have no idea why Mark would send you to me. Unless, it has something to do with this.” She holds the vial up to the light for closer scrutiny.
“Tell you what; your description of his erratic behavior does sound like it could be a side effect of a virus. I’ll rush this through all the standard tests and see what we find.”
Contrary to every police procedural ever, it takes just over an hour to run the tests. Bureaucracy really does complicate everything. Santana has wandered off somewhere, probably to go smoke a cigarette. She does that now. Something else that Quinn didn’t know. After a while, Dr. Ahmed rushes in in looking mildly panicked.
“Quinn, where did you get this sample?”
“From Mark. He gave it to me yesterday. Did you find out why everyone was acting strangely? Is it a virus?”
“No. It’s much worse. This sample contained both strains of African trypanosomiasis and prions associated with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but they’re reacting with each other in such a way that makes each individual disease look like the common cold. The rate at which the cells are degenerating is alarming. Dr. Ahmed trails off. She looks like she’s trying valiantly to stay calm. “If anyone has been exposed to this, it has all the markings of a highly aggressive epidemic. I’m going to need to contact the CDC.”
She turns away from Quinn and picks up the phone, presumably to contact the Center for Disease Control. They put her on hold, so Quinn waits awkwardly, wondering how exactly this situation could get any worse.
“Quinn.” Santana’s harsh whisper breaks her out of her thoughts, she slips out into the hallway. Santana waits for her to clear the door before stalking off, pulling Quinn behind her.
“We need to leave. Now.”
“What? Why? We’re finally getting answers.”
“Yeah and we’re also going to get booked. The good doctor told her receptionist to call the police about two minutes ago.”
They end up taking the emergency stairs and Santana moves surprisingly fast considering the heels on the boots she’s wearing. Running from the police isn’t as exciting as Quinn would have expected it to be. There’s no chase and no sirens but they do turn the corner just as what Santana points out as an unmarked car pulls in front of the building. The cab ride back is silent except for the driver faintly singing along to the radio up front. It’s not until they're standing in her living room that Santana explodes.
“Shit. What the fuck is even with you white chicks always bringing drama into my life?”
“You know, your casual racism stopped being funny in high school.”
“You know what else stopped being funny in high school? Me cleaning up your mess.”
“Cut it, Santana. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, why don’t you enlighten me?” She takes seat on the edge of the table and smiles up at Quinn with a faux earnestness that makes Quinn want to hit her.
“The vial I had was blood. Probably Mark’s or Dr. Phillips’. We were working on a kind of vaccine for this disease called African sleeping sickness. It spreads via insect bite and gets really nasty.” Santana face twists into a mix of fear and disgust as she lists the symptoms.
“The sample also contained a really virulent strain of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. From what Dr. Ahmed told me, its more aggressive than any of the variants we’ve ever seen-“
“Wait”, Santana interupts her. “I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that like Mad Cow?”
“Yes. But the human form is called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”
“Whatever.” Santana rolls her eyes. “Isn’t that the shit that makes cows go on wild rampages?”
Quinn shrugs a little. Santana has a way of sensationalizing facts, but she’s not really wrong enough that it’s worth correcting her again. She looks a lot calmer than Quinn feels at the moment.
“So you were working on a disease that essentially eats people’s brains and that somehow combined with a disease that could turns them into mindless attack cows.”
“Well when you put it like that” Quinn rolls her eyes. Santana watches too many science fiction movies.
“So. How’s this going to play out?”
“The CDC will take care of it. Then someone should find Mark and I’ll just wait until everything is cleared up.”
Santana nods. “OK. Well. Guess you’ll be hanging around for a while until you get off the America’s most wanted list.” She points to her room again. “Get changed, we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“To see an old friend.”
___
The old friend turns out to be Rachel. She doesn’t seem too surprised to see Santana and is unfazed when she brushes past her and into the apartment. She does look taken aback to see Quinn. When Rachel steps back to let her in, it feels a little bit like high school. Rachel has always had the unique ability to make her feel guilty and then angry for feeling guilty. She’s picturing all those ignored emails and unused train passes. She feels like she just kicked a puppy. Predictably, she can also feel herself growing defensive as each awkward second passes.
“It’s good to see you, Rachel.”
Rachel recovers quickly. “It’s lovely to see you as well., Quinn. Especially after all these years.”
“You know, I just wanted to get back in touch with old friends.” Quinn puts on her best cheerleader smile as she says it but Rachel doesn’t seem to buy it. Everything about this feels like every awkward conversation she had with Rachel once she stopped being an outright bitch and they became ‘sort of’ friends. Rachel keeps glancing back and forth between Quinn and Santana like she expects something to happen. The buzz of the blender seems to distract her enough to follow Santana into the kitchen where she’s pulling a bottle of tequila out of the freezer.
“You know, it’s considered polite to let people know when you can’t make scheduled appointments. We were supposed to meet for lunch today.”
Santana shrugs and keeps mixing what Quinn thinks are margaritas. “It’s Quinn’s fault.”
“You could have called though.”
Santana sets a drink in front of Rachel and heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “Jeez, Rachel. I’m sorry. My treat next time.”
The apartment is nice and spacious, with an open design. It’s leaps and bounds nicer than the one Rachel shared with Kurt freshman year .The kitchen is in a corner partially isolated by a breakfast bar. The main living area houses a TV and an overstuffed leather couch.
Rachel comes back into the room with a second drink and hands it to Quinn.
“Your arrival was unexpected, but is still cause for celebration. I’ve been looking for an excuse to let my hair down and Santana’s been looking for an excuse to open the tequila she bought for my birthday, so. Cheers!”
Quinn takes the drink. Despite the grave situation, she’s unable to quite say no to Rachel’s enthusiasm.
“Cheers.” she echoes taking a small sip. It’s way too strong, but Santana made it so that’s to be expected.
____
It’s weird sitting here making small talk considering everything that has happened in the past 48 hours. Almost as weird as the fact that Santana is close friends with Rachel Berry. It’s clear they’ve hung out enough that Rachel’s no longer perpetually offended by the things that come out of Santana’s mouth. Tonight however, Santana is mostly silent. Rachel has no problem making up for it though. Filling awkward silence with inane chatter has always been one of her strong suits. Quinn can feel dark eyes on her every few minutes. One of the few times she catches Santana glowering at her, she just purses her lips and knocks back her drink. Quinn has seen enough today to tell Santana isn’t actually the bitch she used to be, especially not to Rachel. Which means her bad attitude is being explicitly saved for Quinn.
The handle of tequila is nearly gone by the time Rachel shakily stands and announces that she’s going to bed.
“So I guess you two can share the sofa bed?” She looks really tired and is rubbing her eyes as she rises to pull it out.
Santana shrugs and takes the glasses back into the kitchen. Rachel is either ignoring the tension or doesn’t notice, but once she’s in her room with the door closed, Quinn confronts Santana, stepping directly into her path and raising an eyebrow in challenge. She knows Santana is way to stubborn to back down from a fight.
“You’ve been acting like a grade A bitch all day. I know I’ve inconvenienced you, but these were extenuating circumstances.”
“They’re also not my problem.”
“Then what is your damn problem?” Quinn has had about enough of this passive aggressive bullshit. Quinn grabs the collar of Santana’s jacket and yanks her to her toes.
“My problem? You show up out of the fucking blue and bring your fucking issues to me. If this shit isn’t cleared up I could potentially go jail for a selfish bitch that doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.”
The rancor in Santana’s voice shocks Quinn into letting her go. “Where is this even coming from? Please, Santana tell me whatever petty reason you've decided to hate me for today.”
Santana deflates a little and she tips her chin downward so Quinn can no longer see her eyes. “I don't hate you.”
“Really? Because this is reminding me of the last time we spoke. We both know how well that ended. I don’t think Rachel would approve of violence in her apartment. So just spit it out. Why are you acting like this?”
“Because you fucking suck.” She pushes Quinn away from her and raises her hands between them. They clench into fists before Santana visibly forces the tension from her body.
“You had just enough time to swoop in and drop your wisdom on me, but not enough time to actually be my friend.”
Wait. Is Santana crying?
“I hated school, I hated Kentucky, I hated being alone. I didn’t have Brittany. She had Sam though. I needed someone. I needed you.”
Santana is pacing now and she’s not even be yelling at Quinn anymore, just pouring out all the feelings that have been kept simmering inside.
“You were supposed to be my best friend. But you were too busy screwing some professor to give a shit and then you just disappeared. Well fucking played Quinn. I guess all that shit you said about caring about us was just to get what you wanted.”
Quinn doesn’t know what to say. She really never knows what to say when Santana reveals that she actually has emotions under that prickly exterior. It’s usually enough to just be there but this time Santana is hurt because of her. The guilt seeing Rachel generated is nothing compared to the icy lump settling in her stomach. This is her ault and she doesn’t know how to make it better.
“Santana, I-”
“No, just stop. It is what it is. You said it yourself. Growing up is about losing things. Let’s just go to sleep and hope everything is back to normal tomorrow. I’m going to uh…crash with Rachel.”
Santana swipes her forearm across her cheeks as if it isn’t going to make her runny mascara worse. She crosses her arms in a way Quinn recognizes. It means keep away. With a final glance, Santana leaves her by the couch alone.