A/N: Okay, apparently you guys are really excited for this. I am OVERWHELMED by the response. So, between that, (more) thesis frustration, and the idoits at my local pharmacy (Thanks Walmart!) you guys have another chapter in two days. However, I still reserve the right for up to a week between updates. … Yes, I'm horrible like that.
For readers not familiar with the wonderful world of diabetes, there are various types of insulin one can buy which have different release profiles. Most people use a short acting insulin, like Humalog or Novolog, which starts working about 15 minutes after its injected and lasts up to four hours in the body. This can be delivered by a pump (like Sebastian had in Control), or taken as shots. If its taken as a short, its usually combined with a longer acting insulin. Lantus has become the common standard. This has about a 24 hour half life. Before Lantus became widely available, NPH was used. It has about an 8 – 10 hour life and is less constant. In the US, NPH can be bought without a prescription and costs about 30% of what Lantus does. Obviously, though, switching up one's insulin dose or type is a bad idea. Even if one has been diabetic more than half their life and knows more about insulin than most doctors. And, especially if one lives alone. But… I digress.
And… because I'm writing a ridiculously long author's note anyway, I though I'd mention that I think its ridiculous how RIB handled Quinn's injury. So, trying to reconcile cannon with reality, as I promise will be explained, I think Quinn was dose with steroids and horse tranquilizers. But, more on that later. Also, Still not a lot of Quibastian action. But, we're getting there, I promise. Also, this is the longest chapter I've posted in a long time that didn't belong to a stand alone fic. I'm still working on Squirrel Bate, I'll see if I can get some inspiration for more Niff friendship tomorrow. But, I thought I'd get this up tonight; so I'd at least have something.
The second time he sees her is at work.
His father has gotten him a job as a courier out of a mix of concern, connections and a need for parental control. It comes with car keys, a mileage monitoring device, and a blood glucose testing requirement. It's also the only way he'll have a car at all for the summer. As much as he enjoys waiting places for his father, he has better things to do. Besides, the job pays. Its more than double minimum wage and doesn't involve children, boiling oil or nudity.
He's been at it for a little over three weeks, since he got back from his "vacation". Normally, he makes his way through Columbus after rush hour traffic has died down, eats a leisurely lunch, and then returns with deliveries in the afternoon. But, a big case has broken in Lima. Something about criminal neglect and child endangerment, he's not entirely sure, he doesn't actually pay much attention to cases beyond whether or not they'll cause the family to move. This is the kind of case that could make or break a career. It's just the sort of thing his father likes.
Unfortunately for his dad, Liz Cohen has the case, and they're forced to cooperate on the prosecution. Watch his father, a man as impassive as Everest, work with the spitfire of a woman is almost comical.
In sixteen years, he doesn't think he's ever seen his father cry. There are more letters in the alphabet than times he can remember that he has been embraced. And, he cannot think of a day when case notes were not neatly printed in his father's perfect angular hand, re-typed by a secretary or page, and then color coded and filed in triplicate.
He has met Liz Cohen twice, and both times, she hugged him effusively, pulling him into her pillowy chest. Her short black curls stick out from her head in spirals like Medusa's snakes. Her emotions are near the surface, she's quick to react with controlled anger, but just as quick to respond with compassion. She's a whirlwind, her Long Island accent barely muted after two decades in Ohio, and her organizational system, if it can be called one, a variation on the pile method. He swears he's seen case notes written on coffee stained napkins on Liz Cohen's desk.
As low man on the office totem pole, due both to his age and his late arrival, he gets elected to make the long drive between Lima and Columbus. He argues, a little, but so too much and relishes the afternoon alone in the car. His phone will be silent, and the time will be his to think. He gets his best thinking done in the car.
Leaving the office with the seal envelope in his bag, he does stop to test before starting the car. He still uses a meter with a difficult to retrieve memory, and hides his numbers from his father. A person has to maintain their little acts of rebellion. But, he records the number in a note on his iPhone. He has a running bet with the group. The first person to go two weeks without a blood sugar outside the range of the meter gets to pick a penalty for the rest. He wouldn't mind seeing the other three streak … somewhere.
As he drives, he cogitates on the last group meeting.
"Stupid asshats!" Maddy had complained. "I mean, if I needed the prescriptions last month for my chronic disease, and there hasn't been a big announcement about curing said disease, don't you think I'm still going to need my prescription this month?"
Evie Blake, the only medical professional in the room, wisely kept her mouth shut. He could see the twitch as she thought about the rampant possibility for abuse in the system.
"I went to get my Lantus prescription, today," Maddy explained, "And they wouldn't give me my insulin because the doctor was processing the prescription. I had to wait until now, and I'm out. What the hell am I supposed to do?"
Maddy lives paycheck to paycheck. Rent comes due at the beginning of the month, along with phone, internet and electric. Insulin costs almost as much as rent, and she stretches it, running a little high and skipping doses.
If it wasn't for Evie sliding out when the pizza came and finding a sample Lantus pen from somewhere, he wonders what the older girl would have done. He knows it's possible to switch insulin types, hell, he's experimented with it himself. But, there's a reason most people use Lantus, and not the cheaper, shorter acting NPH. Mostly because Lantus is a safer insulin. He wonders what people do who can't afford their medication, or when their prescriptions don't come though.
He tries to imagine what it would be like to dose with short acting insulin alone as you wanted for your long acting stuff to get approved. Trying to balance waking up every two hours to take a dose with the exhaustion of super high blood sugar and the fuzziness of ketones. Even contemplating the idea terrifies him. He shudders a bit, and turns up his music. Pentatonix's cover of Without You fills the car, and he wishes, not for the first time, that there was someone who cannot be the same without him.
Ten or fifteen minutes away from the Prosecutor's office, he starts to feel it. His head starts to ache. His vision … changes. It's not so much a blurring effect as a sharpening one. He can feel himself getting more aware of his surroundings, as his brain turns off the extra lines of thought and compounds all his concentration on two things: driving the car and keeping his body under control.
Coming to a stoplight, he pushes down on the break. The alternator trembles under his foot, and he has to push the break petal hard. It seems to take all the energy in his legs to keep the car from jumping into the busy intersection. It's a peculiar feeling, but a familiar one.
Through the fog, he somehow manages to pull into the small building from the early seventies that serves as the prosecutor's office in Lima. The small part of his mind that isn't focused on tasks wonders if there will be avocado shag carpet. He shakes his head, which only intensifies the headache, and focuses on the tasks at hand.
Turn off the car engine.
Take the keys out of the ignition.
Check the glove compartment for sugar.
Someone, whether it was the Warblers, his father, or a magical sugar stealing gnome, appeared to have raided his glove compartment. He can't find anything in his car. Not a single stale mint or a glucose tab so past it's prime that yeast have started to ferment it. He needs to get inside. He needs relief.
Pick up the courier envelope. Put it in his messenger bag.
Pick up his messanger bag.
Get out of the car.
Lock the door.
Walk into the building.
He feels himself slipping. Things are bright now, haloed rings where the light is hitting just outside the focus of his eyes. It's so damn bright outside, and so damn dark inside. He shuts his eyes, and his vision is filled with sun spots. He knows, though, that even if he hadn't just been out in the bright daylight, the spots would be there. And, they'll stay.
He practically shoves the envelope at the receptionist. "Do you have a bathroom?" He words burst out of this mouth before he can control them.
The receptionist points down the hall behind her, and he practically runs past. He spies the red glow of a vending machine through a half open door, and bolts through it. His hands shake as he fishes quarters from his bag, and shoves them into the machine. When the can falls, he opens, and sucks it down, greedily. He turns, and leans against the machine. It's only then that he notices the girl in the room.
Even in this state, he recoganizes her. She is in Nude Erections. God, who thought that was a good name for a high school choir? It sounds like the name of a bad 70's porno. The perfect, smart blond, not to be confused with Satan's girlfriend.
He's also sure she's the girl he saw at the hospital, limping out of the physical therapy office. Except, at regionals, she could walk. Hell, she could dance. And, if the shaking cell phone footage collected by a Dalton Alumni Spy in Chicago was anything to go on, at Nationals as well. Now, she's fighting to keep her balance.
Instinctively, he moves to catch her as she begins to teeter. His reflexes are off, though. She falls to the ground, and he lands beside her, a tangle of trembling limbs and impossible to muss hair.
"I don't need your help, Sebastian," she says from the ground, her voice sweet yet husky.
"Who said I was trying to help," he shoots back, attempting to gain control of his body again.
She laughs, the sound a rustle, as she looks down at the splash of Coke across his khaki pants. The can lays beside the two of them, empty. "Clearly, you were aiming for the cola clothes wash," she retorts. He doesn't know how, but she's getting the upper hand.
He scrambles to his feet, while she stays on the ground. Slowly, she uses her hands to pull her legs straight. She rolls over to her knees, awkwardly, and flexes her body until she's standing. The movement is so different from the graceful dancer he met at Regionals, and during the Bad showdown.
"Sebastian? Quinn?" Liz Cohen's voice flattens their names, and startles him. "Are you okay, honey?"
He doesn't know if she's asking him, or the blonde, Quinn.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Cohen," she says. "I think I'm just going to sit down in here for a little while."
"I'm fine," he echoes. Thank god that his brain is numb, and not reeling a mile a minute without filters.
"Take your time, honey," she says, going to the refrigerator to retrieve a glass box of cold lagasna. She squeeze's Quinn's shoulder in a motherly way, as she walks back towards her office. He's suddenly aware of the sound of children's squeals from one direction or another. They become fainter when the door clicks shut.
"What's your problem?" The husky voice demands. Damn, apparently his filters are not in working order. Has he been staring?
He shrugs. "You tell me, Paralympic Barbie. I don't think I'm the one of us with the problem."
With that, he turns on his heel, and hurries out of the break room, leaving Quinn sitting at the table.