Dedication: For Allison. It's not your fault.
He's surprised, but not unpleasantly so, when Quinn shows up for work at his office on Monday. He's used to having her in Lima. He drives the two hours down to deliver the depositions and evidence that is coming almost daily. The two get lunch together, sometimes alone, sometimes with Trent or Thad. They shoot the breeze, talking about school and mutual friends and TV. Although it's not easy, Quinn finally gets him to admit that he has a crush on Michael Weston from Burn Notice. But, his father's office isn't the context for Quinn. The mall, or the Lima Bean or the auditorium are her realm.
"Hi Bas," she pulls him into a hug.
He turns pink, and twists out of the way. He doesn't mind affection in private. But, at the office, he reverts back to a cold, hard shell. No one here calls him by his first name, except his ever-formal father.
"She's as pretty as Smythe," Worthington whispers to Howell. The girl coughs to cover a laugh.
He might not be in middle school any more, but the bullies are still there. In his coworker's minds, there are three strikes against him. He's only in high school, not even entering college, and he has this job that so many pre-laws would kill for. They think it was his father's doing, which is both true and false. His father told him about the job, but he submitted the resume himself, before he left for France. Dalton, the letters of recommendation, and an interview before he left all helped. And, although no one wants the Lima-Columbus run, they resent him for taking it. Finally, there's the fact that he has fridge privileges. After his insulin got fried, his father makes him keep a bottle at the office. None of the couriers get to keep anything in the crowded refrigerators.
He takes her elbow, gently. He's noticed that she's having more steady days, but it's also a subtle gesture of ownership. "Let me give you a tour."
They walk slowly through the office as he points out which copier to use, and which drinking fountain to avoid.
"Liz kicked me out," She blurts out, sounding betrayed.
He raises an eyebrow, and makes a mental note to ask Trent about this. Dejected he could understand, but the betrayal doesn't make sense.
"They're prosecuting the guy who hit me in two weeks. It's in Findlay…"
He understands completely. "But Liz likes the appearance of impartiality." His father can be the same way.
"… So, I'm here." She leans against a table in the conference room.
He pulls out a chair for her, then goes for two cups of coffee. No one will need this conference room for another few hours. Having spent four months in a counseling group with Leesha and Maddie (sometimes Dr Blake as well), he can sense that Quinn is rattled.
Someone else would have taken this as an opportunity to share her problems with … a close acquaintance, but she doesn't. Instead, she spits the coffee and makes a face. "God, this is like motor oil."
He makes a face at her. "Who are you working for?"
She tells him, one of the more junior lawyers. "Probably more filing," she says. He silently agrees.
Once he's done with his coffee, and she's made it clear that she won't be drinking hers, he leads Quinn to her new boss.
He goes back to the motor pool to find that he'll be doing a scavenger hunt all over the city, picking up food and packages and depositions. They've been scheduled in the worst way possible. He pastes a cool, dispassionate smile on his face and takes his bag. Don't let them see you sweat.
He arrives back at the office around five. His fellow couriers are leaving as he enters. He drops his bag with the receptionist, and goes to find his dad.
Instead, he finds Quinn. She's in the little conference room, packing file folders into banker's boxes. Her brow is furrowed in what could be frustration or concentration.
"How was it?" He leans against the doorframe.
She sighs. "The organizational systems? Non-existant. The day? Dull."
He nods. "Would dinner make it better?"
He hasn't eaten today. There was roadwork along the most direct route, and it cost him his lunch break.
"I was going to go back and maybe cook something. I'm staying with Blaine and Wes," she clarifies. She thinks about it for a moment, and then adds, "Let me ask if they'd mind you coming."
Blaine and Wes are both busy. Blaine has a date with Kurt in Lima, and he's staying there. Wes' father is dragging him out for a night of bonding. Quinn frowns when she gets this message. She wonders if she should pick up some ginger ale on her way home, because the former Warbler captain will almost assuredly be vomiting tonight. Wes' father isn't very good at selecting places that will be gentle on his son's digestion. Wes isn't very good at saying no to his father.
They end up at a little Italian bistro downtown. He regrets the choice almost as soon as they're seated. The lighting is low, the tables are covered in white clothes, and there are candles everywhere. It would be the perfect place for a date, if they weren't both attracted to Josh Hutchinson.
He fumbles with his bag while Quinn read the menu. He flirts with the idea of testing his blood sugar, but decides against it. He hasn't tested in front of Quinn, yet. He barely tests in front of anyone. He hates to do it in front of either of his parents. He's maybe tested in front of Nick ten times, and they lived together for an entire school year.
He orders the chicken picatta; she gets risotto. Both drink water.
They chat for a while. It's fast paced, and light. The snark is entirely directed at other people. He shares the office gossip, and she laughs.
"I hate being here," she admitted. "I miss Thad, and Liz and home."
He doesn't know how to respond.
"I just wish I hadn't done it," she says.
"Done what?" He takes a sip of water.
He always drinks too much water at restaurants. He doesn't know if he does it because he gets bored, or because it's a defense mechanism inbreed by high blood sugars.
She stops to think about it. "Gotten in the car accident," she says, finally.
His father had been livid over the accident. He remembers some of the details, shared over carryout. "It wasn't your fault."
"I was texting," she points out. "I was distracted. If I'd been paying attention, I would have seen the truck barreling into the intersection."
He closes his eyes for a long moment, and then opens them again. "You had the right of way," he argues.
"Your dad?"
He nods and starts tearing apart a roll. The water is helping his hunger headache, but he figures that food can't hurt.
"If it wasn't my fault, why did this happen?" She moves her legs so he can see them, and lifts her pants leg so he can see the pink brace on her ankle.
This tact isn't working. He tries a different one. "Why did I get diabetes?" It's the first time he's mentioned his disease since their argument at the hospital.
She does a double take.
"I mean, it has to be someone's fault," he continues. "At least by your logic. So, whose was it?"
He takes a sip of water, lets her think about it.
"No one's." Her voice is quiet. "It's not your fault that you got sick."
Their food comes. His chicken is good, the acidic sweetness of the lemon playing well with the salty capers. He eats the first chicken breast far too quickly, as Quinn daintily eats her rice.
His initial hungar assuaged, he goes back in for the attack. "My mamam and I were moving when I was about twelve," he remembers. "She found this pile of old receipts from when I was first diagnosed. And, she was flipping through them. I don't remember exactly what she bought, but I remember her commenting that it was no wonder I'd gotten sick, with all the shit she was buying."
Quinn's eyes go wide. She's done some casual reading about diabetes, to educate herself. She's read about rotovirus, or steroids, causing the disease. No modern doctors she could find have associated sugar consumption with the loss of islet cells.
His voice is quiet when he continues. "… And the message gets re-enforced over and over again. I see it on the Internet. I hear it in pop culture. Even my so-called friends like to remind me it's my fault that I got this disease."
"That's bullshit." She has a knee-jerk protective response.
He shrugs, chewing an ice cube from his now empty water glass. "Bullshit or not, I sometimes wonder if it is my fault. And, I know my parents wonder, too. If I had done something differently… if they had done something differently… would I still have this?"
She lays down her fork. She wants to go around the table, and give him a hug. Under the snarky confidence and hair gel, Sebastian Smythe is just a scared, confused little boy.
"It's not your fault." Her voice is gentle.
"Neither was the accident," he says, firmly.
She understands, but she wonders how much of the reveal was to make his point. Sebastian would make a brilliant lawyer, if he could keep his pride in check.
They decide to skip dessert. The bill comes, and they squabble pleasantly over who will pay. Normally, they go Dutch, but he insists. He can be a gentleman, if he really wants to, even though he prefers playing the cad.
He offers his arm as they walk out, and she takes it. She's tired. He opens the passenger side door, and helps her into the low sedan.
In the driver's seat, he starts the car and turns on the radio. Then, he reaches into his leather satchel, and pulls out the small black case where he keeps his supplies. He shakes a small plastic cone from an old orange plastic pill bottle, and fits it to the end of a long, slender blue tube. He dials back a few clicks, the end spiraling out. He takes the cap off, and Quinn sees a hair-fine needle at the end of the device. He lifts the corner of his shirt, pulling it untucked from his khakis. Without a word to her, or any hesitation, he plunges the needle into his bare stomach. He depresses the plunger, and waits for a count of ten. Then, he pulls it out and packs everything away.
She doesn't know it, but this is the first time he's injected in front of someone who was not a medical professional, a member of the Dalton Academy Warblers, also diabetic, or related to him.
It's a sign of trust.
A/N: This chapter has been bumping around for a while. I think it came to a head this week for two reasons. First, I was talking to my friend Allison, who has been struggling with some medical issues recently. She was freaking out about the correlation between alcohol and liver disease… and a few other things. Second, I was reading the New York Times while waiting for an assay. (All my homework was done, all my grading was done, and I feel really weird about writing at work. Besides, it was science!). I tend to read articles about diabetes, and a summary of a recent study showed that low vitamin D levels were correlated to the development of type I diabetes. The article concluded with the suggestion that type I diabetes could possibly be prevented in the future in the same manner as scurvy or rickets. Third, my sister and I have had these on-and-off discussions about how my mom blames herself for my multiple health problems (two autoimmune disease, depression, and a hormonal defect… fun combination). And, maybe I've internalized some of this blame and guilt. Anyway, I hope I've done the topic some kind of justice. I kind of don't think I have.
I'm also going to shamelessly plug my One-shot sequel to this which is laden with Warbler fluff: Family Team. All your favorite people show up and are RIDICULOUS. You should read it, if you haven't... because it reveals secrets not known here. And or spoilers. It may or may not be cannon post Thanksgiving, but I don't care.
In other news, the holidays are coming up and the semester is ending. Which means I will be ridiculously busy sleeping and grumbling and possibly reading articles. … Or finishing up my fanfic obligations for the year so I can start afresh in 2013. I have two more ideas for chapters here, sort of a continued arch. This involves college shopping, the woes of pumps in bras, and possibly embarrassing Thad. If there are other archs you want included, let me know so I can write them.
Also, because this note is getting long (longer than a chapter of Control)… possibly because it's 1:38 am and possibly because I've been watching Vlogbrothers videos all day... shout outs to Pi-on-a-Skateboard, Different Child, Martina Malfoy LaStrange and YouDon'tKnowMe.
Reviews are love