Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary, or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Tag to, "Dead Man Sliding," first aired, November 29th, 1996. Season 3, episode 10. AU. Pre-slash.
Warnings: Contents may be triggering to some. Deals with rape, and the aftermath of rape. There is also pre-slash and kissing.
"Hey, Q-Ball, you okay?" Rembrandt gives him a sympathetic look when Quinn shakes off the hand that he's reached out to help him up.
Quinn can't stand to be touched, and doesn't feel up to explaining why. He stands, brushes his jeans off, and offers his concerned friends - fellow sliders - a smile, hoping that they can't see the pain behind it.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he says, praying that something in his voice doesn't give him away, because he isn't fine, and doesn't know if he'll ever be fine again.
The crime-free, game-show world of LA, hadn't exactly been pleasant, or kind, to Quinn. The others had spent much of their time trying to figure out a way to clear his name for a crime that he, and apparently his double, hadn't committed. It had been crazy for all of them.
Quinn doesn't want Arturo to feel any worse than he already does for not getting him off in the first place. If Arturo knew the truth of what had really happened to Quinn while he'd been in jail, waiting for his execution, the man would never forgive himself.
They'd only just begun exploring the possibility of beginning a more physical relationship, finally admitting that there was an attraction between the both of them. It was still fragile yet, and Quinn was afraid that, if Arturo learned of what had happened to him, while on the previous world, the man would no longer want to consider starting anything even remotely romantic with him, now that he was what many would consider, 'damaged goods'.
The effects of the beatings, Quinn couldn't hide from his friends. The bruises littered his body, and though most of them were covered up by his clothing, there were a couple of visible bruises.
One bruise which stood out in vivid contrast to his pale skin, was on his neck, and there was another on his left cheek, and yet another on his right forearm - the fingers of the guard who'd grabbed him were clearly visible.
Arturo had expressed a silent rage when he'd seen the marks that were covered by Quinn's shirt, not saying anything, but nodding, and kissing some of the deepest marks. Quinn hadn't let the man see any of the other marks that had been left on him below his belt buckle, just as he hadn't let Wade, or Rembrandt see the marks he'd let Arturo see. Some things were better kept private. And, the ones that his friends could see, were bad enough.
The guards had been good about that, not making any marks on him which would be visible on television, and makeup had been used to cover-up the few that were visible above the collar of the ugly, orange jumper.
But, those bruises hadn't been the worst of it. No, the worst of what had happened to Quinn, while he awaited his execution, was something that he couldn't tell any of them, not even Arturo. It was something that he refused to tell even himself.
When he'd jumped off that cliff, after the vortex had formed, Quinn hadn't really been thinking of anything other than getting away from that twisted universe. He hadn't known for sure that it would work, that they wouldn't be killed sliding in that way. Yet, it was a risk that he'd been willing to take, for himself, and for the others.
A small part of him had known that it would work, had trusted the science of it. There was a much bigger part of him though, that was thinking only of getting away.
Away from that world and it's crazy, fixed game that exploited people's baser instincts and desires for the sensational.
Away from the hands, the handcuffs, the jeers - the feel of them on top of him, pinning him down. The feel of hopelessness and terror.
Away from the dark, and the pain - the feel of being ripped apart at the seams.
And so, after they'd slid, and Quinn had discovered that they were being taped, he'd acted on instinct, marching across the street, and right into the house, tearing the tape out of its recording device with barely a glance at the person he was taking it from, other than to note that she'd been green.
Then, he'd taken off at a run, not caring if the others followed him or not. There was a part of him that hoped they wouldn't follow him, even as a part of him longed for them to do exactly that, because he didn't want to be alone.
He ran, and ran until he couldn't run any more, and then he'd collapsed on the ground, gasping and panting for air, lungs burning. It was a welcome sensation, because it took Quinn's mind off of what had happened to him on that other world, where people had been white and black, and yet wicked and cruel.
Though he's free now, Quinn can still feel their hands, their breath - hot and moist on the back of his neck. It makes him sick to his stomach. He's not free, will never be truly free.
He can still hear them, taunting him - Such a pretty boy, ain't you Mallory. Escaped justice so many times, but not this time. That's it, pretty boy, beg. You know you want it. Beg for it.
His stomach twists, and he convulses. Quinn falls to his knees, vomiting. He tries not to tremble, tries not to jerk away from the hands when they descend upon him, because he knows, at least on an intellectual level, that these are the hands of his friends, and they aren't going to hurt him.
"Mr. Mallory," Arturo's voice is soft so that only Quinn can hear him. "Clearly you are not fine. Why didn't you tell us that you were unwell?"
There's recrimination in the man's deep voice, and Quinn shakes his head, closing his eye when the action makes him dizzy.
"What hurts, Quinn?" Wade asks, her voice filled with worry. He can feel her hand on his shoulder, and it aches.
When his stomach's emptied, Quinn sits, and backs away from his friends, not caring what it makes him look like. He places his back against a boulder, and looks at his feet.
"I'm fine, really," he says, hoping that the others won't be able to see how badly he's shaking, and that they won't call him on his lie. "It was a wild slide, just made me dizzy is all."
"No, you're not," Arturo says, much to Quinn's unease. The professor has always been able to read him, something that, up until now, Quinn had found comforting, and endearing.
Arturo opens his mouth, as though he's going to say something else, but then he closes it again, and pats Quinn on the knee. Giving the knee a quick squeeze, Arturo frowns, slightly, but doesn't say anything else.
Quinn holds his breath, and struggles to get his heartbeat under control. Though, normally, he'd welcome Arturo's touch, now it just brings back horrible memories of his recent time spent in confinement.
Forced to his knees. Begging for mercy - for common human decency, to be treated like a human being and not an animal. Tears mingling with the blood on the inside of his lips from when his faced had been shoved, none too gently, into the bars of the cell.
The other prisoners had watched, and even cheered, or turned their backs, remaining silent about what was happening just a few cells down. Quinn had begged for them to stop, had tried to fight them off. His voice had grown hoarse from all the begging, and had eventually ceased working for him at all.
Quinn's knees had wept blood, torn on the cement as they slipped and slid along the rough surface. They'd ached from the prolonged kneeling, and the pressure applied to his lower back that kept him on his knees.
It felt like their brutal attack - there'd been three of them, one right after the other - had lasted forever, but, when they'd left, and the nurse, employed by the television station, had come to clean him up so that he'd be presentable for the show, he learned that the attack had lasted for a little over an hour and a half. He still had twelve hours of life left, before his slated execution.
The nurse had been impersonal and thorough, hadn't engaged him in any way, other than to tell him to turn this way or that. She'd cleaned him up, stitched up wounds that no one would else would ever see, and then given him two aspirin, "For the pain."
Quinn had spent the rest of the night - after visiting with his friends, and breaking the computer that had been taping their every word for all of America, maybe even the world, to see - tossing and turning, unable to truly sleep.
When the guards came for him again, sometime before dawn, Quinn had been dozing lightly, trying to forget what had happened, and what was about to happen to him in just a few short hours if his friends didn't find some way to get him out of this.
Quinn had let them take him without a fight. Fighting hadn't done anything for him the first time. It had only made things worse. Maybe, this time, if he didn't fight, it wouldn't hurt as much, and there wouldn't be as much of him for the station's nurse to patch up.
They'd drug him to a stall two doors down, a prize for a prisoner who'd been cooperative. Someone not slated to be executed. Those slated for execution were treated like second-class citizens, as nothing more than chattel, or sport. It was just Quinn's misfortune that his double was infamous, that there were a number of people who wanted to see him suffer for getting away with committing crimes time and time again.
Quinn focused on a crack on the floor, imagining that it was a vortex into another world that he could escape through. When his fellow prisoner finally released him, Quinn's insides were quivering and burning. He couldn't stand on his own two feet, and he had to be dragged back to his own cell.
Broken and dirty. Ugly. Used goods.
"I'm fine," Quinn repeats, willfully forcing the dark memories away. He pounds his fiss into the dirt beside him, stirring it up into a red-brown cloud.
"Rembrandt, Wade," the professor's voice is clipped, and commanding, "please give Mr. Mallory and I a minute alone."
It isn't a request, and though the two protest, they do as Arturo asks, leaving Quinn alone with the man that he'd thought - before he was sullied during his visit to the last world - he might want to start a relationship with.
Quinn grabs a handful of the red dirt, watches as it slips through his fingers. He doesn't look at Arturo - can't. He's too ashamed of what happened to him, that he couldn't stop it.
"Mr. Mallory," the professor's voice is soft and serious. "I need you to look at me."
Quinn shakes his head, grabs another handful of the earth and focuses on the small granules of sand that fall through his fingers, like they're falling through cracks. If he can focus long and hard enough, he might be able to separate out one granule from the rest.
"Mallory..."
Quinn can feel the professor's eyes boring into him, but he refuses to look at the man, fearful of what the professor will see reflected in his eyes. The man has always been uncannily perceptive, and Quinn's afraid that the man will know what happened to him if he looks at him. He doesn't want to put Arturo through the same hell that he went through, knowing the man will blame himself, at least in part, for what happened to Quinn.
"Quinn, look at me," the professor's voice is compelling, and Quinn raises his eyes.
The sand slips through his fingers, like blood. There are unshed tears standing, like pools, in the professor's eyes. Quinn reads compassion, and a desire to understand, but no accusation, no pity. Quinn chokes on tears that he didn't even realize he was crying.
"Oh, Quinn."
The professor shakes his head, and he pulls Quinn close to him, ignoring the way that Quinn stiffens in his arms and tries to pull away. He embraces Quinn, and the dam of emotions that Quinn's been holding in, breaks, spills out over his mentor, the man that he's grown to love, through their travels through time and space, as more than just a friend.
Quinn weeps, face buried against Arturo's chest. The man says nothing, just holds him, and runs his fingers through Quinn's hair as Quinn sobs. He's grateful that the professor thought to send Wade and Rembrandt away, and hopes that they are too far away to hear his cries as he pours his pain, fear and shame out to the professor.
Quinn tells Arturo how, at first, he begged, and he fought. He tells him that he hadn't wanted any of it, and that he'd tried to stop them, but, in the end, he hadn't been strong enough to stop them.
"It was three against one, Quinn," Arturo says, his mouth pressed to Quinn's temple, as he shushes and reassures him.
"There's no doubt in my mind that you fought admirably well. You have nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. Nothing. What those monsters did to you. It was barbaric, and wrong, and you have nothing to be ashamed of." The man's voice cracks, and it opens the floodgates even wider, making it impossible for Quinn to stop crying.
Arturo doesn't let go of him, even though the front of his shirt is soaked through with Quinn's tears. Quinn pours out, not only the story of what happened while he was incarcerated on that world, but his heart, to the older man, leaving himself feeling broken, vulnerable and spent when the tears finally cease.
"I think I love you, professor, but I can understand if ... after what happened ... you want nothing to do with me. I'm broken, and a mess, and I don't think I'll ever be ready for..." Quinn whispers hoarsely, needing to tell Arturo how he feels, and give the man an out.
When Quinn hiccoughs and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, the professor gives him an indiscernible look which makes Quinn's insides squirm. Then, like nothing happened, Arturo smiles, and wipes Quinn's tears away with the pad of his thumb.
He leans forward and kisses him. It isn't a demanding kiss. It's gentle and slow, and it makes Quinn feel cherished - wanted even. When the professor ends the kiss, allowing both of them to catch their breath, Quinn searches his eyes for pity or a sign that the professor was just kissing him to make a point, but, there's nothing but love and understanding in the other man's eyes.
"Quinn, I'm sorry for what happened to you on that planet. Nothing I could say or do will ever erase what those men, those animals, did to you, but know this, Quinn Mallory, I will never see you as less of the young man that I've fallen in love with over the past three years." Arturo emphasizes his words with another kiss that makes Quinn's world tilt on its axis.
Quinn's heart lurches in his chest. He swallows, and blinks at the professor. The man's smiling at him, his hands, warm and soft, are cupped around Quinn's face, and the man kisses him again. It's a long, drawn-out, unhurried kiss that Quinn feels all the way down to the tips of his toes. His insides feel like they're filled with butterflies - something that he's heard about, but never experienced until now.
"Mr. Mallory," the professor swallows thickly, a look of horror on his face as though he's just become aware of his actions. "I'm sorry...I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have...not without your permission."
"Don't apologize," Quinn says, remembering with a shiver, the cruel hands from the other world, and how, not only hadn't they sought permission from him, but they hadn't stopped when he'd begged them to.
"Please don't apologize, not for this." Quinn presses his lips to the professor's, keeping his eyes locked on the man, silently begging him to understand, and to not pull away. The professor kisses back, and Quinn sighs in relief, garnering comfort from the physical contact, wanting it to last forever, knowing that it won't.
When the kiss ends, Quinn feels a little less like his world's about to fall apart or implode. He knows that he's not completely whole - that'll be a long time coming - but he knows that he won't have to face the horrors of what happened to him alone, and that the professor will help him through the worst of it, if Quinn will let him.
"Sometimes..." the professor breaks the easy silence that's settled between them. He clears his throat, his face growing pink with embarrassment, and Quinn wonders what the professor is going to say. He encourages him with a gentle shove.
"Sometimes, when ah, when comforting someone who's close to you, someone you, ah, care about, things can get..."
"Physical," Quinn blurts out the first word that pops into his head, and immediately feels himself start to blush, much as the professor is.
The professor pins him with a keen look, and shakes his head. "Complicated, Mallory," he says, raising an eyebrow. "The word I was looking for was, complicated."
He shoves at Quinn's knee, and they both look at each other - each as pink-faced as the other - and burst out laughing. They both clutch at their sides, tears running down their cheeks, and gasp out, "Physical."
Someone coughs nearby, and both men sober up almost instantly, sharing twin looks of mock horror, feeling very much like they've been caught with their hands in the cookie wipe the tears out of their eyes and look up at Wade and Rembrandt.
"Nice to see that you're feeling better, Quinn," Wade says with a slight pout.
Rembrandt elbows her, and she holds a hand out for Quinn, helping him to his feet while Rembrandt helps the professor to his. The musician winks at the professor, and Wade's refusing to look at Quinn. She's blushing, and Quinn realizes that his friends have seen far more than they should have.
"Just how much of that did you hear?" Quinn asks, feeling slightly mortified.
"Not much, just something about physical comfort," Rembrandt says. "You two should be more concerned about what we saw, than what we heard." He elbows the professor, and waggles his eyebrows.
"I uh, didn't hear anything, but," Wade takes a deep breath, and looks Quinn in the eye, "I saw you two kissing, and," she holds a hand up when Quinn opens his mouth to explain, though he doesn't have a clue what he's going to say.
"And, though I'm not sure what to think about it right now, I'm happy for you. It's hard to find love in this world." She chuckles at her poor choice of words and shakes her head. "It's hard to find love on any world, and, if you two have found love, who am I, who is anyone to stand in the way of that."
"I say vive la love," Rembrandt says. "But, the real reason we came over here wasn't to burst your love bubble, or rain on your love parade, or..."
"Mr. Brown, do get to the point, please," Arturo interrupts.
Rembrandt blinks at him, and Quinn stifles a laugh. "Uh, yeah, we're about to slide any minute now, thought you two would like to know, though, if you've found love.."
"Mr. Brown, if you value your life, do not finish that sentence," Arturo says, and he reaches for Quinn's hand.
Quinn looks at his three friends, laughing and joking, acting like they normally do, and he knows that, though his life will never be the same again, after what happened, he won't be alone in any of it. He squeezes the professor's hand, and shares a wink with the other man.
The vortex opens, he closes his eyes, and, hand still held tightly in Arturo's, he walks into the next world, leaving the last two worlds behind as best as he can.
Reviews would be greatly appreciated; please let me know if you liked this, especially as this is my first story for this fandom. Mahalo