Part III
"I did try to warn you."
"Don't," you hold up a hand in her direction as you continue to glare at the door leading into Arthur's office, swiftly crossing your arms again in response to her ridiculous pouting.
The light above the door flicks to green and you waste no time in shouldering your way through it, stopping only when you reach Arthur's desk.
His smile taunts you, as it normally does. But this time, it begs you to wipe it off his face.
"How could you do this?"
"Now, that's no way to greet your employer."
Quinn had called you. Multiple times in fact.
After the fourth time, you relented and answered like you said you might have. And here you are, regretting it because for some god forsaken reason you're being partnered on this next job and you want to know why it's so necessary.
You're about to snap back, despite your better judgement, but Quinn beats you to it. Taking those ruffled feathers and smoothing them out as easily as she breathes.
"She just wants to know why, Artie," she says as she props herself on the edge of his desk. "It's no fun being left in the dark," she continues, a small smirk on her lips as she reaches out for his glasses to push them slightly further along the bridge of his nose.
Batting her off, his chair groans as he leans back and sighs, fixing you with an appraising look once more.
Mentally, you start counting to ten. Recalling those calming techniques they taught you in elementary after one fight too many over whose turn it was to use the jump rope.
"Okay." He reaches into a drawer in his desk and pulls out a flimsy manila folder, slapping it on the desk's surface with his lips pressed together. Licking a finger, he flips it open to reveal a contract. "It's a big one. And I need my best girls on the job."
Best girls? They were the best full stop. You wonder how long he'd been waiting to pair you up. He's probably wacked one out at the thought, all that ego stroking only goes so far.
"The target is very high profile, it's a wonder they're even allowing us to take it." His words do little to inspire confidence. "Rachel Berry, rising star in the acting world, but not so much a brightly burning one as she is a pain in the ass. The client who ordered the hit was closely involved with Miss Berry's business and is said to have designed much of what she wore to the red carpet events her management had somehow weaselled her on to."
As Arthur gives his usual spiel, you read ahead.
She's young, uncomfortably so. You're used to past their prime assholes who got too big for their boots when dealing with the wrong people. But this Rachel Berry woman didn't seem to have done anything too damning.
"Who ordered it?" You cut in, receiving a surprised glance from Quinn, who quickly turns her attention back to Arthur. So she's curious too. Does that mean she's as in the dark as you are? It's hard to believe.
"You're something else," Arthur says, shaking his head.
"Just doing my job."
"That you are," he chuckles, all humour lacking. "They're a Motta."
A Motta? Now that makes a whole lot more sense. Pissing off a Motta means only one thing and this Rachel was about to find out the hard way.
"The daughter?" Quinn asks as you tuck the folder into your jacket.
"Yes," Arthur supplies, "apparently the mark had not paid her dues. To know what those dues are exactly is above my pay grade," his toothless smile is more of a grimace, "but it's nice to know she's in the family business."
God he was insufferable, you barely suppress a groan.
"Yeah, a real cushy set up. Someone upsets you and you have daddy and his fat pockets on the case."
"I'd choose my words carefully if I were you," Arthur suddenly snaps, chair scraping on the hardwood as he pushes away from his desk, "those pockets put food in your mouth."
"Guys, please. The sexual tension is all too much," Quinn jokes in, what you assume, an attempt to diffuse the situation, but only serves to make your lip twitch at the very thought.
"You have your assignment," he says, spittle on his lip from his temper tantrum, "make sure it's done before the week is up."
"Of course," Quinn speaks for you both, grabbing your arm to pull you out of the room before you send him screaming and crying to the floor. Not by any physical force mind you, just by inciting the meltdown of a lifetime with nothing but a vacant look and occasional sneer.
Once in the corridor, she turns to you with a look that balances between amusement and fear.
"What?"
"I just never realised how charming you could be."
With a shake of your head you move past her, "If this line of work doesn't pan out, you should really take up stand-up."
"Really? My back-up has always been hand modelling," she replies, chasing you down to keep pace as you march towards the exit. "What do you think?" She asks just as you reach for door handle, posing as she pretends to open it.
You know she's not being serious, but you're over being exasperated by her at this point. You're used to it. So, instead you tell her, "I'd consider a manicure first."
Despite the offended noise she gives, she still opens the door for you. Or she opened it for herself and you passed her too quickly for her to overtake you. Either way, she's bringing up the rear once more as you head onto the busy street.
"We need to plan."
That stops you abruptly in your tracks.
A man walking a little behind you bumps into you and curses you out, but you ignore him to tell Quinn, "No."
"No?"
"None of this 'we' shit. We're doing it my way, no discussion." You continue walking, knowing she'll be right there over your shoulder. "Think of it this way, less work for you. Just the way you like it."
"Don't be like that."
"Like what?" You pull into a small café to grab yourself a coffee. You feel a headache brewing and although caffeine will definitely not help, you need something to occupy your hands to keep the mind racing to a minimum. "Competent?"
"For that you're buying me a coffee too."
"Sure, whatever." Now fuck off, you think. Pressure building behind your eyes.
"You're looking more miserable than usual."
"It's the company."
The sudden grip on your forearm gives you a start. You look into her eyes and are unsurprised to see that all is not quite balanced in the world of Quinn, but she collects herself, releasing you to fall into an easiness that is both completely unnatural and yet second nature to her.
"We're working together. Let's not fight."
As far as you were aware, you weren't fighting.
"Touch me again," you say lowly, forcing her to really focus to pick up on what you're saying, "and you'll regret it."
She scoffs, eyes shifting around the café before settling back on you, "I'll wait outside."
After being served, you manoeuvre your way out front, eager to hand off the second coffee you bought to Quinn. But a quick survey of the outside reveals she's gone. What a waste of money. You take another moment to look around with no luck. Fine, you think. Peace at last. To think it came at the small price of a two dollar coffee, you'll have to keep this one in your back pocket.
Just as you're about hand it off or toss it in the trash, she calls out from an alley of all places.
"What the fuck are you doing down here?"
"I'm thinking," she replies, gesturing to the cup you got her as though to ask, "For me?"
Giving it to her you take a second to get a good look at her, the skittish movements, barely concealed dark circles under her eyes, something's off. More off than usual.
Everything is screaming at you to leave.
"What's going on?"
"I think they're going to kill me, Santana," she whispers as she steps closer to you, arm brushing against yours and eyes crazed as she watches your face for your reaction. "Have they told you to kill me?"
"Are you going to be able to do this assignment?"
"Why aren't you answering my question?"
"Because it's stupid. If I was going to kill you, would I have bought you a coffee?"
You expect her to smirk, joke about foreplay or something else completely inappropriate, but she doesn't.
"If it's not you, who?"
"What makes you think they want you dead?"
"Can't you see? This," she gestures between the both of you, "For that little brat? It doesn't make sense. I had my suspicions when they told me to approach you about working together on a job, but now I know. They warned me after the last time to not screw up again, but fuck," she squeezes the cup too hard, hot liquid dripping onto her hand. She doesn't even flinch. "What if I have? I must have."
You'd heard rumours about the scandal surrounding Quinn and the result of her unorthodox methods. If you thought she was messy now, you can't imagine what she was like however many years ago it all went down. The uppers were said to have spoken to her, and normally that means you're moved to another department or, in really bad cases, dealt with by other means. That's the thing working for the kind of people you work for, once you're in, you're in. The only way out is in a casket or you become too old to be any use.
But Quinn was put back into the mix, under a closer eye you'd imagine, but back nonetheless. Perhaps her paranoia is not as unfounded as you'd first thought. You could help her out, ask around, maybe reap some financial benefit from Quinn's inability to trust, but it's really not your problem and paranoia doesn't get the job done.
"Like you said, it would have been me if anyone. And look," you pull at her sleeve so that you can put your fingers to her pulse, "still alive."
Her eyes are glassy, not with tears, but like she's lost in thought. Mind clouded by her own doubts and questions.
Groaning internally, you gesture to the sidewalk, "Okay, I give. You can cut the act and come to my place."
Nothing.
With your other hand you reach out to touch her cheek but think better of it and land on her shoulder instead, "Hey," you say calmly, trying to rouse her out of whatever state she'd gone into. "Let's go."
Blinking rapidly, Quinn seems to reanimate, like the ballerina in the music box once the lid is lifted.
"Yes," she nods, voice shaky, "let's."
It's odd seeing Quinn in your space, your home. Although you suppose it's sparse enough to not even claim that title. She's quieter than usual, but you see her in the way she runs fingers over your odd trinkets, as though the very touch is cataloguing everything she can about you, that she's feeling more herself.
"So," you begin, pulling the folder out of your jacket and placing it onto your coffee table in front of you from where you sit on the couch. You're not relaxed, but you force yourself to sit back like you are. If Quinn thought you were going to kill her, she probably still does, despite you saying otherwise. Time to bring out the charm she'd joked about you having. "Are you going to join me?"
Before she does, she picks up one of the three small cacti you have on a shelf and brings it with her.
"This is cute," she says offhandedly, "small and prickly like you."
Okay, yeah. Full recovery.
"Leave my cactus alone."
She does after holding it for a second more, carefully placing it on the coffee table and watching it as though it's going to suddenly grow legs and walk off.
"Have you seen any of her movies?"
"Whose?"
"Whose do you think?" She looks to you then as though you're the stupidest person she's ever met. "Rachel Berry."
"I'd never even heard of her before today."
"You're in for a treat." She says it so flatly you're unsure if she's joking or not.
"Any worth watching?"
She's sitting side on to fully face you and falls heavily into the couch to lean into it, head perched on the back cushion, "All of them, of course."
"You sound like a real fan," you reply, breaking your eye contact to search out a pen to take notes.
"You could be a movie star." You snort at that, successfully finding a pen as you do. "You certainly have the look, the acting skill," the words make you pause, "the drive." Eyes flirting back up to meet hers, you see she's already watching you intently.
Pushing down the urge to look towards where you keep a blade hidden under the arm chair across the living room, you refocus on the file in front of you. "Well, I'm not so, I think we should make a start. And by that I mean, I'll tell you what I want you to do and you'll do it."
She hums noncommittally before saying she needs the bathroom. You point her in the direction of the one for visitors and she smiles with a thanks.
Once she's out of the room, you once again suppress your instinct to protect yourself. You could easily grab the knife and at least know you have something to use against her, but if she doesn't attack you first and sees that you're armed, she's going to attack you regardless, whether that be in the moment or in a critical situation. Because that's what Quinn is like, what she has always been like.
"You're surprisingly boring," her voice comes not five minutes later. "Where are all your fun meds?"
"In my en suite."
"Naturally," she sighs, plonking herself back down right next to you. "What have you come up with?"
"I've literally just started."
"Writing it down, sure. But you've already thought it through, I know it."
She's right. You have. It's simple really. Isolate the mark and finish her off, quietly. The fact she's somewhat a celebrity is that she's sure to be socially active, around others for much of the day whether she enjoys that kind of thing or not, so the twilight hours are going to be the best. They'll have to get her schedule somehow and work it around that, either as soon as she leaves for home or when she's rising early to work out or heading to first call.
"When did you come to that conclusion? Before or after the accusations that I've been conspiring to kill you?"
"Oh, probably somewhere in the middle," she grins, but it's uncomfortably tight. Perhaps too early to joke about. "Actually, could you get me something to drink?"
"And here I was thinking we were about to make progress," you say as you stand, shooting her a severe look when she puts her feet out to trip you. "Anything else, princess?"
"Nope," she smiles again, genuinely.
Pulling a glass down from the cabinet closest to the fridge you start to wonder if you're giving her too much leeway in an attempt to settle a wild animal. No matter how calm they are, they're still feral.
The quiet click of a door lock sends a chill down your spine. You tighten your hold on the glass before sliding it back up into its spot in the cabinet. Slowly, you edge around to your kitchen drawer closest to the oven, holding your breath as you pop the false bottom out to get a hold of the small gun you always keep in there. If she's hiding you're going to need an upper hand somehow. With cool metal in hand, you venture towards the kitchen threshold, peeking out to confirm your suspicion that Quinn had indeed moved. To where is answered when you look further and see your front door wide open.
A bluff?
You're not sure.
Breathing deeply, you brace yourself as you step forward, eyes quickly scanning the room before training on the door. You get so close as to close it when you feel hot breath on your neck.
Your breathing stills.
"Don't move," she whispers. "Be quiet."
Adrenaline courses through you, but you heed to her words as you feel something press into your back.
"What's that?" The soft stroke of her words accompany groping fingers that reach for your gun.
"What are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" She repeats, tossing your gun aside and pushing you forward to shut the door. "Funny you ask that, because I was going to ask you the same thing."
Hugging the cool surface of your front door, you shake your head. "What does it look like, you fucking nutcase? I thought you'd left because your psychic intuition told you the bogeyman was waiting to serve you mimosas. God, fuck this shit." The last few words are muffled against the door as you press your forehead against it, willing yourself not to lose you shit because no matter how predictable you find Quinn's antics, she isn't the Quinn you've come to know. And even that Quinn wasn't based on more than a few antagonistic encounters.
The object at your back is pressed deeper, making you groan under its force.
"Shut up," she spits. "I know you're playing me."
"I'm not," you placate. "Can I turn around?"
The pressure lessens and you take that as your cue. Your eyes immediately fall to the weapon in her hands to see not a weapon at all. Rather, she holds a thin vase that once held flowers in your bathroom. You can only imagine the delight she found in cooking this up.
The tight expression on her face slips into a mischievous smile as she watches the realisation dawn on you.
"Surprise," she sings.
Your heart, whilst at a steady rate, still thuds a little harder from the fight or flight your body experienced.
"You bitch," you growl, anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach.
"Oh come on, it's funny."
"I'll give you funny," you say as you step closer, knocking the glass out of her hand and letting it fall to the floor with a smash. Quinn's eyes light up as you grapple at the lapel of her shirt, stoking the fire within you. The audacity of this woman, you wouldn't blame the uppers if they did want her dead.
"Please do," she whispers, her lips quirked in a small smile.
Tightening your hold, you yank her forward, feeling her breath quicken against your cheek as you wrestle with your desire to throw her to the ground and lay into her. In the early days you might have, when you had less discipline and control over your temper. But her provocation is incessant. She can't help herself. Maybe you should just give into the feeling.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"You're so touchy."
"I thought we were past this. How am I meant to help you when you carry on the way you do?"
Her blithe cocksureness falters; you see it in the way her brow dips ever so slightly.
"You? Help me?" She looks away, despite your closeness.
Okay, you know you'd rather not help her, because she's a menace and completely undeserving of any of your time but you can resolve that maybe it's the easiest route. Especially considering the amount of times she's crept up on you lately.
"Yes."
Her eyes meet yours once more and your grip loosens.
"Thank you," she says and you think, with startling clarity, that it's the first time she's ever been honest with you.
"Yeah, well, don't thank me yet."
Her eye contact doesn't waver and for a moment, all there is between you is silence. You pretend not to notice the way her eyes drop to your lips when it eventually breaks, instead creating distance between you as you finally let go.
"Let's get back to work."
The next morning you realise that the cactus on the coffee table is gone.