Work Header

Fist Over Love

Chapter Text


    She stood tall in her cork wedges, hem of her dress flaring with the wind. Quinn Fabray knew this was the address that she found from google, but as she peered in through the glass windows and seeing the powerful men working the different stations on the black soft mat she felt a renewed sense of purpose. She had not felt this helpless since giving up her beautiful baby, and before that she had made sure she never felt this way again, not since she was Lucy. But Quinn was nothing if not headstrong, and she willed her first foot to take a step forward. A manicured hand came to rest against the glass door, behind her the busy traffic of China Town kept its steady flow. Burt Hummel had given her this special task because she was the only one he could trust. Rachel had wept, and wept, and wept, and Finn was always so useless no one could really be sure if they could trust him. Quinn wasn’t even sure if Rachel was genuine in her feelings for Kurt, or if the theatrics were for attention. Santana would have been a great choice for Burt, but Quinn liked to think her hard earned reputation gave her that extra edge.

She felt honored that Burt had asked her to look after Kurt and help find a perfect place to further his recovery and protection. She spent a few hours reading yelp reviews online before deciding on a large enough combat club with a cheap enough price called Fugitivus Combat. It was run by a man named Varro, who looked decent from his picture on the website. She had printed out a coupon, and rode the subway for longer than she cared to just to get there. A few steps brought her inside. From the outside the large ring and colorful mats that adorned a section of the outermost wall was obscured, but now that she was finally inside the establishment she could see them. The smell of sweat and man immediately filled her nostrils and she crinkled her nose.

   “Sorry, sweetness, but but ladies’ self defense is every first Tuesday of the Month. You won’t find girly fighting here.” A brusque voice from a large man filled her ears and Quinn immediately turned her head towards the sound. He turned away and began rifling through the paperwork that sat atop the front desk. His unique accent had her raising her eyebrows but his rude nature had her Head Cheerio coming out.

   “That’s not condescending at all,” she began in her iciest tone. “Didn’t come here for me, but I’m sure your owner would love to know that you’ve turned away a potential customer. That’s fine with me, you insignificant sack of meat.” Quinn spun on her heel and began to walk away, ignoring the indignant squeak of the man in front of her. She felt a calloused hand grab a hold of her. It slid sparks up her arm. She looked down at the small strip of skin in between her bracelet and her cardigan, and watched as rough fingers gently caressed the side of her arm.

   “I’m terribly sorry for Crixus, miss.” The man said. Quinn looked up at his towering figure. He was blond, and beautiful, and large, and his lilting accent washed over her in waves. She snatched her arm back and blew her bangs out of her face.

   “My name is Spartacus, and I’m the manager. Perhaps there’s some things I may help you with?”

   “Yes, well, I’m here to inquire about this,” She said, thrusting the printed flyer into his open hands.

   “For yourself?” “No, I have a friend who was recently attacked. Hate crime. He’s gay, and apparently people still think they can just hurt other people.” She nodded stiffly, by this point they had seemed to attract a few staring faces. One large man held a punching bag in place for a smaller man, who’s long hair was flowing with every spin kick he managed to land. She found herself slightly distracted.

   When Quinn’s mother had sent Frannie Fabray off to Christian College in Texas, she bought Frannie a bottle of pepper spray. Pink and decorated in small polka dots, it sat in the bottom of Frannie’s purse, and when she came home for vacation when Quinn was in her Junior year, Frannie left it on her little sisters bedside table. Judy Fabray was a cautious woman and a stalwart believer in pacifism. Violence was unattractive and unseemly for a young woman, so when Frannie started dating a crossfit trainer who taught her self defense, Judy was quite angry at her eldest daughter.

   Quinn was never as close to her sister as she wanted to be and through the years desperately tried to unlearn the negative conditioning her upbringing gave her, but even now, in the middle of this training facility, she felt uncomfortable. She could see the curvature of their spines as they bent, the way the muscles in their legs worked with every strong turn and duck and roll. The way the sweat beads dripped down carved marble abs and pooled by bare feet on the floor of the plastic mat. Her attention was quickly pulled away from a strong blonde woman grappling on the ground in the corner with a man twice her size by the sound of the manager’s voice.

  “Darling, people have been hurting other people since time immemorial. But yes, I can work with this. How injured is injured?” “Is there an office? Or a quiet place we may speak?” She asked firmly. If Quinn knew anything, it was how to negotiate. Her beauty, her femininity, had always been her greatest weapon, and her strongest ally. It had served her well as a young girl in Ohio, and in New Haven, where she had to fight for her place among her peers with her grades, wit and stunning smile? Well, she was head cheerio for a reason.


“How’d it go, Quinn?” Carole Hudson asked as Quinn Fabray sat her Michael Kors purse down by the foot of Kurt’s hospital bed. Quinn dared a glance towards her friend. He looked small amongst the endless stack of pillows and blankets Rachel brought in. His machines beeped in a steady pattern that sent chills up Quinn’s spine. She hated hospitals and desperately wanted out.

She perched on the edge of Kurt’s bed and grabbed a small pillow to play with.

“I think it went well!” Quinn said. “I talked the manager into including a student discount, so it’ll be about 875$ a month for the first three months, and then it goes down to $500. But that includes private lessons three times a week as well as group lessons once a month, if he wants them.” Carole took a sharp breathe in.

“I-I, I could take on a few more shifts at the hospital.” The tired woman offered as she looked to her husband. Burt stood in the corner, one weary hand holding his worn baseball cap against his chest.

“No, don’t. I’ll ask his Aunt. I’ve never asked his mother’s side of the family for anything, but he needs this. We all need this.” He turned towards Quinn. “Get the paperwork done and I’ll cut a check.”

Quinn nodded thoughtfully. “I mean, if it helps, they all seem super competent. Everyone there is certified and knows what they’re doing.”

“We never thought we’d have to do something like this, not even when that toolbox Karofsky was laying into ‘em, you know? Kurt never would agree to anything involving violence, and when he was a boy me and his Uncle Dan, my little brother, tried to teach him how to punch in the backyard, you know, caused we knew things like this would happen but he didn’t want it. “ Burt said as he looked away, Carole moved to comfort her husband.

Quinn understood where Burt was coming from, even after all they had been through in High-School, she never thought Kurt would get seriously injured. Quinn always thought that sometimes he deserved to get a few things said to him if he walked to class in a woman's sweater dress or a fluffy coat. She knew now how ignorant she had truly been, and it pained her to think that they all had thought he was safe. 

"Okay," Quinn said as she stood up and grabbed her bag. 

"I'll make the call to Fugitivus Combat and get Kurt enrolled."