Part IV

You make your enquiries the next time you're at headquarters, prodding just enough to steer people into the right line of gossip you're after. However, your efforts are not at all rewarded and you could kick yourself for being so stupid. Of course it wouldn't be common knowledge. You'd have to appeal to those above Arthur to get anything worth sharing.

Coincidentally finding yourself outside of his office just as a meeting ends and the occupants leave, you time your stride so that you bump into his halfwit assistant Sam. You're unusually apologetic and engage in some small talk, offering your company for lunch which he gladly accepts. Sam hasn't worked here long and you doubt he's longed for the business. He's too soft, too pliable, too pretty for his own good.

Well, perhaps that would be the case if he was any ordinary assistant. A little family friend called nepotism got Sam his job and you're pretty sure his daddy runs with the big boys. You know he's at least twenty-three, but you can't imagine he lives alone when all the help at home keeps him comfortably afloat. And judging by his easy demeanour and terminal friendliness, you imagine he actually enjoys the company of his family.

"And that's why it's my favourite in the franchise," he concludes, forking a huge bite of food before sticking it into his equally huge mouth.

After twenty minutes of discussing the latest nerd craze you'd seen evidence of all over his desk, you've not only affirmed your stance that you couldn't care less about this shit but you've also buttered him up enough to get what you really came for. You're hoping that years of reading people is about to pay off, because if all around family man Sam turns out to hate the very air his dad breathes, then there's little hope of him being of any use. No insider info on meetings, no confiding in an upper, nothing.

"Totally," you nod, smiling as you take a small sip of your iced coffee. "It's nice to talk to somebody like this."

His eyebrows raise, "Like what?"

Hook.

"Like friends," you shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "This line of work doesn't really allow it, but you seem like a good guy," your smile widens, "with great taste."

He laughs a little at that, "Ditto. Well, except you're a chick."

Line.

"No way," you tease, making him laugh harder. "But really, it's nice."

His eyes soften as his laugh settles down, "I agree."

And sinker.

"I'm guessing you've heard about my latest work project and partner," you emphasise the last word with a roll of your eyes and he nods. "It definitely makes things interesting."

"Yeah," he edges forward on his seat and lowers his voice, "I heard she takes hair."

"What?"

"Hair. She takes it."

"Yeah, I got that, but what? Where did you hear that?"

Of all the rumours about Quinn, this wasn't the weirdest, but it sure was a sign that maybe this was a complete lost cause.

"Oh," he leans back and scratches at his mop of blonde hair, "I don't remember."

"Have you heard anything else about her?"

"Only that she's hot, but I already knew that. She's always in Arthur's office."

Your eyes narrow, "Oh really?"

"Yeah."

"As in recently?"

His brow furrows, "Yeah. Why? Is that bad?"

She was meant to be doing reconnaissance for the job, not making social calls.

You quickly school your features and sit back in your chair, "No, no. Not at all." Pointing at his plate, you try to divert the conversation with, "Any good?"

His smile returns as he hums the affirmative, "You want to try?"

"Sure." When he holds his fork up you lightly smack his hand out of your face, picking at a piece of chicken with your fingers. "Yum," you say as you pop it in your mouth and chew.

Sam's pink cheeks and bashful smile almost make you feel bad for using him, but you suppose this was the kindest approach you could have taken. Plus, you're buying. What more could he want?

When you next see Quinn you tell her all you've learned, as in you tell her nothing because there was nothing to find out.

"Oh, actually, there are plenty of tall tales about you being a Russian sleeper agent."

She smiles excitedly at that, "Really? How fun is that?"

It's the night before your shared hit and Quinn is back in your dimly lit apartment to finalise your plans. She has commented on how romantic it all is, but you assured her the lighting was for your impending migraine's benefit and not hers. She wasn't convinced, but when is she ever.

"It's certainly better than talk of a potential permanent vacation."

Tucking her legs underneath her on the couch, she places the papers in front of her and in your hands on the coffee table.

"Very true," she says over your noise of protest. "Maybe we could go somewhere fancy as a celebration."

"Celebrations can come after the job."

"Not with something like this," she tries, reaching forward to hold onto your forearm.

Glancing from eager eyes to piles of paper, you relent. With your due diligence done, you're satisfied that tomorrow will run relatively smoothly.

"Okay, but you're paying."

Her smile is blinding, "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Emily, my dear, is that you?" The host fusses as he takes Quinn's coat with a flourish. "We haven't seen you in a while. Where have you been?"

"Oh, Jules, life has run away with me. You know how it goes," she titters.

"I do, I do," he continues as he picks up two menus and begins to lead you through the restaurant. "And who is your dining companion? I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure."

"No," you cut in before she answers for you, "you haven't." Quinn pinches lightly at your elbow. "Rosario. Nice to meet you."

"What a gorgeous name," he says as he gestures to a table almost bang centre of the establishment. He redirects his attention to Quinn, "Your favourite table." Of course it is.

"Thank you, Jules. I'll take it from here," she grins, pulling out a chair for you to sit.

You take it, but tuck in before she has the opportunity to do it herself and wait for her to sit opposite you before you ask, "Emily?"

"Yes, Rosario?" There's a glint in her eye as she slides a hand over to scoop up a menu. "I like to play pretend. I didn't expect you to indulge me."

Me neither, you think.

"Might as well keep up appearances."

And that you do.

Conversation flows easily, light and breezy. And luckily for you, Quinn only talks about herself for two thirds of it and even then, it's rather painless since it is such surface level shit that you have no doubt most of which is a lie. You confront her about as much and she just smiles before laughing to herself. She's so bizarre. You're starting to find the whole ruse rather amusing yourself.

Maybe that's the red wine talking or maybe she really has been rubbing off on you all this time; the latter being decidedly worse of the two.

"Why don't you like me?" She suddenly asks and it throws you off kilter. She was just telling you about how she got the scar on her elbow and it seems so out of the blue for that to be the follow up. As for the dramatic retelling that preceded the accusation, the scar apparently came from her childhood pet Chihuahua, affectionately named Rat, and affectionately sent to doggy heaven after the fact.

Now that you believe.

"What?"

"I can tell."

"Of course you can tell. We've fought more times than I can count in this past week alone, never mind the entirety of our acquaintance. You're one of the most infuriating people I've ever met and you're extremely unprofessional. How you've kept your position I don't know and I'll happily continue if you wish, but I think you already know what I think given the number of times we've argued." You finish with another sip to your drink, but quickly put it down to say, "And let's not forget the delusion. It's truly admirable how blinded by your own self absorption you are."

Quinn barely reacts, only listens intently until you finish and when you do, her mouth slowly breaks into a smirk. "Truly enlightening," her eyes shine brightly as she edges closer to the table so she can lean towards you. "And after all that, how much does it pain you that you still want me?"

You laugh at that. Loudly.

"You're crazy."

"You don't deny it?"

"You don't deny you're crazy?"

"Santana," she purrs, finally sitting back in her chair to look you over, mouth set in a perpetual grin, "let's not play this game."

"I thought you liked games."

She bites her lip, "You've got me there."

"What do you get out of this?"

"You."

Despite yourself, you do feel the beginnings of a smile, but before it can become anything you roll your lips, "Some might think you're a little obsessed with me."

"Meh," she shrugs, eyes teasing.

Are you flirting? With Quinn?

"You're not as good an actor as you think you are."

Yes. You are.

What was the world coming to?

"Wow, you really think highly of yourself don't you?"

"Naturally," you say easily, because you do. Self esteem was not something you lacked. The emotional capacity to maintain relationships of any kind? Not so much. "Are we done here?"

Lips set in a frown, she asks, "So soon?"

"Unfortunately for you, the only person who monopolises my time is me. So, despite the absolute joy this has been, I am going home and you can see me tomorrow at seven pm sharp."

"At least let me walk you home."

"Please," you roll your eyes, "I don't need an escort home."

"Let me, please. For my own peace of mind."

"Peace of mind," you scoff. "I didn't realise you could achieve such a thing."

"I love it when you're mean to me."

By the shine in her eye, you're inclined to think she really means it.

Slipping into your coat, you begin to stand, looking to an expectant Quinn who sits with her chin resting in her hands. "Well? Are you going to pay the bill?"

"You're letting me?"

"Who am I to deny a woman her dying wish?"

If it were not for the palm below it, you're sure her chin would hit the table. It tickles you it really does, and it's a funny sensation, the warmth in your belly, it's not all that common for you to feel.

When the stunned silence passes, Quinn is on her feet, the wounded look lasting for only a moment before morphing into something unfamiliar, unmarked. It worries you and you cannot name why.

It is twelve minutes past the hour when Quinn finally arrives and the uneasiness you'd left on the night before permeates every terse exchange once she's over the threshold of your apartment. You're pissed. She's late and behaving like this is her first time, forgetting important details, tripping over the most basic steps of your plan.

"I know we're in this thing together through no choice of our own," you say as you load a duffle with your uniforms and tools into the backseat of the rental Quinn had procured in the days prior, "but if you can't do this, please, just leave it to me. We can't afford to fuck this up and I'd rather have to take extra steps to get this done than have you flip out when I need you."

Her face is obscured by the open trunk, but you can tell by the flat tone that she's either annoyed by the comment or completely unaffected, "I'm fine."

For both of your sakes, you hope that's true.

Rachel has been staying at one of the most expensive hotels in the city for the past three months, living off of room service and her family's money. The question as to what dues she has not paid rears its head, because she obviously had the means, but then a quick look into the accounts of said family revealed masses of accrued debt, and that was on the books. You can't begin to imagine what kind of situation they were in otherwise, but that was none of your concern.

Under an alias, you booked out a room in the hotel across the street, a perfect hub for surveillance and to equip yourselves to play housekeeping. The outfits you had acquired were your standard run of the mill maintenance attire, a third party company that regularly serviced the electrics in this specific chain of hotel - enough of a cover to get where you need to be. It's a wonder how far a lanyard and confidence gets you.

You're happy to let Quinn do the carrying. It works as some kind of retribution for her shitty behaviour the past couple of hours. "This one," you say as you pull the brim of your cap further down, your eyes barely visible unless up close.

"Yes, boss," Quinn mutters, readjusting the strap of the duffle before reaching for the door handle, a slight hesitance in her grip as she quickly meets and drops your gaze.

With a questioning furrow of your brow in her direction, she subtly shakes her head and enters the room with swift movements. You let her go ahead, quick to check the hallway for any potential visitors and secure the door behind you with a click.

The first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Quinn is no longer in your line of sight and you suspect she has gone straight down the hallway as you'd discussed in the days leading up to this. Your footsteps on the panelled flooring are almost imperceptible, but to your own ears they echo as you take the same path.

You're brought to a halt as you enter the main living space of the room.

"What's this?" A heavy weight settles in your stomach.

"Spring cleaning," Arthur replies from where he's perched on the arm of the stark white couch.

You can't even bring yourself to look in Quinn's direction, although you can't help but see her on your periphery. Even that is too much at the moment.

"Where's the Berry girl?"

He brings a cigarette to his lips and takes his time lighting it, the corner of his eyes crinkled in delight as he make you wait.

"Funny thing you know, she checked out not so long ago. Had something really important come up."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"What about the hit?"

"There was never going to be a hit you stupid girl," he laughs only to cough on inhaled smoke. "You're done." He flicks a hand in her direction and you sense movement. See an arm raise in your direction.

"What do you get out of this?"

"Me? Oh, nothing much. But you've been a thorn in my side and I don't take too kindly to insubordination."

"And how do your bosses feel about it?"

"They're disappointed. It really did come as a shock to them that you had such an unfortunate fatal accident."

"You're pathetic."

He shoots you a crooked grin and stands. "That's all you have to say to me?"

You haven't moved since spotting him, but not even self preservation can temper your ego when it comes to this asshole, so you approach.

There's a glint in his eye and you can't tell if it's fear or pleasure. You hope for the former and it spurs you into a stride, a stride chased by the cool barrel to your back.

Any composure you have left is frayed by this point, it's all too much.

They've backed you, no, you've walked yourself into a corner that you can't seem to think your way out of. Why can't you think? The anger you feel is immense, both mental and physical. The weight of it makes your chest heave and nostrils flare, your mind wild with what to do. Seared by betrayal, your usual detachment struggles against a kind of aching brought in its wake; a mere undercurrent to the fierce desire to choke the fucker in front of you to death.

"Now, now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he says as he takes a slight step forward, bringing you toe to toe. "I want to say goodbye and bury the hatchet before you go," he smirks, taking a drag to blow smoke in your face. "Where do you want it? Front? Quinn's got your back if you'd prefer." And then he laughs before bringing the palm of his hand full force across your face.

It's an embarrassingly cheap shot.

He can't even bring you to your knees to make you fear him. He's a joke.

You ignore the burn in your cheek and smile.

He wipes his hand on the leg of his pristine pants, a slight darkening of material where sweat transfers. As if noticing, he makes haste to adjust his clothes before stepping around you, decidedly ignoring your lack of response to make a timely exit. "Take care of it." You listen carefully to his footsteps, wait for the latch to go, door to close and for him to be gone before you even consider acknowledging Quinn's role in all of this.

"I'm going to turn around," you warn.

She doesn't respond and you take that as permission to do so. Her eyes are wide, skin pallid. You'd think she was the one brought to her demise.

"So you'd really sell me down the river like that?"

"Are you really that surprised?"

You shouldn't be. You let this happen. How could you let this happen?

"I can't let you do this."

"San, I-"

"Don't call me that. We're not, we're not friends."

You notice the almost imperceptible shake of her hand as she steadies her grip on the gun, "I have no choice. It was you or me."

"Arthur made it pretty clear that it was always me. So what's the fucking big idea?"

"I need him, Santana."

"Need that piece of shit? Don't patronise me. This is a game to you. It has always been a goddamn game."

"No," she cuts in, "it's not. I need him to protect me."

"And I was your bargaining chip? What the fuck have I ever done?"

At that Quinn's throat bobs, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You're too close. Too close to me."

Of course.

"You made me close," you want to cry, scream in her face and tell her to go fuck herself but you don't dignify her with anything other than disdain. "And this," you point at her gun, "is what you chose to do the job?"

"It'll be quick."

To think you were the one mark she chose to deny her unique flourish, it's almost disappointing. No, it is disappointing. And since you're pretty much dead anyway, you're not afraid to admit to yourself that you're hurt.

"Fight me."

She swallows, "I can't."

"You're a coward," you bite. "Fight me and kill me with some flare," you feel the hot pulse of rage press against your skull, all that anger management pushed to the wayside to allow you this one moment of fury at the injustice of it all. "What?" You spit when she just stands there, "Over the excitement?" She doesn't move to pull the trigger as you approach, so you take the opportunity to take the hand holding the gun, wet palms to cool skin, to press the barrel to your forehead. "Do it."

"Let go of me."

"Shoot me."

"I said let go," you feel a slight resistance as she tries to pull loose.

"I said shoot me."

Her hold on the gun slackens before tightening as she tries to pry away from your grip, her other hand coming up to shove at your shoulder before landing on your neck. It rests with barely any pressure, it's more a cradle than a hold and it's far too soft and intimate for what it means.

She betrayed you and now she's going to kill you.

You close your eyes.

And you count to ten.

The hand tightens and is joined by the other as the gun clatters to the floor, her fingers hesitant and then sure as they skim just under your jaw and squeeze. You will her to press harder and resist fighting back for a second. Only when you open your eyes and you see hers brimmed with tears does she crash her mouth into yours, grip finally vice, sending you into survival. You reach up to grab at her hands and you're surprised that she relents so easily, breaking away from your lips as you gasp for air. You're light-headed and if it were not for the oxygen deprivation you might've blamed the kiss. The kiss. Your eyes dart quickly to her lips before meeting her eyes once again.

"Santana-" she begins, but you don't let her finish.

Your movements, whilst swift, lack any of your usual finesse as you meet her mouth with clumsy haste. A sharp pain to your bottom lip is the only sign of hesitation on her part as her teeth catch the spot before she soothes it with supple lips and the eventual languid caress of her tongue. You don't quite remember how she tasted from the kiss you'd shared so long ago, the memory nothing but a flash to the blinding light that was the lurch and struggle of the mark breaking free from your grasp. But now, rather than annoyance sparking at the pit in your stomach, the fire that it became is stoked by betrayal, fuelled to inferno as she tugs at your uniform.

This time it's you who catches her lip, but with purpose. You want it to hurt.

"Ah," she hisses, pulling back to run her tongue over the small spot of blood you'd caused.

"That hurt?"

"A little."

"Good," you sneer.

The way she pushes you against the wall will inevitably result in bruising, but you're not unused to a few bumps and scrapes here and there, so really it's nothing. The way she nips at your neck is another story. You think she might actually bite you as penance, but she doesn't. Instead, her tongue trails its way from crook to jaw where her mouth continues to pucker and press, the volatility of her movements reduced to an eager gentleness that had your heart begin to race. You don't fight against the way she leans into you nor do you deny her the chance to recapture your lips in a searing kiss, your back up against the wall, no direction to go but forward as you wrap your arms around her neck, inviting her deeper, and deeper.

A/N: Idk why FF won't send emails to Outlook emails atm. Not very stunning of them. Other than that, hope you enjoyed, one more to go :)