Hume's Law states: Reality cannot be deduced exclusively from depictions of it.
Disclaimer: Own not. Profit not. Sue not.
AN: This features Special Agent Quinn Fabray, Special Agent Ryan Peterson, and Superstar Rachel Berry. If you haven't read "Littlewood's Law" you might be confused.
"Thank you sir. Sorry for the delay and have a good night," Quinn said pleasantly and waved yet another car on past their check point. She looked across the roof over at Ryan who merely puffed out a visible sigh in the chilly night air and rolled his eyes.
They'd been at it for hours, and Quinn was starting to think all their hard work was going to get them this evening were a couple of runny noses and a few frozen fingers. But she smiled over at the grumpy man, tugged her black beanie more firmly down over her ears, and waved the next vehicle forward.
It had started snowing. At first, she only saw a few flakes drifting lazily through her field of vision but then…
"Oh yeah, that's just fantastic," Ryan grumbled, glaring up at the sky as if that would make the steady stream of thick flakes stop. There was a reason she was the one speaking to drivers this evening while her partner was relegated to additional light support and security.
She planned to tease him about it later.
Quinn smothered a chuckle with her gloved hand and stepped up to the dark sedan that pulled up between them. She held her badge up to the window and the driver slowly rolled it down, confusion heavy in his tight smile and worried eyes.
Her stomach twisted as she studied his features, "Hi, I'm Agent Fabray with the FBI, I just need a second of your time." She made sure to smile reassuringly while she directed the beam of her flashlight at her other hand and glanced at the sketch she was holding then back at him. "Where are you headed?"
"FBI?" he asked, and her stomach knotted again as her eyes locked onto his. His right eyelid was twitching, his smile too nice, forced.
Fake.
"Yes sir, that's correct." She nodded. "What brings you down here tonight?"
"Just on my way home," he answered, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, strangling it. "Can I ask what's going on?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not at liberty to say." She checked the sketch one more time.
And again, double, triple checked that face, those eyes…
The twist in her stomach turned into a full blown ache, every muscle in her body coiled, waiting.
She sought Ryan's eyes through the passenger window; saw the muscle in his jaw jump when he deciphered the look she was covertly sending his way.
Quinn cleared her throat and casually pulled the light up, not quite in the driver's eyes but close enough to make him uncomfortable. "Sir, we're going to need to get into your tru – "
The driver, an average looking man with light brown hair, a 5 o clock shadow, and nervous brown eyes – the killer they'd been hunting across the Eastern Coast, panicked. He stomped down on the gas pedal and tore away from them, racing through their check point.
"Fuck," Quinn hissed and pulled her Glock free, already chasing after the vehicle she had no hope of catching on foot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryan alongside her, matching service pistol trained on the retreating car. "Stop!" She shouted in frustration, though she knew it was futile.
Yelling 'freeze' at suspects rarely had the desired effect.
As though he'd read her mind Ryan opened fire at the same time she did – bullets bounced off the old car and shattered the rear window and windshield. She knew what was coming next, having seen it too many times in her career. The sedan veered hard to the left, tires squealing, as their suspect tried to avoid being shot, and ran his getaway vehicle straight through a fence and into a parked car.
Unlike what you would often see in the movies, nothing exploded – for that Quinn was exceedingly grateful.
Explosions were messy.
And just like she expected the driver side door was thrown open and the driver spilled out onto the black top. He was up and scrambling away from them in seconds, running for his life with two agents hot on his heels.
"Ryan, trunk!" she barked and pushed herself to run just that much faster after her quarry. He was a slippery little bastard and she'd be damned if he got away from her again because he outran her.
Fat fucking chance.
He slammed into another chain link fence, just like the one he'd already driven through and flew up and over it. She mentally thanked one Sue Sylvester for all her time on the Cheerios as she jumped onto the swaying fence panel and climbed it like she was born to. Her athleticism had always come in handy – something she happily rubbed in Ryan's face whenever he tried to tease her for being a High School cheerleader. Climbing fences and jumping off buildings hadn't been part of her otherwise rigorous training regimen when she was younger but all those back hand springs, push-ups, and wind sprints did help in the long run. She hit the ground with a grunt, rolled into a crouch and took off in a dead sprint.
He had a good lead, but she still saw him slam his way through a door into a run-down building.
Why, why are there always decrepit warehouses or creepy buildings around? Quinn groaned internally and slowed her pace to cautiously slip in after him. It was too dark to see, even with the moonlight sifting eerily through the roughly boarded windows. She whipped her flashlight back out and set her right wrist against her left, effectively pointing the beam forward and giving her a platform for her firing hand.
"Q," her radio crackled from her hip. "It's definitely our guy, we got someone in his trunk – alive."
Relief flooded her briefly, but she couldn't allow herself much time to relish the fact that they'd saved a life. Her senses were all on edge, straining for the slightest hint of her prey. She could hear everything like it was amplified, feeling jittery and hypersensitive with the adrenaline spike from the chase.
Somewhere, hiding in the shadows, a killer lurked.
She had to presume he was armed. A gun, a knife, hell a crowbar or a broken piece of wood with a rusty nail, anything in this man's hands would only add to the danger she was in.
She could very easily die.
Re-gripping her pistol to steady her hands Quinn sucked in a deep breath and surrendered to her training. Muscle memory quickly took over, her body slowed further still, her steps became more careful and controlled, one in front of the other, gliding smoothly to allow her weapon to remain stable. She moved as a single, graceful unit – a beautiful and deadly thing. No bounce in her shoulders or head, focused on her task, arms strong but giving to prepare for the recoil should she be forced to fire. She followed proper room clearing procedures, lead the way with her Glock, kept her eyes trained on the three white dots in a line, the middle her front site post. Her point of aim. She knew she was more than a good shot, Quinn Fabray was a surgeon when it came down to putting rounds on target. No one on her team was more precise, more frighteningly accurate. It was something that plagued her in her off hours but in those moments when she was stalking a predator, she had never been more thankful for her disturbing talent.
She rotated her torso to check a corner and a hand flashed out of the dark, too fast for her to fully avoid it. Awkwardly, she tried to angle her body away and searing pain shot up her arm. An angry yell tore free from her throat and she felt the heat and sting of blood, but she didn't have time to dwell on it.
Didn't have time.
She threw her body back, away from the knife slashing again, and immediately moved to change her position in this fight from defense to offense.
Her Glock was gone, somewhere behind her; she'd dropped it and her flashlight with the strike to her forearm. But unarmed didn't mean defenseless – and it was a mistake to think so. Unarmed combatives had been her second favorite course at the FBI Academy, right behind marksmanship. Yes she wasn't as physically impressive as her male coworkers, she wasn't as powerful but she was fast and she was mean.
He came at her again, trying for her throat. Expertly she weaved away from his wild stabbing, blocked his downward strike and followed up with one of her own. Pain jolted up her hand when her knuckles impacted his nose but she ignored it, grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into her knee. She shoved at him forcefully, ramming them both into a wall. He pushed back, freeing enough space to thrust the knife forward again, she could see the wicked curve of the gut-hook heading straight for her gut and moved instinctively in tandem with her training. Her hands placed themselves against his arm and redirected his hand back into his own chest. His own momentum drove the weapon deep, sliding in with barely any resistance at all, all the way to the hilt.
It was over.
He coughed and she hurried back away from him, scooped up her pistol with blood slicked hands and trained it back on his face as he slumped down the wall. She could sort of see, with the light from her fallen flashlight, the way his eyes had glazed over.
"Quinn!"
She jumped at the sound of Ryan's voice but stayed where she was, gasping for air, weapon trained unwaveringly at the dead man in front of her. Ryan came rushing in but staggered to a stop as his flashlight beam hit the body on the floor. She heard the splattering sounds of her own blood hitting the ground as it fell from her wrist.
"You okay, boss?"
"No," she choked out, and sat down, hard.
Again her unwanted talent had saved her life by helping her take another's.
Ryan stepped up and set his fingers against the other mans neck, but Quinn already knew just like he did. She'd seen that look before, she was all too familiar with it now.
Fabray had just killed another one.
She heard the murmur of Ryan speaking into his radio, but she wasn't really listening to his words. Her eyes were locked on the still open and sightless ones across from her, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and wondered what Ryan would think of her if she threw up. He startled her anew, suddenly appearing in her line of sight when he knelt down at her side and beamed his flashlight down at her arm. They winced simultaneously at the mess. The gash was not particularly deep but it was long. She would need stitches.
"Jesus, Q," Ryan muttered and clamped his hand down against as much of the cut as he could. "Next time you check the trunk and I'll be the hero."
She grunted softly and shook her head at his poor attempt at humor.
I'm no hero, she wanted to say.
Soon more voices began to clamor in their vicinity, announcing the arrival of their back-up.
Quinn wished she felt relieved.
Hours later Quinn was safely at home and secure in the comforting arms of her bathtub. Reaching out she retrieved her short tumbler from beside her Glock where it rested on the toilet lid and took a long, burning sip of Makers Mark. She sighed heavily, set the glass back carefully, and dangled her freshly stitched and wrapped arm down the side of the tub, fingers trailing the cold tile of the floor. The hot water and sunflower scented bubbles never failed to make her feel better – even after being sliced open by a hunting knife. The whiskey was just the cherry on top, the alcohol making her feel like her mind was wrapped up in a fuzzy fleece blanket and warmed her stomach. She let her head fall back against the lip of the tub and closed her eyes, trying to let go of her day, ignore the ache in her arm, and give in to the effects of her favorite 'my day sucked' beverage.
She felt the door open before she heard it – a rush of cold air that just barely stirred her hair, followed by the subtle creak of the hinges. Her eyes snapped open and she hurled her body into action, moving so violently that water slopped over the edge of the tub and splashed across the floor. Her sudsy hand smacked wildly against the toilet lid, searching for and finally finding the pistol grip of her Glock. She whipped back around, ears ringing and muted, trained that center dot between the eyes of her intruder and started to squeeze.
It all happened in seconds.
Her brain registered dark hair and frightened brown eyes just in time.
Rachel.
"Fuck!" she cried and almost dropped her pistol in surprise.
Rachel stood in the doorway, eyes huge on an ashen tanned face, "Quinn?"
"I – sorry, Rachel, god." Quinn put her firearm away and clapped her hands over her eyes with a groan. "Holy shit."
"Are you okay?" her girlfriend asked timidly, still standing in the doorway.
"Am I okay?" She tried to laugh but the sound got strangled half-way out her throat, I'm not the one that just almost got shot. "Come here," she pleaded and stretched out her arm towards the smaller woman.
The brunette guardedly stepped in, fingers in knots against her stomach, and perched on the side of the tub. "I'm sorry I scared you, I called your name when I came in – and I knocked."
"It's not your fault, I'm just a bit jumpy," Quinn assured her and closed her hand over both of Rachel's, stilling the motion of her fingers. Rachel looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once before her attention turned to the now wet bandages covering Quinn's arm from wrist to elbow.
"What happened?"
She sighed, letting out a deep breath through her nose, Rachel never could stop herself from asking and Quinn really hated not being able to say anything. "It's superficial," she promised, dodging the real question but still offering an answer. It never sat well with her – how good she'd gotten at that little game.
For once Rachel didn't press any further, she simply pulled one hand out from under Quinn's to lightly touch the injury, "It looks like it hurts."
"Only a little," she lied. "I thought you had a show tonight?"
"Do you even know what time it is?" Rachel asked, smirking a little as she visibly calmed down whilst stroking her fingers along the blondes forearm.
She frowned up at the Broadway diva, realizing she actually had no clue, and slumped back into her now half full and chilled bathwater. "I'm pretty sure I don't even know what day it is."
Rachel shook her head, but smiled as she brushed damp hair back behind her ear. Quinn leaned into the delicate touch and let her eyes close again. Seemingly encouraged by her reaction those fingers kept moving through her hair, tracing around the curve of her ear with each pass.
"I brought some movies." Rachel broke the easy silence. Quinn cracked open a single eye and moaned at the implication of 'some' movies.
"Rachel." She forced both eyes open and made herself sit up so they could have the conversation eye to eye. "I just wanted to take a bath, drink some whiskey, curl up on my couch and pass into a mini-coma watching my Looney Tunes dvd's."
"Please? I really want to watch these with you," she said softly and dragged her fingertips across the line of her collarbone. Quinn swallowed at the slightly ticklish and entirely unfair sensation.
She hesitated only a second longer, but she was already done for, "What are they?"
You're such a push over, her inner nag goaded.
Rachel smiled, kissed her cheek and hopped up from the tub. "I'll get you some clothes."
Quinn groaned again, quietly, as soon as Rachel was out of sight, and let her head drop heavily back against the tub.
"Also, I brought your favorite soup," an award winning voice called from down the hall.
She immediately perked up and pulled her weary body out of the tub.
Favorite soup always trumped total exhaustion.
TBC...