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seriousficTitle: Under peaceful conditions, the warlike attack themselves
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,074
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Santana/Brittany
Previous: Part 2
Summary: Just what Quinn always wanted. Rachel Berry with a Lois Lane complex.
After a quick morning patrol and breaking a purse snatcher's wrist, Quinn got to Finn's apartment. She'd thought she'd have more time, but the super was already watching two movers dump boxes of Finn's stuff in a stack on the sidewalk.
"Lease is out. Sorry," the super said preemptively, seeing Quinn come at him like she was two heads higher than him instead of the other way around.
"I need more time, I can get the money!"
"No, you can't, Ms. Fabray," the super assured her. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Listen…it's not like he's living here."
Quinn slapped his hand away and it hit a lightpost, making the super bite his teeth in agony. "Everything has to be waiting for him when he wakes up, everything has to be..." Quinn calmed down. For a moment, she'd had an irrational fear that the invisible man was there, pushing her hands and speaking with her voice. "You can't do this," she finished simply.
The super was favoring his hand. "Take this junk wherever you like," he said before going back into his building.
***
Quinn didn't know many people who would, on a moment's notice, for a virtual stranger, rent a U-Haul truck and show up in the middle of Brooklyn. But Rachel was trying to take care of her, apparently, so she was kind of obligated by the rules of annoying overachievers everywhere.
Quinn squashed the thought as she had it. After an hour of Quinn sitting with Finn's stuff, giving her best bitchface to anyone who looked at her for more than two seconds, Rachel had showed up and even helped load the truck, although that had just consisted of going to get Quinn an iced mocha and coming back to find the truck full. Still, it was a good iced mocha, and calling Rachel out on being helpful was the worst sort of unchristian behavior.
"Thanks again for saving me," Rachel said after they'd gone one block. One fucking block of silence.
"I didn't save you," Quinn said. "It was just a little—"
"Everyone at the theater signed my bandage."
"Doesn't that only work with casts?"
"No, the production staff wrote small. Look, you can see Kelsey Grammar's signature."
"Kelsey Grammar's in the Spider-Man musical?"
"He auditioned, but a light almost fell on his head. Still, we consider him an honorary member. He pointed me to a great deal on shoes." They hit a red light. Rachel fiddled with the radio but couldn't find a station she liked. She replaced it with a steady stream of chatter as she twisted the dial. "But that was really cool how you saved me—didn't save me. The look on your face was so heroic. It shocked me. I would've been less surprised if you'd belted out Barbra Streisand. But then, I am always disappointed when people don't belt out Barbra Streisand. Her works are surprisingly applicable to everyday life."
Quinn couldn't take it anymore. She surged against her seatbelt to get in Rachel's face. "Did you sleep with Finn?"
"What? No! What?" Rachel looked like she'd just been told something with six legs was crawling around her back. "Quinn, I'm… I mean… he's a boy."
"What does that have to do with—" Oh. Oh. Quinn meekly sat back down. She'd always thought Focus on the Family had it wrong about ungodly homosexual Broadway spectacles. Hugh Jackman was in them, after all. He was all man. "So you're a… what's the politically correct term?"
"We're still on lesbian. Although 'vaginally-oriented female' has been suggested in the newsletter." Rachel was still merrily keeping her ten-o'clock-two-o'clock hands on the wheel and signaling away.
"Oh. Cool." Quinn was suddenly really aware of the crucifix she wore about her neck. "Don't worry, I'm not some sort of bigot. I think God made you exactly the way you are. Well, maybe not exactly, but He definitely had a hand in the lady thing."
"Thank you, Quinn Fabray." Rachel paused, her brow furrowing. "Do I look like a temptress?"
Quinn raised an eyebrow. That dress with those shoes? That look had been chic maybe once in the 60s and once in the 80s; those were the ends of the bell curve of pissing off Joan Rivers. "You sorta look like a cross-dresser."
Rachel laughed. "A cross-dresser loaned me this dress!"
Quinn laughed along with her. It felt good. Like she'd earned it.
"Can I ask a question?" Rachel asked. Quinn hated when people did that, made a two-part question out of a one-off question, but she couldn't get too mad at Rachel.
"Shoot."
"I mean, since you got to ask me about my sex life and all…" Rachel was still on part one. "Uhh, you have an apartment. Why can't you just move Finn's things there?"
Quinn looked out the window. She thought answering a question like that—and though she'd hoped Rachel was dim enough not to ask, she knew she was assertive enough to actually put it into words—would piss her off. Come out in that sarcastic hiss she did so well. But she actually felt a little at ease.
Rachel's sheer obstructive concern and sympathy, like a low-watt Care Bear Stare, made the words flow. "We were going to do that after we got married." There. It was said.
"I didn't know you were engaged," Rachel said carefully.
"Engaged to be engaged."
"Oh. Well, he did say thinking about you helped him sing. He loved ballads."
"Yeah." Finn, who had never gone with her to a musical in her life. And she'd offered.
Maybe he got something from Glee Club that he couldn't get from her. Quinn didn't feel much anger there. She'd needed something more than him too. And now that he was gone, being the Cheerio was all that kept her going.
***
Inevitably, Rachel lived in Queens. As she explained ad nauseum, when her two dads had moved to Florida, she'd kept the house. With her commute, using the garden for vegetable smoothies, and not having to pay for hair salons because her hair was naturally full and bouncy, it was actually cheaper than living in the city.
One look at how Quinn easily lifted a box chockfull of old football gear and Rachel said she'd make tea. Her house had a basement with a lot of space now that the dads had moved out, and Quinn felt the depressed anxiety that'd been with her since talking to the super dissolve away with every box she set down. And finally, Finn's whole adult life was packed up in a corner of Rachel's basement.
Looking at it, Quinn blinked with tears. She hadn't cried since that first sleepless night in the hospital. It felt so self-indulgent when Finn was the one hurt.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Rachel said.
She'd walked in on her and like a switch had been thrown, the presence of another warm body and the simple apology hit Quinn in the gut. She doubled over, gritting a sob through her teeth, then forced herself to straighten, then put the fingers of one hand on her sinuses as if she could dry the tears before they emerged. And before the silent, ridiculous battle against herself could continue, Rachel had her hand.
"Come here," Rachel said firmly. The cheerful patois she usually spoke with was gone. Quinn's every emotion seemed magnified; she felt an overwhelming relief that Rachel wasn't babying her. Maybe that was why she let the shorter woman turn her around and, after a moment of hesitation on Rachel's part, embrace her.
Rachel's arms were loose around her, but tight, like a scarf around her neck. Rachel was giving her permission to break free, to push her away, and that just meant Quinn couldn't. She'd stopped crying, but sobs shook her chest, vibrating into Rachel, who uncomplainingly braced herself against them. Then that too died away, but Rachel's arms stayed around her and Quinn stayed in their grip.
Her damp eyes circled around. Rachel's basement was a smorgasbord, leftovers of life upstairs. There were boxes with names like "sheet music" and "choir recital," clearly organized and marked in a script so mechanically crisp it could only be Rachel's. On the floor was a box of video tapes, some desk drawers missing from a filing cabinet, even a couple floppy disks. Rachel's life was so full, and yet it was all organized. Quinn couldn't even remember most days since Finn was injured.
Rachel was warm, too. Soft, in a world that seemed to be all sharp edges and hard surfaces lately. Quinn imagined pulling Rachel to the floor, laying her down on top of the Persian rug that Rachel had probably put down here because it didn't fit with God only knew what décor she had decided on for the rest of the house, and just breathing. Staying in Rachel's arms until layer after layer of ennui and despair and weariness fell away from her. Maybe when she woke up, there'd be no more waking dreams of men and voices.
No. What was she doing? This complete stranger was hugging her and she was going to, Jesus, have a breakdown, sleepover with her like a little girl? With a lesbian at that, not that she cared, but talk about giving someone the wrong idea! As graciously as possible, Quinn untangled herself from Rachel.
"I have to go. I have work.."
"Oh. Okay," Rachel said. She looked like she was on the verge of saying something else when Quinn walked out, breaking into a run when the door shut behind her. A few blocks away, she ducked behind some bushes and changed into her Cheerio costume, secret identity be damned, and let her ribbons take her the rest of the way home.
***
That night, when Quinn laid down in bed, Finn was lying next to her.
"Night, honey."
She rolled away from him. Her eyes screwed shut. But she was all out of tears.
Finn's voice came again. "Quinn?"
"Good night, honey," she forced out.
His hand draped over her shoulder. She kissed it and held it next to her face, letting the simple warmth of it pull her to sleep.
***
When she woke up, there was voice mail waiting for her on her cell phone. She let the little icon flash while she went for coffee. The machine was broken. Just one more thing. She checked her phone. It was Sue.
***
The Daily Corner breakroom hadn't been the same since Sue replaced the microwave with an eternal flame, which doubled as a memorial for Ted Kennedy. Quinn wasn't sure if he'd been that fond of shish-kebob, but no one got to choose how they were remembered. She cornered the coffee machine and forced it into operation, and she was still watching it drip when Sue found her.
"You're here," Sue exclaimed, quelle surprise. "And not wearing black. Aren't you worried the goth secret police will haul you in and confiscate your ankh?"
"I'm not a goth, Sue." She didn't know quite what she was, so she lied. "I'm a reporter, so give me something to report."
Sue bobbed on the balls of her feet like she'd just taken a hit. "Oh, I've got something for you, alright. Some eggheads are opening a new observatory. I guess even though the stars have been there for millions of years, everyone's been too lazy to get to the bottom of them. Go over there and bring me back a story, even if you have to spike the punch! In fact, ask the receptionist for her whiskey flask."
"Got it. Spike the punch. I'll see if I can roofie someone too." Quinn considered the conversation over. She went to get a fresh mug of coffee before she left.
Sue hovered over her. "You know, bad things happen to everyone. When I was eight, my dog was stolen to be experimented on in a laboratory. The next time I saw him, he had robot legs, eight of them. Did I get mad? You're darn right I did. And I got a new dog, and I trained him to viciously attack on command, going for the throat or the genitals. Do you think that dog ended up a cybernetic organism? No. He didn't. I put him down because he either caught rabies or ate my shaving cream. But he had a much longer run than the first, cyborg dog. So what kind of dog do you want, Fabray? A canine with all sorts of doodads and gizmos, or a dog with testicles in its stomach, from consuming groin? It's your call, Fabray. It's all your call."
***
Quinn had class, so that day at least, she didn't start a Twitter account named "Old Woman With An Emma Watson Haircut Says". After a few more hours of being lectured, she dropped by the canteen and picked up a cup of coffee, since she couldn't very well get one at home. She sat down in a corner, the Styrofoam rasping against her fingers and the warmth of the coffee not seeming to reach her palms, as she looked out at the other students.
Most of them don’t even know what’d happened. Would they care if they did? Finn was just some guy, not very bright, not very handsome, (just hers). And Quinn Fabray? A name, nothing more. But she could feel the ones who knew. They were watching her Wondering how she felt, wondering if they should say hello. That’s Quinn Fabray, they were thinking. Isn’t she the girl with the boyfriend in a coma?
"Yeah, that’s me," Quinn muttered. "That’s Quinn Fabray."
"Is this seat taken?" Rachel asked out of nowhere, voice seeming to brim with excitement over the possibility that it wasn't.
Quinn kicked a chair away from the table. "It is now."
Rachel happily perched herself on the chair, digging food out of a paper bag. "Do you always eat alone?"
"It aids my digestion."
Rachel was unwrapping a baked potato packed in aluminum foil. She must've nuked it in the microwave, because it was still warm, the smell wafting off it making Quinn go weak in the knees (it'd been a long time since she'd had something other than leftovers and Chinese take-out). Luckily, she was sitting.
"Oh, are you hungry?" Rachel asked. She hurriedly stuck her fork in the potato and pushed it at Quinn. "Here. You take it. I shouldn't eat it anyway, I'm trying to lose weight."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
Quinn took the damn potato and speared a fragment on her fork. "Why are you trying to lose weight?"
"Oh, you know, the business. I'm trying for a role, so I need to be thin."
"You are thin," Quinn said plainly. "What's the role?" she asked before taking a bite. It felt so good in her mouth, all buttery and warm, that it was an effort to swallow.
"I could be the hero's girlfriend in a new movie. He's a teenage alien. It's based on a book!"
Quinn had been expecting 'crack whore' or 'zombie' or something. Rachel looked fine. Lovely, really. She had a chest and hips, like a woman was supposed to have. She looked like she'd been drawn by an artist, and not someone who could only do stick figures, like Quinn.
It wasn't any of her business.
"Sounds like a big break."
"Not really. He dumps me pretty fast for Jennifer Lawrence. She's so talented."
"Does she have to go on a diet?"
"I didn't ask."
Quinn gestured with her fork like she was stabbing someone. "Fuck 'em. You look great. The casting director probably wants you to look like a boy because he's in the closet."
"Oh, I…"
Quinn pushed the potato between them. "We're splitting this. Eat."
Rachel slowly smiled as she held up another fork.. "I keep a second one for emergencies. Or in case a friend wants to share lunch with me."
Quinn took another bite. Why couldn't she mind her own business? It was what she wanted. Now here Rachel was, thinking they were friends.
"So you're really strong…" Rachel started.
"Pilates."
"That's cool. Maybe we could work out sometime. Or go jogging. I really hate jogging along. I always think I'm going to find a dead body."
Quinn grinned. "So you want me to find a dead body too?"
"Well… you're very clear-headed. You could call the police while I go into hysterics. It would make a great headline. 'Aspiring actress finds body.' I could get a CSI guest-spot out of that."
"Does CSI even film in New York?"
"Of course they do, one of the series is named CSI: New York."
They dove in for the potato at the same time and their hands brushed together. It was nothing, but Rachel ducked her head and giggled. It was like she was high on nitrous oxide or something. The thought struck Quinn that she had something to do with that.
Quinn looked at her, about to tell her off. It would be great to unload on her after all the cutesy bullshit, the knee socks, the thing with Finn. But Rachel looked back.
Quinn impaled the potato. "I'm going to the new observatory opening. It's a work thing. You should come."
"Really?" Rachel asked, so smiley she could've been on drugs.
It was just to thank her for keeping Finn's stuff. That was all.
***
Santana was taking the garbage out when it happened. Usually Sam did it, but she had so much energy lately that two little bags were a cinch. It was only when she dropped them into the can that she realized how heavy they'd been. Then she heard the dog.
It was running toward her, that Great Dane that her neighbor always walked in the evening, since it fucking attacked people. Only he walked it without a leash and people still went outside after the sun set. Damn dog spent all day tied up with a cord, then suddenly it got unleashed.
Santana heard the neighbor yelling and the dog barked and she walked back to the house like nothing was happening, even if she could just picture that fucking mammal biting down on her.
She went inside and the dog jumped on the door, paws scratching at the glass pane, it was that big. She looked back at it, her eyes yellow slits.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,074
Characters/Pairings: Rachel/Quinn, Santana/Brittany
Previous: Part 2
Summary: Just what Quinn always wanted. Rachel Berry with a Lois Lane complex.
After a quick morning patrol and breaking a purse snatcher's wrist, Quinn got to Finn's apartment. She'd thought she'd have more time, but the super was already watching two movers dump boxes of Finn's stuff in a stack on the sidewalk.
"Lease is out. Sorry," the super said preemptively, seeing Quinn come at him like she was two heads higher than him instead of the other way around.
"I need more time, I can get the money!"
"No, you can't, Ms. Fabray," the super assured her. He put his hand on her shoulder. "Listen…it's not like he's living here."
Quinn slapped his hand away and it hit a lightpost, making the super bite his teeth in agony. "Everything has to be waiting for him when he wakes up, everything has to be..." Quinn calmed down. For a moment, she'd had an irrational fear that the invisible man was there, pushing her hands and speaking with her voice. "You can't do this," she finished simply.
The super was favoring his hand. "Take this junk wherever you like," he said before going back into his building.
***
Quinn didn't know many people who would, on a moment's notice, for a virtual stranger, rent a U-Haul truck and show up in the middle of Brooklyn. But Rachel was trying to take care of her, apparently, so she was kind of obligated by the rules of annoying overachievers everywhere.
Quinn squashed the thought as she had it. After an hour of Quinn sitting with Finn's stuff, giving her best bitchface to anyone who looked at her for more than two seconds, Rachel had showed up and even helped load the truck, although that had just consisted of going to get Quinn an iced mocha and coming back to find the truck full. Still, it was a good iced mocha, and calling Rachel out on being helpful was the worst sort of unchristian behavior.
"Thanks again for saving me," Rachel said after they'd gone one block. One fucking block of silence.
"I didn't save you," Quinn said. "It was just a little—"
"Everyone at the theater signed my bandage."
"Doesn't that only work with casts?"
"No, the production staff wrote small. Look, you can see Kelsey Grammar's signature."
"Kelsey Grammar's in the Spider-Man musical?"
"He auditioned, but a light almost fell on his head. Still, we consider him an honorary member. He pointed me to a great deal on shoes." They hit a red light. Rachel fiddled with the radio but couldn't find a station she liked. She replaced it with a steady stream of chatter as she twisted the dial. "But that was really cool how you saved me—didn't save me. The look on your face was so heroic. It shocked me. I would've been less surprised if you'd belted out Barbra Streisand. But then, I am always disappointed when people don't belt out Barbra Streisand. Her works are surprisingly applicable to everyday life."
Quinn couldn't take it anymore. She surged against her seatbelt to get in Rachel's face. "Did you sleep with Finn?"
"What? No! What?" Rachel looked like she'd just been told something with six legs was crawling around her back. "Quinn, I'm… I mean… he's a boy."
"What does that have to do with—" Oh. Oh. Quinn meekly sat back down. She'd always thought Focus on the Family had it wrong about ungodly homosexual Broadway spectacles. Hugh Jackman was in them, after all. He was all man. "So you're a… what's the politically correct term?"
"We're still on lesbian. Although 'vaginally-oriented female' has been suggested in the newsletter." Rachel was still merrily keeping her ten-o'clock-two-o'clock hands on the wheel and signaling away.
"Oh. Cool." Quinn was suddenly really aware of the crucifix she wore about her neck. "Don't worry, I'm not some sort of bigot. I think God made you exactly the way you are. Well, maybe not exactly, but He definitely had a hand in the lady thing."
"Thank you, Quinn Fabray." Rachel paused, her brow furrowing. "Do I look like a temptress?"
Quinn raised an eyebrow. That dress with those shoes? That look had been chic maybe once in the 60s and once in the 80s; those were the ends of the bell curve of pissing off Joan Rivers. "You sorta look like a cross-dresser."
Rachel laughed. "A cross-dresser loaned me this dress!"
Quinn laughed along with her. It felt good. Like she'd earned it.
"Can I ask a question?" Rachel asked. Quinn hated when people did that, made a two-part question out of a one-off question, but she couldn't get too mad at Rachel.
"Shoot."
"I mean, since you got to ask me about my sex life and all…" Rachel was still on part one. "Uhh, you have an apartment. Why can't you just move Finn's things there?"
Quinn looked out the window. She thought answering a question like that—and though she'd hoped Rachel was dim enough not to ask, she knew she was assertive enough to actually put it into words—would piss her off. Come out in that sarcastic hiss she did so well. But she actually felt a little at ease.
Rachel's sheer obstructive concern and sympathy, like a low-watt Care Bear Stare, made the words flow. "We were going to do that after we got married." There. It was said.
"I didn't know you were engaged," Rachel said carefully.
"Engaged to be engaged."
"Oh. Well, he did say thinking about you helped him sing. He loved ballads."
"Yeah." Finn, who had never gone with her to a musical in her life. And she'd offered.
Maybe he got something from Glee Club that he couldn't get from her. Quinn didn't feel much anger there. She'd needed something more than him too. And now that he was gone, being the Cheerio was all that kept her going.
***
Inevitably, Rachel lived in Queens. As she explained ad nauseum, when her two dads had moved to Florida, she'd kept the house. With her commute, using the garden for vegetable smoothies, and not having to pay for hair salons because her hair was naturally full and bouncy, it was actually cheaper than living in the city.
One look at how Quinn easily lifted a box chockfull of old football gear and Rachel said she'd make tea. Her house had a basement with a lot of space now that the dads had moved out, and Quinn felt the depressed anxiety that'd been with her since talking to the super dissolve away with every box she set down. And finally, Finn's whole adult life was packed up in a corner of Rachel's basement.
Looking at it, Quinn blinked with tears. She hadn't cried since that first sleepless night in the hospital. It felt so self-indulgent when Finn was the one hurt.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Rachel said.
She'd walked in on her and like a switch had been thrown, the presence of another warm body and the simple apology hit Quinn in the gut. She doubled over, gritting a sob through her teeth, then forced herself to straighten, then put the fingers of one hand on her sinuses as if she could dry the tears before they emerged. And before the silent, ridiculous battle against herself could continue, Rachel had her hand.
"Come here," Rachel said firmly. The cheerful patois she usually spoke with was gone. Quinn's every emotion seemed magnified; she felt an overwhelming relief that Rachel wasn't babying her. Maybe that was why she let the shorter woman turn her around and, after a moment of hesitation on Rachel's part, embrace her.
Rachel's arms were loose around her, but tight, like a scarf around her neck. Rachel was giving her permission to break free, to push her away, and that just meant Quinn couldn't. She'd stopped crying, but sobs shook her chest, vibrating into Rachel, who uncomplainingly braced herself against them. Then that too died away, but Rachel's arms stayed around her and Quinn stayed in their grip.
Her damp eyes circled around. Rachel's basement was a smorgasbord, leftovers of life upstairs. There were boxes with names like "sheet music" and "choir recital," clearly organized and marked in a script so mechanically crisp it could only be Rachel's. On the floor was a box of video tapes, some desk drawers missing from a filing cabinet, even a couple floppy disks. Rachel's life was so full, and yet it was all organized. Quinn couldn't even remember most days since Finn was injured.
Rachel was warm, too. Soft, in a world that seemed to be all sharp edges and hard surfaces lately. Quinn imagined pulling Rachel to the floor, laying her down on top of the Persian rug that Rachel had probably put down here because it didn't fit with God only knew what décor she had decided on for the rest of the house, and just breathing. Staying in Rachel's arms until layer after layer of ennui and despair and weariness fell away from her. Maybe when she woke up, there'd be no more waking dreams of men and voices.
No. What was she doing? This complete stranger was hugging her and she was going to, Jesus, have a breakdown, sleepover with her like a little girl? With a lesbian at that, not that she cared, but talk about giving someone the wrong idea! As graciously as possible, Quinn untangled herself from Rachel.
"I have to go. I have work.."
"Oh. Okay," Rachel said. She looked like she was on the verge of saying something else when Quinn walked out, breaking into a run when the door shut behind her. A few blocks away, she ducked behind some bushes and changed into her Cheerio costume, secret identity be damned, and let her ribbons take her the rest of the way home.
***
That night, when Quinn laid down in bed, Finn was lying next to her.
"Night, honey."
She rolled away from him. Her eyes screwed shut. But she was all out of tears.
Finn's voice came again. "Quinn?"
"Good night, honey," she forced out.
His hand draped over her shoulder. She kissed it and held it next to her face, letting the simple warmth of it pull her to sleep.
***
When she woke up, there was voice mail waiting for her on her cell phone. She let the little icon flash while she went for coffee. The machine was broken. Just one more thing. She checked her phone. It was Sue.
***
The Daily Corner breakroom hadn't been the same since Sue replaced the microwave with an eternal flame, which doubled as a memorial for Ted Kennedy. Quinn wasn't sure if he'd been that fond of shish-kebob, but no one got to choose how they were remembered. She cornered the coffee machine and forced it into operation, and she was still watching it drip when Sue found her.
"You're here," Sue exclaimed, quelle surprise. "And not wearing black. Aren't you worried the goth secret police will haul you in and confiscate your ankh?"
"I'm not a goth, Sue." She didn't know quite what she was, so she lied. "I'm a reporter, so give me something to report."
Sue bobbed on the balls of her feet like she'd just taken a hit. "Oh, I've got something for you, alright. Some eggheads are opening a new observatory. I guess even though the stars have been there for millions of years, everyone's been too lazy to get to the bottom of them. Go over there and bring me back a story, even if you have to spike the punch! In fact, ask the receptionist for her whiskey flask."
"Got it. Spike the punch. I'll see if I can roofie someone too." Quinn considered the conversation over. She went to get a fresh mug of coffee before she left.
Sue hovered over her. "You know, bad things happen to everyone. When I was eight, my dog was stolen to be experimented on in a laboratory. The next time I saw him, he had robot legs, eight of them. Did I get mad? You're darn right I did. And I got a new dog, and I trained him to viciously attack on command, going for the throat or the genitals. Do you think that dog ended up a cybernetic organism? No. He didn't. I put him down because he either caught rabies or ate my shaving cream. But he had a much longer run than the first, cyborg dog. So what kind of dog do you want, Fabray? A canine with all sorts of doodads and gizmos, or a dog with testicles in its stomach, from consuming groin? It's your call, Fabray. It's all your call."
***
Quinn had class, so that day at least, she didn't start a Twitter account named "Old Woman With An Emma Watson Haircut Says". After a few more hours of being lectured, she dropped by the canteen and picked up a cup of coffee, since she couldn't very well get one at home. She sat down in a corner, the Styrofoam rasping against her fingers and the warmth of the coffee not seeming to reach her palms, as she looked out at the other students.
Most of them don’t even know what’d happened. Would they care if they did? Finn was just some guy, not very bright, not very handsome, (just hers). And Quinn Fabray? A name, nothing more. But she could feel the ones who knew. They were watching her Wondering how she felt, wondering if they should say hello. That’s Quinn Fabray, they were thinking. Isn’t she the girl with the boyfriend in a coma?
"Yeah, that’s me," Quinn muttered. "That’s Quinn Fabray."
"Is this seat taken?" Rachel asked out of nowhere, voice seeming to brim with excitement over the possibility that it wasn't.
Quinn kicked a chair away from the table. "It is now."
Rachel happily perched herself on the chair, digging food out of a paper bag. "Do you always eat alone?"
"It aids my digestion."
Rachel was unwrapping a baked potato packed in aluminum foil. She must've nuked it in the microwave, because it was still warm, the smell wafting off it making Quinn go weak in the knees (it'd been a long time since she'd had something other than leftovers and Chinese take-out). Luckily, she was sitting.
"Oh, are you hungry?" Rachel asked. She hurriedly stuck her fork in the potato and pushed it at Quinn. "Here. You take it. I shouldn't eat it anyway, I'm trying to lose weight."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
Quinn took the damn potato and speared a fragment on her fork. "Why are you trying to lose weight?"
"Oh, you know, the business. I'm trying for a role, so I need to be thin."
"You are thin," Quinn said plainly. "What's the role?" she asked before taking a bite. It felt so good in her mouth, all buttery and warm, that it was an effort to swallow.
"I could be the hero's girlfriend in a new movie. He's a teenage alien. It's based on a book!"
Quinn had been expecting 'crack whore' or 'zombie' or something. Rachel looked fine. Lovely, really. She had a chest and hips, like a woman was supposed to have. She looked like she'd been drawn by an artist, and not someone who could only do stick figures, like Quinn.
It wasn't any of her business.
"Sounds like a big break."
"Not really. He dumps me pretty fast for Jennifer Lawrence. She's so talented."
"Does she have to go on a diet?"
"I didn't ask."
Quinn gestured with her fork like she was stabbing someone. "Fuck 'em. You look great. The casting director probably wants you to look like a boy because he's in the closet."
"Oh, I…"
Quinn pushed the potato between them. "We're splitting this. Eat."
Rachel slowly smiled as she held up another fork.. "I keep a second one for emergencies. Or in case a friend wants to share lunch with me."
Quinn took another bite. Why couldn't she mind her own business? It was what she wanted. Now here Rachel was, thinking they were friends.
"So you're really strong…" Rachel started.
"Pilates."
"That's cool. Maybe we could work out sometime. Or go jogging. I really hate jogging along. I always think I'm going to find a dead body."
Quinn grinned. "So you want me to find a dead body too?"
"Well… you're very clear-headed. You could call the police while I go into hysterics. It would make a great headline. 'Aspiring actress finds body.' I could get a CSI guest-spot out of that."
"Does CSI even film in New York?"
"Of course they do, one of the series is named CSI: New York."
They dove in for the potato at the same time and their hands brushed together. It was nothing, but Rachel ducked her head and giggled. It was like she was high on nitrous oxide or something. The thought struck Quinn that she had something to do with that.
Quinn looked at her, about to tell her off. It would be great to unload on her after all the cutesy bullshit, the knee socks, the thing with Finn. But Rachel looked back.
Quinn impaled the potato. "I'm going to the new observatory opening. It's a work thing. You should come."
"Really?" Rachel asked, so smiley she could've been on drugs.
It was just to thank her for keeping Finn's stuff. That was all.
***
Santana was taking the garbage out when it happened. Usually Sam did it, but she had so much energy lately that two little bags were a cinch. It was only when she dropped them into the can that she realized how heavy they'd been. Then she heard the dog.
It was running toward her, that Great Dane that her neighbor always walked in the evening, since it fucking attacked people. Only he walked it without a leash and people still went outside after the sun set. Damn dog spent all day tied up with a cord, then suddenly it got unleashed.
Santana heard the neighbor yelling and the dog barked and she walked back to the house like nothing was happening, even if she could just picture that fucking mammal biting down on her.
She went inside and the dog jumped on the door, paws scratching at the glass pane, it was that big. She looked back at it, her eyes yellow slits.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 01:51 am (UTC)"No, the production staff wrote small."
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
"So you're a… what's the politically correct term?"
"We're still on lesbian. Although 'vaginally-oriented female' has been suggested in the newsletter."
HAVE I MENTIONED HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS STORY? NOT YET THIS CHAPTER? WELL OKAY.
His hand draped over her shoulder. She kissed it and held it next to her face, letting the simple warmth of it pull her to sleep.
Oh jesus; feelings.
The Daily Corner breakroom hadn't been the same since Sue replaced the microwave with an eternal flame, which doubled as a memorial for Ted Kennedy. Quinn wasn't sure if he'd been that fond of shish-kebob, but no one got to choose how they were remembered.
Seriously, your brain must be like a wonderland.
Everything about your Sue is perfection.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 03:16 am (UTC)I think Rachel is always high on something. ;)
I'm really liking this so far. I echo a previous comment marveling about how your brain works. :) It's awesome.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 09:36 am (UTC)I also really love the last little bit about Santana and her eyes. Really cannot wait for more.