Here the pines were as thick as the clouds above, so that it felt like late evening and it was only noon. It had just begun to snow, lightly. The earth under Santana's cheek smelled rich and fraught with all the decaying remnants of leaves, insects, animals, possibly even other people who had fallen here too. She would be eaten up quickly. It was discouraging to think of having lived twenty years with nothing to show for it but the body that she came in, and to have that body disappear so quickly. But then there were worse graves. It was not optimism that made her constantly remind herself of these little things, it was a fear of oblivious self-centeredness that made it could be worse recur, even when it was her own off-the-books execution in the middle of pine wilds. The self-centeredness would be fine, but the obliviousness was dangerous. That was the key. Well, she was going to die. Why not indulge in a little undisciplined inner wailing? She'd never flinch but by God she could rail at them all on the inside, God included.
There was a thump beside her, and a moan, and she didn't turn her head to look, but presently her left sleeve was getting sticky and wet with blood. Quinn couldn't leave her alone even in death, apparently, or wouldn't. Was that supposed to be comforting? Was she comforted by that?
She turned her head to look, and through the bits of dirt that clung, she saw a tangle of dirty blonde hair and a slice of green eye. The green eye winked.
"Two girls, one grave," said a voice that rasped with a lifetime of cigarettes, except that Quinn rarely smoked; she was just a different level of hoarse that day.
"God, you never let up, do you?" Santana heard herself say. Quinn's power—the power to drive her beyond whatever limits she thought she had—still held. Santana had expected to have a peaceful, contemplative, thoroughly sullen bit of pre-death meditation. Not this, whatever this was.
"Persistence is a useful thing."
"You have the stubbornness of a donkey. It's not the same." And then something occurred to Santana. She jerked her head up, and Quinn paused mid-retort. The grave that they were in was pretty deep, so looking around didn't do her much good, except to reassure her that there was nobody standing there watching them.
"What?" said Quinn.
"Why are we not dead yet?"
There were zip ties around Santana's wrists and ankles, and her height had never come with grace, but she got to her knees and crawled, wormlike, up the side of the grave until her nose was level with the ground. There were three sets of footprints in the soft earth leading towards the grave; there was one set of footprints leading away. Something gleamed silver not foot away from her, she squinted. Ah. It was a knife. Sylvester honored her debts after all.
"Good news," said Santana.
"We're not going to die?" said Quinn, half-words, half-croaking.
"We're still definitely going to die, but we have a shot at getting coffee first."
"Oh, good," said Quinn. "I haven't had coffee in three days."
"I know."
The road was only a ten minute's walk away, turned to twenty minutes because Santana had to carry Quinn all the way. She would have gone for the bridal carry—she deserved a bit of poetry in this muddy life—but Quinn's back was still bleeding a little through her shirt, so Santana put her over one shoulder like a fireman. And then it was time for a bit of carjacking. Thank God for chivalry, she thought as she closed the trunk on the car's previous owner, a round-faced farm boy who deserved a much nicer lunch break than this. When she got into the driver's seat, she found that Quinn had spread herself on her belly across the backseat. If they got into any black ice, Quinn was almost certainly going out the windshield, but then, Santana had no better ideas. Sitting was clearly not an option. They were going to have to burn the car to a metal carcass later, though. Quinn was getting blood all over.
"We're going to the guy's house," Quinn said. "It's in the middle of nowhere; he's got a wife, no kids. Easy."
"And a coffee machine?"
"I didn't check."
"You should have," said Quinn. Her voice was getting fainter.
"I should have left you in the woods. Just about broke my back carrying you here."
"Oh, please, you're a gym rat. Bet you didn't break a sweat."
She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Quinn's eyes had closed. "Ungrateful bitch."
"Eat my ass, Santana." It was a thick-tongued murmur.
"Kind of late for the honeypot approach, isn't it?"
Very faintly: "I've already done it, haven't I?"
By the time Santana had thought of anything she could afford to say to that, Quinn was well and truly out, and no amount of insults, or even a sharp pinch to the arm, could rouse her.
She was almost entirely ready before Quinn woke up. There was the farmer and his wife locked away in separate rooms, bound hand and foot, fed and watered, given plenty of reassurances that she wasn't any sort of serial killer—though, with the sheer quantity of Quinn's blood around, that hadn't been particularly successful. Then there was a couple cans of soup on the stove, warming up, and an ancient coffeepot rattling away, and a loaf of bread with butter. Then there was Mercedes, who looked every inch a wise old crone from some Shakespearian tragedy, except that her red and yellow floral dress rather ruined the effect. And then there was Mercedes's massive first aid kit, which was bigger than a toolbox, plus a cooler containing not one but two units of blood.
She did not ask Mercedes where the blood came from. She just hauled Quinn into the bath, did whatever Mercedes told her to do, and tried not to throw up during the morphine bit or the transfusion bit. It was funny, how even at her age, having done all she had done, she still couldn't stand the sight of needles. But it all went well, right up until Mercedes started peeling the remnants of Quinn's shirt away from her back, and Quinn came to with a dull moan, scrabbling weakly at the white porcelain.
She crouched low and angled her head so she could catch Quinn's bleary eyes, and she was grateful, for just a moment, that she had sound survival-related reasons to swear Mercedes to secrecy. Her voice was very soft, even to her own ears. "It's okay," she said. "You're okay."
Quinn slumped back down. "Ow," she said, trying to make it petulant despite the rictus of pain on her face.
"I know," Santana said, matching Quinn's tone with her own wry grin. Her hand went soft and slow in Quinn's hair, fingertips against scalp in long strokes. "Ready for some coffee?"
Quinn laughed. The sound of it was ragged and wet, but it was still something. "Always. Unless there's a catch?" Her eyes flickered. "There is a catch. You're being kind."
"Mercedes's supplies are low right now, is the thing." Santana had become accustomed to telling people bad news, news far worse than this, but still, she braced herself.
Quinn just squinted a bit. "Who's Mercedes ?"
Behind Santana, Mercredes waved. She was setting up. There were a few horrifying-looking implements, and then there were a some gallons of distilled water, which were what Santana chose to focus on. "I'm also low on morphine and totally out of ketamine."
"Good ol' Special K, huh. That's too bad. How about weed?"
"I'm not a drug dealer, I'm a doctor."
"Even better. Although..." Quinn considered it. "No, doctor's better, I was right the first time."
"Thanks," said Mercedes, and then, to Santana: "Can you hold her? She might flail, and the last thing I need is a broken nose."
Santana's heart sank. She had known this would probably be her role, and yet she dreaded it like she dreaded almost nothing else. She got into the bath, tucking herself into the far end of it.
"So," she said, as evenly as she could, "Mercedes's gonna do up your back."
"And you're gonna hold me down." Quinn shaped her mouth like a smile. "Very kinky."
"I don't..." Absurdly, Santana found herself fighting not to cry.
"Is she good?" Quinn said quickly, which put paid to that. It was like Quinn was taking pity on her, and wasn't that fucked?
"Very good," Mercedes said. "You're not the first she's done up, afterwards."
"Your interrogator has a usual method, I take it."
Shelby did have torture down to an art. And the thing was, flogging was only step one. Flogging was what she did to put the victim at ease, make them think that she was some medieval type. Flogging was great for that; it had distinct strokes you could count, and it was, oh, all on the surface, and not at all inventive. Had Santana not interrupted when she did, the flogging would have quite soon turned into something else. But that was no comfort.
Santana settled for saying, "Yeah."
"Let's do it, then." Quinn pressed her palms against the porcelain, lifted herself, and half-crawled into Santana's lap. "But don't hold me down. Not you." She did not look up when she said it. "I'll hold myself down. Tell Mercedes her nose will be fine."
Above Quinn's head, Mercedes and Santana traded glances, Santana all but holding her breath. But she didn't need to worry. Mercedes had known her for long enough.
"Okay," Santana said, and then as best as she could, she gathered Quinn up, hands gripping Quinn's waist as hard as she dared, until she was draped over her, Quinn's chin on her shoulder, and Santana's own head propped up by the wall. At a forty-five degree angle to the ground, like she was sitting in a pool chair, except everything around them was hard and cold and off-white. It could not be over soon enough, except that Quinn was pressing into her in a way that was boneless and trusting, so unlike any way she had touched Santana ever before.
"Okay," Quinn echoed. Her hands encircled Santana's biceps, fingers digging in already; and Santana had both of hers in the tangle of Quinn's hair.
Santana had never been a coward and was not about to start, but she was a pragmatist, so when Mercedes reached to start peeling away the shirt again, she shut her eyes tight. She could feel every flinch and gasp, and it took less than a minute before Quinn began to cry, wrung-out and helpless, into her neck. It crescendoed into wracking sobs and then, when the last of the fabric was peeled away, just panting.
Maybe, Santana thought vaguely, and opened her eyes just in time to see Mercedes unscrewing the cap on one of those gallons of water. She shut her eyes again. When Quinn screamed, she surged up against Santana, like she could escape into Santana's body somehow, and Santana was talking to her, saying things, telling lies, be honest for once, about how it was okay and how it would be over soon. It was not over soon—Santana had never seen someone run out of tears to cry before—but it did end. It did end, eventually, and Santana was amazed to find the bathroom still in once piece and the world unmoved. That seemed cruel too.
"Change bandages every day, let me know if she gets an infection, and I'll have some better painkillers to you within the next twenty-four hours," said Mercedes matter-of-factly. Santana wanted to hit her for that, but also, she was grateful. There was no one else with Mercedes's skills who would have risked themselves for Santana. There was no one else who would have risked themselves for Santana, except the woman in her arms and a few more that were in the ground, so. As she thought this, Santana went back to stroking Quinn's hair, more to comfort herself than anything else. Her nose was running badly but she didn't dare move anything but her hand. Quinn had gone so motionless, she might be unconscious.
"I'll pay you when I can," said Santana.
"I don't take cash or credit," said Mercedes. She stood. There was a huge, bedraggled pink splotch on her floral dress.
Santana had just enough presence of mind to say, "I'll pay you."
"Let's work it out later."
There was nothing left in Santana, so she nodded.
"You are a fool," said Mercedes, as matter-of-factly as before, "but fools occasionally survive. I hope that is the case with you." The door shut behind her with a click. The house went motionless, save for the thrums of the heater. Quinn was still clutching twin bracelets of deep bruises into Santana's upper arms, but it was possible that she was doing that while still unconscious. Except, no, because Quinn moved her head a little, the better to nudge into the curve of Santana's neck.
Later, Santana would have to crawl out from under her and find a way to get her into a bed, and then double-check that the farmer and his wife weren't in danger or presenting danger, and then she'd have to go pick up the drugs at whatever drop point Mercedes chose, hoping that their messages hadn't been caught and traced, and there was the soup and the coffee, but for now. For now, the hard tile against her shoulders and the hum of the heater counted as respite. Quinn's eyes were still closed, and that counted too. Santana began to sing.