i'll fight for you until i win (you're inked upon my very skin)
chapter two
The Fabray stable was comprised of some of the best fighters in the country, all young, talented and hungry for success. Their names were spoken of with great respect by everyone involved in the underground: Finn Hudson, Joe Hart, Blaine Anderson, Matt Rutherford, Sunshine Corazon, Dottie Kazatori. In fact, Santana's just-announced opponent, Rosario Cruz, was the latest addition to the Fabray team, having spurned an offer from Holly Holiday and her partner in Holliday's Gym, Shelby Corcoran, to join the Holliday stable. No doubt it was the well known fact that the deep pockets of Russell Fabray had provided his stable with the best of everything - including a state of the art training facility outfitted with all the best, latest equipment and run by a coaching and support staff that was second to none in the cage fighting world - that had made the choice a simple one for the much-sought after Ms. Cruz. Even the head trainer, Cooter Menkins, was a former champion fighter himself, and everyone under him, from the chefs to the nutritionists to the physical therapists, had to be the absolute best in the business, because only the best would do for Russell Fabray's team.
But most sharp-eyed watchers of the underground cage fighting scene - the ones who went to all the matches and paid attention to what was really going on - felt that the key to the Fabray stable's success was its young manager, Quinn Fabray, a beautiful blonde who had graduated from Yale just a year ago. She was seen as the heir apparent to the Fabray empire, answering only to her older sister and her father, a rising star on the business side of the sport. She rarely gave interviews, but those few who had been lucky enough to speak with her found that she was intelligent as she was gorgeous, possessed of a keen wit and a complete inability to suffer fools gladly. More than one questioner had found himself leveled by her icy hazel-eyed stare, especially in combination with her signature single eyebrow raise. When that eyebrow went up, danger was clearly in the air; it was impossible for the recipient of that tell-tale gaze not to squirm in his seat and look for the nearest exit.
Quinn had been told she was beautiful all her life, but she wanted to be known for more than that. She wanted to be respected for her mind, not lusted after for her looks. Unfortunately, the head trainer had either not gotten that memo, or he simply didn't care. Every time she was in the Fabray training facility – the location of which was so secret even the fighters didn't know where it was, since they were blindfolded before the bus even started moving – Cooter Menkins' eyes rarely met hers. This was because they seemed to be glued to her ass at all times. To say she found this annoying was an understatement of epic proportions. She hated the man, but whenever she voiced her complaints about his behavior to her father, they were rebuffed because he was "a winner," in his words, and winning was all that mattered in the world of Russell Fabray. It made her seethe with anger, but she had no choice but to clench her jaw and restrain herself from tearing him a new one every time he leered at her.
"What?" she hissed at the man, tearing her eyes from the training schedule on the clipboard in her hand, as she felt her skin crawling with the familiar sensation of him undressing her with his eyes.
"Nothin', darlin'. Just admiring how f-i-n-e fine you look today," he drawled, lips curling up in that unpleasant smile she had come to despise. "You all dressed up 'cause you're meetin' someone special after work? I surely hope not."
She closed her eyes and counted to ten silently, willing the rage she felt not to show up in her face. Seriously, would it kill him to not be an asshole for just one day?
"Not that it's any business of yours, but no. I'm not actually dressed any differently than I am any other day. You just don't notice because you're always too busy imagining what's under my clothes."
"Hey, it's not a sin to admire a beautiful young lady. Y'know, you really need to loosen up and learn how to take a compliment. That's the whole problem with women these days. They don't know how to have fun anymore."
"I suspect that your definition of fun, Mr. Menkins, is vastly different from mine. And that of every other woman on the planet," Quinn shot back coolly.
Unfazed, the coach replied, "Aw, call me Cooter." The tone of his voice bordered on lascivious. It made Quinn want to take a shower. She repressed the urge to shudder.
"I most certainly will not." Wanting to change the subject quickly, she returned her eyes to the paper on the clipboard. "Now, what's this about...tattoos? Would you care to explain why Hudson, Anderson and Hart are taking time out of their daily training regimens to be getting tattoos?"
"Your dad n' your sister didn't tell you, darlin'? Gosh, I thought they told you everything," Menkins mocked. He didn't even try to keep the glee he felt at her embarrassment from showing in the smug grin on his face.
"Clearly, that's not the case." Quinn was seriously irritated now. How was she supposed to manage this team if information was being kept from her? "Now, are you going to answer my question, or are you just going to stand there looking dumb?"
"Hell if I know. The order came from your daddy. Frannie told me not more n' an hour ago, before you got here."
Frannie. Of course. "Mr. Menkins, I was here and in my office before you were. I know that because all the time scans come directly to my computer, and you were late."
"Yeah, well, she called me and told me to put that on the schedule." The coach paled, and his expression turned serious. "Said it was a direct offer from your daddy, didn't explain more n' that. And I didn't ask. You probably know better n' me that it's never a good idea to ask Mr. Fabray to explain something. Whatever he wants done, gets done, no questions asked. That's rule number one around here."
Quinn sighed. "Okay – so, do you know where they're getting these tattoos done?"
"Nope, 'fraid not. I just know that they're s'posed to be outside and waiting at ten o'clock sharp. A car's going to come and pick 'em up, and then they're gonna get inked. What's the big deal, anyway? It's probably just a team unity sorta thing, like they're gonna get a nifty Team Fabray logo on their arm, shoulder, wherever. Nothin' to worry about."
That was where Quinn disagreed; where her father was concerned, there was always something to worry about. Ever since her and Frannie's mother had disappeared while Quinn was still in college, the man had changed. He had become even more distant, darker and colder even than he had been when she was a girl. Now she barely recognized him. It seemed that there was nothing left in him of the father she had loved as a child.
"All right, then. Ten o'clock?" She looked at her watch. "That's fifteen minutes from now. Where are Hudson, Anderson and Hart?"
"I expect they're in the locker room getting ready to go. You want to talk to 'em first?"
Quinn pursed her lips, thinking. Damn, she hated surprises. And she had so many other things to do.
"No," she said after a few moments. "Just make sure they're out there at ten. My father will be very unhappy if they're late. You know how he hates it when people are late." She fixed the coach with a withering glare, eyebrow raised, daring him.
Cooter Menkins was many things, but completely stupid he was not. Recognizing the reference to his own tardiness in Quinn's pointed statement, he cleared his throat, straightened his stance and responded lowly, "Yes, ma'am. I'll make sure they're right on time."
"Good. Well, then, I think we're done here. The next time I see you, you should have everyone who's not getting themselves mutilated this morning in the ring and sparring."
Hearing the dismissal in her voice, he turned on his heel and exited without a word. When he was out of her sight, she allowed herself a small smile. She would take her victories where she could get them.
Blaine Anderson was not in the best of moods as he zipped up his Team Fabray hooded sweat jacket and shouldered his duffel bag. Ever since he had started fighting, his long time boyfriend had been after him to quit. He knew it was only because Kurt cared about him, that he was worried that he would get seriously hurt in the ring; but ever since the throat surgery had taken the dream of performing on Broadway from him, Blaine had found solace in the only other thing he felt as passionate about – fighting. Granted, he'd thought it would be in the boxing ring and not in the cage, but strangely, it turned out that the cage fighting world was far more accepting of openly gay competitors than the boxing world.
Kurt had been getting more and more insistent about his objections, pleading with him almost every night to stop fighting and consider doing something, anything, else with his life. It was becoming more and more difficult for them to deal with the strain this placed on their relationship, and last night, things had finally come to a head.
"Kurt, please," he'd said as he lowered still sore, aching body into one of the kitchen chairs, hoping to forestall the nightly conflict. "It's been a long day, and I would really, really like to just relax on the couch, watch TV and not fight with you tonight."
Kurt stood before him with his arms crossed, his eyes flashing with anger. Even though this argument would likely end the same way as all the ones before, but no matter – he was going to have his say regardless. That was the way he'd always been, and he wasn't about to change now.
"No. No, Blaine. This – this – thing you've been doing...it's gone far enough. It's gone too far. You know what kind of person Russell Fabray is. Nothing good can come of being associated with anything he's involved in. I can't – I won't – just stand by and watch you get hurt, or crippled, or worse, just to put more money in that man's pocket. I'm begging you, Blaine. You'e the love of my life. I can't bear to watch you destroy yourself over something that wasn't your fault. The surgery -"
" - was a long time ago, Kurt. Why can't you just accept that this is my dream now? Why can't you just be happy that I found something else I love almost as much as I loved singing? I'm making great money now, more than I ever did when I was trying to get on Broadway, finally able to pull my weight around here with the rent and the bills and all that, and now you – you want to take another dream away from me?"
Blaine would never be able to forget the stricken look on Kurt's face as he'd said these words. Words he could never take back. Words that he knew were the final straw for the person he'd loved since high school.
"Blaine...I love you, but...if you can't see how harmful – how insanely dangerous - this is...if you can't stop for my sake, if not your own...then -" Kurt had said softly, choking back tears as he took back the hand he'd placed over Blaine's, "Then I can't be with you. We can't be together anymore. I'm sorry."
"No, Kurt – wait, please. I – I didn't mean what I said. You have to know that."
"Maybe you didn't mean it. Or maybe you did. Either way, you're not going to stop doing what you're doing. You're going to keep letting yourself get beaten to a bloody pulp because you think you're not worth anything if you can't sing. Well, that's your choice. And it's my choice not to watch it."
Blaine had sat there at the kitchen table with his mouth working as if to speak, but no words could find their way out. He'd wanted desperately to call Kurt back from the bedroom to which he'd marched, wanted to tell him to stop throwing his clothes and other things into the designer travel bag Blaine had bought him before their last vacation together, beg him not to leave -
"I'm going to stay with Mercedes for a while," Kurt had said tonelessly a few minutes later when he returned to the kitchen, letting the bag drop at his feet. His pale complexion had looked almost ghostly in the glow of the overhead kitchen light. Blaine's heart broke at the sad, defeated expression Kurt had worn as he'd buckled the belt on his long purple coat. "You can stay here and figure out where you're going to go next. Maybe one of your fighting friends has an extra room or a doghouse or something."
He'd slung the bag wearily over his shoulder then, burdened by far more than the weight of its contents.
"Good luck, Blaine. If you ever figure yourself out and decide you don't want to get killed in front of a live audience, call me."
A sad smile and a few steps later, he was out the door, and it was over. Kurt was gone.
He should have paid attention to the small voice in his head that sounded a lot like Kurt when it registered unease at Coach Menkins' announcement about the tattoos. Like everyone else, he'd heard the rumors of Russell Fabray's involvement in less than savory activities, but discounted them as the jealous ramblings of those who had never achieved a fraction of the success that Russell had. But when he'd heard the nervous hesitation in the head trainer's voice as he told them why they wouldn't be training as usual, something registered as being very much off.
Now as he sat with Finn and Joe in the back seat of the luxurious town car that sped along towards their mysterious destination, he wondered if maybe there was something to those rumors. He didn't know why, exactly, but he felt strange about the whole thing. Maybe it was just leftover grief from the breakup with Kurt. He did feel as though he was walking around in something of a fog after not sleeping very well; it was the first time he'd slept alone in a long time. Perhaps he just wasn't thinking clearly.
Finn and Joe certainly didn't seem bothered by anything at all. Finn wore the same goofy half-smile on his face that he always did, joking around with the usually solemn, introspective Joe, who had tied his long dreadlocks up today. Music wafted softly into the air through the car stereo speakers, one catchy pop tune after another. In another time, not so long ago, he would have been singing along with each one. Now he was silent, lost in his thoughts, watching the scenery flash by without really seeing it.
The others had sensed his gloom earlier, but didn't approach him; they figured that if he wanted to talk about it, he would say something. And knowing him as they did, they didn't expect it.
When the car finally came to a stop, they were shocked to see where they had been brought. The name atop the black wrought iron gate announced it clearly.
Fabray.
"Holy crap," Finn whispered. Joe's eyes bulged.
Blaine felt his unease intensify as the small voice in his head that sounded like Kurt began to scream incoherently. Why were they all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, at the grand yet strangely forbidding Fabray estate? Weren't there, like, a million tattoo studios in the city? What the hell was going on?
The nameless driver, in his crisply pressed dark suit and mirrored sunglasses, opened the door next to Blaine. He leaned in and showed unnervingly white teeth in a predatory smile.
"Okay, boys," the driver said. His voice sounded like gravel under tires. "We've arrived. Mr. Fabray is waiting for you. Let's go."
"Does anyone else have a bad feeling about this?" Joe asked.
No one answered. None was needed.