Summary: Quinn goes missing and everyone around her is left to deal with the aftermath.
Pairings: Faberry, Pezberry friendship.
Warning: This could get pretty dark and will no doubt be full of angst. Read at your own discretion.
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"Quinn Fabray was reported missing last night."
You can see Mr. Schuester leaning against the piano at the front of the music room, his hair unbrushed and the skin of his eyes dark with lack of sleep. His lips move to continue that conversation, but all you hear is your chest beating a little too fast and Santana's foot tapping against the back of your chair. She can't hear him either, you realize as she squeezes the fabric of her cheerleading uniform in her fists. Her eyes are on him but she's as far gone as you.
Quinn Fabray is missing.
With a sickening drop of your stomach, you remember seeing her last night as you drove home from ballet rehearsal. It was just a flash of blonde hair that didn't register until later, but she was on the bridge above the only river that moved quick enough to require safety signs. Quinn was pressed into the railing, leaning over the edge, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as all the information settles in your head. At the time, you'd assumed she was on one of her walks, trying to shake off whatever realities were clinging to her. But now…
She's missing. They can't find her.
"Dwarf… Rachel."
You turn in your chair to see Santana's concerned eyes fixed on yours, and she motions to the now-empty room around you. Everyone else left while you were drowning under Mr. Schuester's choked words.
"Can I walk you to class or something?" Santana squirms in her seat and makes a face, trying to show you how uncomfortable she is. "You don't look like you can manage on your own right now."
She's never been nice to you before, but this seems like a peace offering. "I wasn't planning on going back to class, but thank-you nonetheless."
She's quick to stand as you're on your feet, and a hand grabs your forearm. "Please. Let me take you to wherever you're going."
This isn't for your sake but hers. She can't actually say it, but she needs to be with someone right now. She needs you to keep her safe. So you nod and extend a hand and lead her out to the parking lot, where you admit you don't know where you're going.
"My house is only a fifteen-minute walk," she offers, and in the back of your head it seems like an invitation to join the devil in hell, but people can change. Or more specifically, situations like these can change people.
Quinn's missing and you join Santana, the cheerleader who's made your life an actual hell, in a silent walk to her house.
(~/~/~)
There's no one home at the Lopez residence. You fill the quiet with your careful footsteps and note the bare beige walls where in your house there's a mural of photos. The lights flicker on with a sigh, or maybe you imagine it, but the house seems just as lonely as the Latina who stands in the front hall with her arms wrapped around her torso. She gives you a nod and turns to the kitchen, which up until now you never realized is the heart of every house.
"My parents work a lot," is her response to the general emptiness of the fridge, safe a few takeout containers.
You find the kettle and in the cupboard above the stove, there's a box of earl grey tea. You're not sure if she's a tea-drinker, but you make two cups anyway and she looks grateful for the steaming mug in front of her. Someone once told you a cup of tea will fix even the biggest problems. You're not sure of the accuracy of that statement, but Santana gets the Number 1 Dad mug and you find yourself with Daddy's Little Girl.
"Will they find her?" she asks in a voice meant for a China doll, too soft and delicate for this cheerleader. She's deflated since hearing the news. She's smaller.
You focus on the tiny stick-girl adorning the side of your mug. "She's only been missing for a day, so the odds are much greater and definitely in her favour."
It doesn't calm either of you, but it fills the silence for a few minutes before fizzling out and leaving you with her searching eyes.
"Did she say anything to you?" Santana's speaking to you, but her voice drops to her tea, and it seems like a plea to whatever gods reside in the depths of her beverage.
Did she say anything to you? Thinking back, every conversation from the first chance meeting in the high school washroom to the last rushed words she whispered to you three nights before seems to have a hidden meaning. "I've got to go" now sounds like a suicide note.
The floor falls away from under you and the only thing keeping you in that chair is the anchor that's rooted itself in your stomach. "Santana… You don't think she… You're her best friend. Was she depressed?"
"I don't know, Berry. You were screwing her." It's not exactly condescending, but the way she says it makes you feel guilty.
"Don't say were," you say hastily. "And it's not exactly something that comes up during pillow talk."
The quiet creeps up again, this time shrouding you in a hushed chill that not even your tea can help. It's gone cold, anyway. While you watched Santana's hands fold around her mug, the heat left your cup. Maybe you should stick it in the microwave, but you don't even want to finish this damn cup of tea. It's not helping.
Quinn's still missing.
"She would have told me, right? If she was depressed? If she was thinking about… anything?" You don't want to ask but you need to, just to hear someone else say it.
Santana surprises you by cupping her hands over yours and giving you a squeeze. "Let's think logistically, Berry. Did she leave you a note? Of any kind."
"I haven't found anything," you reply. "Do I want to find anything?"
"A note could have two outcomes. One, she writes it to say she's running away. Two, she writes it to really say goodbye. She loves you, so she'd most likely leave it in your room or somewhere you'd find it first."
Colour returns to her face as she has something solid to hold in her mind. It's better than trying to close her fists around thin air like you've both been doing since glee club at lunch. You like Santana better when she has light behind her eyes. Even if she's tossing a slushie in your face, at least she's not a hollow shell.
Again, you don't want to ask, but you have to. "And what if there's no note?"
"Maybe she's realized she doesn't have to stop walking at the Welcome to Lima: Population Losers sign," Santana says with a shrug and the beginning of a smirk.
It hurts to think Quinn could just leave this town without you, but it's a hell of a lot easier to stomach than the possibility of her journey ending in that cold river.
You can't bring yourself to say the s-word, the one meaning she jumped, and neither can Santana. But that afternoon and the following night it's all that will echo throughout your head. That's when you'll wonder if hollow is really such a bad thing. At least pure empty shell means no nightmares of finding Quinn's battered corpse. You'd rather think of nothing than this.