Chapter 11: Quinn
She really should have had Artie be clearer about what sort of lead exactly he had on Brittany, because by this point her stomach has tightly coiled itself into something resembling a ball of yarn the size of a bowling ball. It is kind of uncomfortable, just sitting there in her stomach, oozing out worry and anxiety.
The minute he had said Brittany's name she had jumped into action. Brittany… Brittany might be…
No. She stops the thought right there. She isn't going to let herself get attached to this. That was why she had jumped to go see him and not simply passed along Santana's number. If the lead was a false one, if whatever this was wasn't real, Quinn could handle it. She would force herself to handle it. But she would not get Santana involved unless this was a for sure. She wouldn't do that to her.
Santana had kind of broken apart when Brittany left/disappeared – for Quinn it had always been left/disappeared, never one or the other, she refused to believe Brittany had up and left Santana, and didn't want to think about the repercussions of her disappearing because of some serial killer or whatnot. Santana was better now, moving on with her life, but Quinn wasn't going to take any chances. Santana had always been and would always be fragile when it came to any and all things relating to Brittany.
It hadn't been difficult, arranging to get herself from Tucson to Phoenix as fast as possible. Her boss had been very reasonable when Quinn had called her seconds after hanging up with Artie.
"I need a day or two off."
"What?"
"A friend of mine went missing a few years ago; we might have a lead on her. I need to…"
"Fabray, you were in here past midnight last night. Something's come up that is going to get you out of the office for more than a few hours? I'll gladly okay it. Take as long as you need, find your friend."
And that was that.
Shuffling around her schedule for the next few days had taken a little more work. She wasn't just going to up and leave; she was at least going to reschedule meetings and presentations and try to piss off as few people as possible. She wasn't just going to drop off the face of the earth, the way Brittany–
Reorganizing with her family had taken a little more juggling but hadn't been overly difficult. As soon as she told Mike that Artie had heard something about Brittany he had insisted in coming too, that he was friends with Brittany just as much as she was. But Quinn wanted as few people involved in this as possible, and someone had to stay home with Tyler; their toddler was not at the stage where he could be expected to deal with surprise two hour car rides without breaking their ear drums. Mike had finally agreed to stay behind, but he had sulked and made Quinn promise to tell him everything as soon as she knew what Artie knew.
There had also been the matter of booking a last minute room in a hotel in Phoenix; she wasn't just going to invite herself into staying on Artie's couch.
Assuming he even had a couch, what with the wheelchair. She hadn't seen Artie in a few years, had no idea if he was seeing anyone. If he was, then he probably had a couch. But if he was living alone, would he even bother with one?
Not important.
Quinn didn't actually get around leaving the house until late-afternoon, so the few hour drive north got her into town late enough that she wasn't going to try and meet up with him at his office, especially when she called back but only got his secretary. Either he'd call her back to meet for dinner, or she'd assume she could drop by in the morning.
The whole drive Quinn had tried blasting the radio in order to distract herself, but the anxiety ball of yarn grew in her stomach anyway, spiraling out and making her limbs and head feel heavy and weak, like she was full of sludgy syrup and not blood.
It seems like by the time she's walking up to Artie's office building the next morning, the nervousness of not knowing what is in store for her has coiled itself into a whole damn forest inside her. She's tense and jumpy and all around uneasy about what this meeting would tell her.
The receptionist on the main floor of the building points her towards the elevators and tells her to get off on the third floor. She doesn't feel out of place, in a power suit and blending in with everyone else, but standing in the elevator it feels like everyone is staring at her, like they know she's getting her hopes up about the possibility of finding someone who most in her life assumed would never come back. From where she was hiding, or from the dead. Everyone had their own ideas.
"You wanted the third floor?"
Quinn blinks, coming out of her thoughts. The elevator doors are open, the sign above illuminating a '3' and the man standing next to her is looking at her skeptically.
"Oh, right. Thanks."
She's a mess.
She knows she's a mess, but she can't do anything to fix it.
Even stepping off the elevator, it still feels like everyone is staring at her. Maybe she has 'I think I'm suffering an anxiety attack' stamped to her forehead. Usually it's a variation of 'I'm the bitch in charge here, move it' at the corporate office she works in, but she wouldn't be surprised if it had changed overnight.
Thank God it's her here and not Santana. If she's a mess, Santana would be…
She makes her way to the information desk, and the woman there waves at her to hold on a minute. Quinn fidgets, looking over one shoulder and then over the other. Her eyes roam her surroundings but she takes nothing in, it all just passes through her.
"Yes?" the woman asks as she taps her head piece, disconnecting her call and addressing Quinn.
"I'm looking for an Artie Abrams?"
"Mmm," the woman says, neither smiling nor frowning. "Lot of women in and out of his office this weekend."
Quinn hears but doesn't really process this. It's like she has tunnel vision, but for all her senses. If it doesn't relate directly to what she's here for, she's not consciously taking it in.
"Is he around?"
The woman nods and points, "Fourth door on the left."
Quinn doesn't even thank the woman, she just starts walking. The walkway seems to stretch on forever, doors spaced so far apart she can't even see the second one it's so far away from the first she passes. The bright fluorescent lights above her beat down, illuminating everything in a painfully harsh, bright light.
It's when the floor starts to shift under her that Quinn pauses for a second, leaning a palm against the wall. She takes five long deep breaths. Then two more. She can do this. Why is she freaking out? She can do this. This meeting doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean Brittany is alive, that Brittany's back. It just means Artie knows something. Maybe it's just a ticket stub or a taxi voucher she used the day she disappeared. Maybe it's only someone who saw someone that looked like Brittany sometime recently.
Maybe it's a body.
No. No, it isn't a body. Artie would have told her if they'd found Brittany's lifeless body in some stream or ditch somewhere. He would have warned her. The walls begin to swirl and mix together as another wave of nausea presses over her.
But it passes. Another three breaths and everything slowly rights itself. Her heart stops pounding quite so loud in her ears, the lights overhead are no longer too bright and stinging, the doors along the wall are evenly spaced and the hall no longer stretches on forever.
She takes a step and the ground sways a little, but she ignores it. She's Quinn Fabray. She can do this.
Artie's door is closed so she raps on it. His voice, still familiar after years of not hearing it, tells her to come inside.
She opens the door only a little, squeezing herself inside, searching for the familiar.
She finds him at his desk; in proper business attire and without the wheelchair gloves she had come to associate him with. His eyes find hers when he hears the door open and he smiles, bright and warm and assuring her it isn't bad news. His thick frame glasses look the same, hair still styled like she remembers it from a few years ago. He doesn't look haggard or hung over or without sleep. He looks like Artie.
Quinn is okay. She can do this.
"Hi."
"Quinn, hey."
She's staring at him, her eyes locked on his, daring him to rip the rug out from under her and say they've found a body. That's the worst possible option, the thing she dreads the most. She knows it's the thing Santana dreads the most. A call one day saying they've found Brittany, but that she isn't ever going to come home.
Her eyes hold his steady, waiting.
His smile at seeing her shifts, forming a tight line and Quinn braces herself, her body tensing as if preparing to fall.
Something moves, catching her eye. Her gaze slides from Artie slightly, and Quinn sees he wasn't alone in his office. There's someone sitting at his desk, their back to Quinn.
She interrupted him. She's panicking and she interrupted him and she should come back later when he's free and she isn't about to pop a blood vessel or go into cardiac arrest.
"Oh," she says, finding her voice. "Sorry, your secretary said I could come in, I didn't realize you had someone in…"
Her words taper off as the figure turns in their seat.
Holy shit.
Gooseflesh rises over her in a wave as the room starts spinning wildly, much faster than it was out in the hallway. She takes a half step back, shrinking towards the door.
She was preparing herself for just about every outcome except for this one.
Brittany.
Alive.
And sitting at Artie's desk, watching Quinn silently.
Brittany isn't just alive.
She's here.
"Quinn," Artie calls, trying to bring her back. He wheels out from behind his desk and edges closer to her, a tentative hand lifting towards her. "Quinn," his voice is gentle and coaxing her not to panic.
Too fucking late for that.
"Y…" she whispers, the sound falling from her mouth and cracking in the air, unfinished. "You…" she tries again. She isn't sure if the word is shaking or if her body is what's shaking. She knows her vision is shaking. And her hands are shaking. The floor might be shaking too, she isn't sure.
"Hi," Brittany says, smiling tentatively at her.
Artie shoots Brittany a look. Quinn can't figure out what it means. Quinn can't understand anything.
Brittany?
"Quinn?" Artie calls again and her eyes snap towards him, landing hard and sharp and making him flinch. She isn't sure what her face looks like, but it's probably a mix between her working bitch face and pure and absolute terror.
When he doesn't say anything more she looks back at Brittany, who by now is standing up from her chair and watching Quinn like she's a stray dog, unsure if she's going to snap.
"You're alive," Quinn whimpers, her voice weak and hurt and scared. Brittany's alive.
Brittany gives a half smile and that's all Quinn needs before she's moving across the space and throwing her arms around the other woman, hugging her in sheer desperation. Brittany's alive.
Her eyes are squeezed shut where they're pressing into Brittany's neck. They're shut so tightly she isn't sure if they're what's causing the pressing feeling of tears or if they're trying their hardest to prevent the tears. She whimpers again, choking back a sob as she clings to Brittany tightly.
Brittany feels the same, she feels the same as the last time Quinn hugged her, a few weeks before she disappeared. It feels like home, like hugging love and family and everything good in the world. Holding Brittany tightly in her arms feels like suddenly everything is okay, like the world has given her part of her life back, part of her heart. Brittany was one of her best friends.
But she's okay. She's here and she's alive and she's…
Quinn suddenly becomes more aware of the hug. Brittany… Brittany isn't hugging her back. Her arms have come up around Quinn, a hand pressing against her back, warm and comforting. But it isn't… right. Brittany isn't hugging her back.
Like a quick spreading poison the word 'wrong' blooms inside her, starting from every place she has contact with Brittany's skin and moving through her body until it reaches her brain and screams at her and Quinn makes the connection that something about this is so wrong.
The poison reaches her nerves and Quinn heaves herself from Brittany's arms, breaking the embrace and staggering back a few steps. Quinn's eyes are like liquid fire as she stares into Brittany's, searching. Searching for anything she knows, anything inside that is Brittany.
But there's nothing. Brittany's gaze holds concern and worry, but there is nothing familiar about it. Brittany… Brittany's looking at her like… like she's…
A stranger.
This isn't Brittany.
Her legs move her back another step as her hand rises up, trying to hold back the sob of realization as it tumbles from her lips. "You…" Her head shakes back and forth, not comprehending. She doesn't understand. Quinn doesn't know what is going on. All she knows is that this woman is not Brittany. "My God, what…?"
Artie.
Her gaze rounds on him, hard and angry and demanding an explanation. "I…" But her voice doesn't have the same strength her eyes do. Her eyes are strong and expressive and like daggers. But her voice wavers and exposes her, painting her an image of confusion, not anger. "I don't…"
"Quinn," Artie tries.
She looks to Brittany and then back to Artie, forcing her words out. They sound weak and timid but she forces them on him anyways, begging him to explain. "I don't understand. She's not…"
She looks at Brittany, pleading. "You're not…"
"No," Brittany says gently. "I'm not."
None of this is making sense.
"I don't understand." And she wants to. She wants to understand right now. She needs to. She needs to understand before she blacks from all the emotions swirling through her. She is seeing Brittany again in person, but Brittany is looking right through her as if she doesn't even see Quinn.
Artie rolls forward a little ways, placing himself partially between Brittany and Quinn. She can see he's worried, unsure what she's going to do. "Quinn, Brittany-"
"That's not Brittany," she hisses, voice cracking near the end. She knew Brittany. She knew Brittany almost as long as Santana did. It was the three of them against the world, best friends. She knew Brittany.
The Brittany she knew could never look at her with such, such… an empty expression on her face.
"Quinn. It's Quinn, right?" Brittany says, stepping forward and placing a hand on Artie's shoulder. She doesn't look down at him, she keeps her eyes soft and focused on Quinn. "I'm still… I'm still Brittany. But… something happened to me."
"You left."
Quinn can see the effect of her words, it's like she's spoken the most horrible curse. Brittany flinches, giving Quinn a heartbreaking look before continuing. "I was in an accident."
Quinn grasps onto the beginnings of the explanation, holding on with all she can. "What kind of accident?" she whispers.
"I was hit by a car. When I woke up I," she shakes her head sadly, "I couldn't remember anything."
Everything around Quinn slows down. A cold rushes over her, and a thick film covers her ears. She can feel her heart, slowing down, pulsing roughly against her chest. Slowly beating its way inside out.
Her leg muscles tense and her feet plant, keeping her from swaying and losing her balance.
She doesn't know what to think, doesn't know what to do with this.
"Quinn?" Artie asks, his voice hesitant.
Quinn can hear her blood rushing in her ears and blasting through her veins as she tries to process this. Brittany doesn't remember.