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Wow. What are the odds?
(It’s crazy that upon seeing Rachel Berry for the first time in three years, Quinn’s first thought is actually I wonder how SPSS would chart this development—but then again, three methods & stats modules in three semesters are bound to make someone a little bit nutty.)
She’s spent the last three years wondering if this was in the cards for her: another chance, on a more even playing field.
It didn’t influence her decision to go to New York, which was in effect purely academic (and based on Sam’s choices as much as her own), but there had always been that uncertain pull in the back of her mind that said, this isn’t Lima, and things could be different here.
By “different,” she hadn’t meant exactly this, though: running into a distracted barista Rachel who, without looking up, says, “Okay, next—what can I get you, sweetheart?”, which—
The first response that comes to mind is definitely not a coffee order.
“Vanilla latte, skim milk, venti,” she says, hoping it comes off as steady and prepared and not like she’s about to pass out. “And a grande cappucino. And… um. Some biscotti. And a muffin.” Oh God, did I just actually ask her for a muffin? “Er, I mean a cookie. Raspberry and white chocolate.”
Rachel looks up, thankfully, before she can say even more.
“Quinn?” she says, curiously—but then her face relaxes into that Broadway-destined smile that’s always made Quinn weak at the knees. And then shesqueals.
Some part of Quinn dies, on the spot. Happy, maybe. Mostly just dead.
“Hi,” she says, stupidly. “It’s … been a long time.”
“What are you doing here?” Rachel asks, still all bubbly and excited, scribbling down her order on two cups and sending them sliding down the other end of the counter.
“Ordering coffee,” Quinn says, cursing herself mentally. Sweet Jesus, she has a 4.3 GPA at NYU. She can damn well form words like a normal person. “Um, I mean, I live here.”
“What, in the city?” Rachel asks, her smile falling a bit. “Why haven’t you—I mean, I guess we were never really friends, but still. You’re the only person I know in the city who’s from Lima, I guess. That means something, right?”
“Sam’s here,” Quinn says, digging around her pocket for some change. “I mean, Sam and I are both here.”
Rachel blinks at her rapidly before taking her twenty and then says, “Right. I see. And you were worried I would tell Finn.”
“Um,” Quinn says, before shaking her head when Rachel tries to hand her some change. “Keep it. And … what?”
Rachel’s face draws a little more shuttered when she says, “I know I had my moments of insanity in junior year, like when we spied on you two at that motel, but I haven’t spoken to Finn Hudson since I moved here and anyway, it’s none of my business what you do with Sam.”
“I know, I wasn’t—I just—” Quinn says. Part of her is trying to figure out just how much she just tipped Rachel, and the rest of her is trying to say something sensible. None of that is really working for her, though. “We should hang. Out. Sometime. Now that we all know we’re here.”
Rachel nods a little uncertainly, but a small smile returns to her face. “I’m on Facebook, you know.”
I know, Quinn thinks. Your profile isn’t private because you need casting directors to be able to access your promotional shots and last night you had Chinese take-away that tasted like dishwater and you live with someone named Kelly, who I very irrationally hate because she lives with you, but whatever, I’m working on it.
“My profile’s private. But I’ll find you,” she says.
Rachel gives her another one of those blinding smiles and then says, “Please do. I’m—this is going to sound so weird, but I’m so glad to see you. I mean, to see that you got out.”
Oh, the irony, Quinn’s evil inner head voice says, even as she feels her own eyes well up. “Yeah, well, someone once told me that I had a lot more going for me than … you know. Prom.”
They look at each other for another moment, but then Rachel turns to the next customer in line with a smaller, more professional smile, and Quinn’s eyes drift a little further down to where Rachel’s skirt is—
Oh, geez, and she knows she’s blushing furiously now, so it’s probably time to make a semi-dignified exit.
(She’s already out the door before she remembers that her coffee order is still being processed, and slinks back inside towards the collection area, hoping she doesn’t look as stupid as she feels.)
*
She shoves the latte towards Sam, across their kitchen table, where he’s busy doing some math homework.
“That took you long enough. Thought you were on your way about twenty minutes ago,” he says, before taking a sip and groaning. “Ah, man, Fabray—you let it get cold.”
She drops into the chair opposite his and cups her cappuccino. “You’ll forgive me when I explain why I’m so late.”
Sam looks up from his homework, and his face slowly relaxes into a smile. “No way.”
“Yeah,” Quinn sighs. “I mean, I always thought it might happen someday, but—”
“Yeah, the chances of that happening are higher when you know through Kurt which Starbucks she works in,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair and grinning at her.
“I wasn’t looking at a map when I headed in, okay. You texted me asking for coffee; hers just was the nearest-by coffee place. It was an accidental meeting,” Quinn says, with a frown, until she can feel that stupid Rachel-inspired grin come over her again. “Fated, almost.”
“Uh huh. So how’d it go?” Sam asks, taking another sip of cold latte with a wince.
“Yeah…” Quinn says, staring at the cappuccino and Rachel’s neat script on the side of it. “Not so great.”
“What, is she still all afraid of you? You two were pretty cool by the end of high school.”
“She thinks you and I are dating,” Quinn says, sighing deeply. ”She thinks that we had some elaborate ruse to not piss Finn off in high school and that babysitting is code for our secret affair that’s now lasted for three years.”
Sam actually laughs at her—that dick. ”Oh, boy. And you didn’t think it would be helpful to point out that I’m gay?”
All she can do is glare at him.
“Or that you’re gay?”
Quinn grits her teeth. ”No. Somewhere between tipping her approximately 200% for a cappuccino I had to wait twenty minutes to get and wondering if it’s even legal for waitresses to wear skirts that short, I forgot to bring up the fact that you’re into anal and I’m into her.”
Sam laughs again, pulling his phone out of his pocket and rapidly hitting its keys. ”Geez, two minutes around Rachel Berry and it’s McKinley junior year all over again.”
“Don’t you dare tell Kurt about this or I will actually go HBIC on you. For God’s sake, he only stopped calling me Susan Pevensie three months ago—”
“I’m not texting Kurt, dude,” Sam says, with a smile, ending his text with a flourish. ”I’m texting everyone we know, because you are just that sad.”
“Whatever, Sam. I’m going to go friend her on Facebook.”
He applauds her. “Finally; a positive change from stalking her on Facebook.”
“Shut up,” she mumbles, because honestly, he has no right—after all those years of trying to sneak looks up Kurt’s various manly skirts, he should just give her a freaking break.
*
Rachel accepts her request almost immediately, and Quinn spends the next day and a half trying to come up with an invitation for a drink that isn’t just oh my God I love you, move in with me, because a) that would be insane and b) she and Sam live in the world’s smallest shoebox in Brooklyn and really can’t handle another roommate.
It’s sad, though. It’s actually just pathetic how she can’t come up with any decent thing to say. She’s had years to prepare for this moment. Sam has been trying to prepare her for this moment for years, ever since they’d opened up to each other and had then formed some sort of impenetrable Christian-but-gay alliance together.
At first, their friendship revival really had just been about being a good Samaritan and helping him with his younger sister: many early evenings spent in his motel room, helping his sister fix her hair and pick out outfits for the next school day, while Sam played Battleship with his brother and occasionally strummed a few songs on guitar.
Hanging out in that motel room had been more comfortable than dating him had ever been, and by the time summer of junior year rolled around, it occurred to her that Sam Evans was probably her best friend. She’d lost her boyfriend, and she’d not won that crown that had consumed most of her year, but she’d gained Sam, and somehow that had amounted to a victory anyway.
Of course, the summer had come with parties and having to watch Rachel and Finn moon at each other respectfully from other sides of the room, which had led to wine coolers and potentially terrible decision-making, if not for Sam’s careful intervention every time she’d so much as looked at Puck.
The truth had all come out in August, when she’d spotted Finn actually leaning down to kiss Rachel for the first time, and had gotten so paralytically drunk that she’d spent the remainder of the party praying to the porcelain God.
Sam had found her and held her hair back as she’d started throwing up—a sure sign they were never going to date again, because God, the embarrassment—and then she’d started crying and had said, “Why doesn’t she understand she’s so much better than him?”
Sam had hesitated for a few seconds before finally saying, “Dude, maybe she just doesn’t know she has options.”
“Like what?” Quinn had sighed, rubbing at her eyes and taking the glass of water he was handing her.
“Okay, we’re going to—stop messing around about this, because I only go to church because my parents need me there, and you only go to church because you’re worried what people will say if you stop, but, Quinn, you’re like totally in love with Rachel,” he’d said, really gently and with a supportive hand on her shoulder.
She’d burst into tears all over again and had said, “That’s disgusting, and crazy, and you’re only saying that because I’m drunk.”
Sam had rubbed at the back of her neck and said, “It’s okay, you know, I mean. I kind of love Kurt.”
“Kurt’s a boy,” Quinn had pointed out, aimlessly.
“Yeah. I mean, I know. That’s kind of why I kind of love him,” Sam had said, sounding really embarrassed. “I just wanted you to know, you know, that it’s okay. I mean, I think it’s okay. Some day, we won’t live in Lima, and it’ll be fine to be like this.”
“Everyone is gay,” Quinn had mumbled, rubbing at her eyes.
“In this room, anyway,” Sam had agreed.
“Yeah, well, you’re gay, and I’m gay, but Rachel isn’t gay. Of course she isn’t, because God hates me,” she’d finished, with another sob.
Sam had nudged her in the shoulder and said, “Dude, if anyone could makesomeone gay, it’s you. I mean, you almost made me wish I was straight, so.”
*
They’ve been inseparable ever since.
Only a few people from Lima—Kurt being the most obvious contender—know that they’re not actually a couple. Quinn’s mom still thinks it’s basically the sweetest thing ever that she stayed behind in Lima for one year after high school to help Sam save for school, and Sam’s parents still think that it’s delightful that their future daughter in law is such a good Christian.
Some day, Sam will have to tell his folks that he’s actually seeing an effeminate atheist guy who likes wearing eyeliner, and Quinn will have to break the news that her type is actually irritating, dwarf-like and Jewish. None of that negates that they are incredibly close and wouldn’t have ever made it through the last year of high school, let alone out of Lima, without each other.
Sam can basically read her mind, and does just that, stopping in her doorway on the way back from the kitchen and saying, “We should go and watch the Knicks game together, so if you lose the ability to form words again, we can all just watch some basketball.”
“You could try to be a little understanding, you know; I distinctly remember you almost throwing up on Kurt’s shoes when you tried to tell him how you feel,” Quinn says, with a glare.
“Maybe if you hadn’t laughed at me, I would be nicer now,” he says, tossing her a bag of Cheetos with a smile.
“I can do this. I was head cheerleader, and almost prom queen, and now I’m an awesome psychology major who may actually complete a four year degree in three years. I can do this,” she says, mostly to herself, but with a pointed look at Sam.
He smiles for another moment and then steps into her room, nudging her away from her laptop. “How about you just work up the nerve to have a normal conversation with her, and I’ll send her a message that makes it seem like you’re mentally all there.”
*
Admitting to Sam how she felt had basically opened up a floodgate of feelings that she really just hadn’t been ready to deal with.
Most of senior year, she’d worked out new and interesting ways to avoid Rachel, who now only had to look at her to get her completely tongue-tied. She’d tried being bitchy to her all over again, but honestly, her heart hadn’t been in it and the stupid nicknames that used to roll off her tongue so easily now just lodged in her throat.
Avoidance had been the only thing to work, and it hadn’t been that hard to accomplish, either—glee club got bigger after they won Nationals in Junior year, and Rachel had been so busy trying to make everything even more perfect for her victory lap that honestly, Quinn had been able to blend into the background.
She’d owed Santana and Brittany some massive thanks, too, for coming out at the end of junior year and basically throwing the odds of there being anyone else gay in glee club into the statistically unbelievable.
Sam had distracted her, to the best of his ability, and then before she’d been able to come to any sort of terms with what she’d actually wanted todo about her .. thing for Rachel, it had been the last week of school and she’d been pronounced valedictorian and she’d had to write a speech about where they had come from and where they were going.
In the end, there had never been any choice than to start her speech with, “Someone once told me that I was a lot more than just a pretty face”—but that had been the last thing she’d said to Rachel, and she’d directed it at almost two thousand people alongside her.
It was only when Rachel had packed up and left that Quinn realized that there was now a massive, Rachel-shaped void in her life that she’d possiblynever stop thinking about. She’d spent two days on the verge of taking off after her.
Sam had stopped her, and said, “Dude, you are going to scare the shit out of her if you go after her like this. She thinks you basically hate her, so you need a lot more of a plan than just heading to New York and throwing yourself at her.”
Quinn had sighed and gotten really drunk, and that had been the end of it, basically.
*
Except now, they live in New York, and Rachel is meeting them for drinks to watch a basketball game, and she’s so fluttery and nervous that she thinks she might actually vomit on Rachel’s shoes the way that Sam almost did on Kurt’s.
“Don’t worry, I brought a barf bag,” he says, almost on cue, wrapping an arm around her on the subway. “And just remember, you’re so hot people walk into doors when they look at you. The absolute worst thing that could happen is that she’d be flattered.”
It’s sort of a consolation.
*
That smooth start she’s been praying for: a total bust.
The first thing she blurts out when she sees Rachel is, “Is there a fabric shortage in North America that I’m just not aware of?”
Sam elbows her in the ribs, hard, but Rachel somehow just laughs and tips onto her toes to press kisses to both of their cheeks.
“God. Look at you two,” she says, with a fond smile. “I always did think you looked great together.”
Sam says, “Good to see you again, Rach; you look amazing” and pulls her into a hug, and Quinn has to work fairly hard to not growl at him when he winks at her in the process.
“So—basketball?” Rachel asks, when they’re sitting down. “I didn’t think you actually liked sports, Quinn.”
“You can only cheer for them for so long before developing an interest,” Quinn says, with a shrug.
Sam had rattled off their drinks order to Rachel, who had returned to give hera fruity cocktail while Sam now has her coveted Goose Island IPA. Switching now, though, would just be equivalent to drawing a pink triangle on her forehead, so she takes a cringing sip of the incredibly sweet grenadine-based shit that Sam likes and watches as he swallows quickly just to not actually taste the beer.
“Don’t listen to her,” he says, when he’s washed it down. “She won her study group’s play-off pool by like a 3:1 margin.”
Rachel smiles and says, “This is going to sound so lame, but I’m so happy to see you both. You look great. Honest. Just—a lot more relaxed than you did in high school.”
“Well, it helped that my dad finally got a job, shortly after we graduated,” Sam says, his voice dropping a bit. Quinn reflexively squeezes his knee, and watches as Rachel watches her do that, which—good God, she’s really not helping her own case here. “I mean, we were both under a lot of pressure in high school. Now we’re just—”
“Ourselves,” Quinn says, with a small smile at Rachel. “Finally.”
Rachel’s smile back is a little confused and a lot curious, and Sam says, “Right, I’m going to go and call—uh, a friend. I’ll be right back.”
Quinn trains her eyes on the television above the bar when Sam slides out of the booth behind her and then hisses a soft yes when the Knicks go into half-time with a twenty point lead over the Celtics.
Rachel smiles and says, “So. You and Sam.”
Quinn’s eyes leave the TV and look back at Rachel. “We’re best friends.”
“It shows,” Rachel says, with sort of a wistful look on her face. “You two are… well, everything I would’ve wanted to be with Finn. But we never really made it there.”
Quinn takes a deep breath and decides to just put it out there, because, honestly. “Rach—you don’t want what Sam and I have.”
“Don’t be silly; everyone wants that level of connectedness and comfort with another person,” Rachel protests, finishing off her gin & tonic with a small noise.
“Sure,” Quinn says, before sighing and switching her and Sam’s drinks around, ignoring Rachel’s surprised look. “I’m pretty sure that most people also want sex, though.”
Rachel shrugs and says, “I was in the abstinence club with you, Quinn. Sometimes waiting makes sense.”
Oh, my God, help me, Quinn thinks, and then clears her throat. “Um, we’re not so much waiting as just—lacking the appropriate equipment. For each other.” The sip of beer she takes is a little pointed, and when she licks at her lips to get rid of the lingering foam, Rachel’s eyes widen almost comically.
“Oh,” she says, staring at her empty drink like she’s willing it to refill itself.
Quinn sees Sam, clearly talking to Kurt if the goofy look on his face is anything to go by, outside, and mimes a drink before pointing at Rachel. He gives her a thumbs up and then laughs at something Kurt’s saying, and Quinn looks back at Rachel with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I’m just not used to people assuming that we’re together anymore,” she says.
Rachel’s face goes through a variety of expressions until she looks straight at Quinn and says, “I’m going to kill Kurt Hummel. That little bastard. Sam is who he’s been seeing for the past six months, isn’t he.”
Quinn fights a smile. “No comment, though I will say that if Kurt didn’t tell you it’s because Sam asked him not to.”
“Why?” Rachel asks.
“Because,” Quinn says, with a sigh. “His parents don’t know, and we’ve both tried pretty hard to not have any connections to Lima since we’ve moved out here. Things just slip out, and we really should be the ones to tell our families, in our own time.”
Another gin & tonic appears in front of Rachel, and she downs it in one go.
She doesn’t say anything else, though, and Quinn sighs in relief when Sam nudges her over to the other side of the booth and says, “So. What’d I miss?”
*
Rachel recovers like a pro, though, and after another four drinks or so actually says, “I can’t believe you’re gay. You had a baby!” before laughing in that way that makes Quinn’s heart melt all over again.
For the sake of posterity, though, she forces herself to sigh and say, “Gay people can have babies, Rachel.”
“Yeah, but not by doing the dirty with Noah Puckerman,” she says, making a face. “That must’ve been so awful for you.”
“On so many levels,” Quinn agrees, smiling when Sam checks his watch and says, “Guys, this has been great, but I need to bail; I have a test first thing tomorrow morning and I’ve studied for like ten minutes so far, so—”
“Oh,” Rachel says, looking between them. “Well, I had a good time, but—”
“I don’t have to go,” Quinn says, quickly, because at this point it’s just easier to acknowledge that she has zero percent restraint or game around Rachel, and she can handle Sam giving her shit about it. “Unless you—”
“No, no, I’m fine. Just a singing lesson at 2 tomorrow, but otherwise,” Rachel says, shrugging and blearily looking at the five empty drinks in front of her. “Let’s stay. I can drink more, I think.”
Sam shrugs back into his jacket and presses a kiss to Quinn’s skull, before saying, “I think you might have a chance” in a low voice.
Quinn hisses a shut up at him, but finds herself dopily smiling at Rachel anyway.
“You’re actually gay,” Rachel says, staring back with a similarly drunk expression.
“Yep,” Quinn says.
“You kiss girls.”
“Sometimes,” Quinn agrees, tilting her head a little and resting it on her hand. “When I like them.”
“And then you have sex with them,” Rachel says, blinking rapidly at that realization. “Wow.”
“Well…” Quinn says, wondering if she’s as red as she feels. “That part—hasn’t so much, I mean, … I do still believe in waiting. For the right person. It’s just been a few—there hasn’t been anyone serious. I haven’t felt like… for anyone, the way I—”
Beer number five was definitely one too many. God, she hardly ever drinks; only when she’s nervous and emotional, which explains the rapid pace of consumption tonight.
“Oh, I see,” Rachel says, with a small smile. “A mystery person from the past.”
“Not really,” Quinn mumbles, because, duh, very much in the present now.
“Santana,” Rachel guesses, with a pointed finger at Quinn. “She’s awful, but so pretty. But also so hung up on Brittany. Gosh, Quinn, that’s a rough deal.”
Quinn almost gags a little at the idea. “God. Really not. I mean, we were hardly even friends, and I wouldn’t sleep with someone if I thought they might strangle me afterwards just to get to the top of the pyramid, so.”
“Brittany?” Rachel asks. “She was always so sweet.”
“Yeah, but, stupid,” Quinn says, before sighing. “That was mean. Sorry. I just—I like being challenged. And not just in terms of flexibility. Which—I can’t believe I just said that. I need to stop drinking.”
Rachel’s still looking at her, a straw stuck between her teeth, when she says, “Tina?”
Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “I barely even knew Tina, Rachel.”
“Well, then, who? I know all your friends from back then, and—” Rachel says, and Quinn can literally see the moment that truth rushes past all the alcohol and penetrates her brain.
“Sorry,” she says, and then almost actually hits herself in the face, because what kind of reaction is that.
“Don’t apologize,” Rachel says, before finishing drink number six with a loud slurp. “But. Really? We fought about the same guy for years. You hated me.”
“Yeah… not really, actually,” Quinn says, with a wince.
“Wow. My dads always did tell me that a religious upbringing was like a one-way ticket to Egypt, if you know what I mean,” Rachel says, before focusing on Quinn again.
“Egypt?” Quinn asks. Honestly, most of her is just thinking no drink to the face yet; she’s not running; when will the other shoe drop?
“Yeah, there’s like—a river there,” Rachel says, and only then does she smile a little and say, tentatively, “You like me.”
“I’m really sorry,” Quinn says, again.
“You’ve liked me for years,” Rachel says, still sounding a little disbelieving.
“I mean, I have… really good self-control. I won’t like… I’ll stay two feet away from you at all times,” Quinn says, a little miserably. “I just thought you should know because everyone else does, so if we’re going to start hanging out—”
“The prettiest girl I’ve ever met likes me,” Rachel says, and Quinn braces herself for whatever insanity is going to follow when her eyes light up at the idea. “This is so Hollywood. I feel like I’m in the lesbian adaptation of Cinderella, except I’m the princess and you’re the…. well, I guess the other princess, and it’s already past midnight and there are no pumpkins.”
Quinn feels herself die a little on the inside. “I’m glad you’re flattered, but can we maybe—change the subject?”
Rachel blinks twice and says, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I just—of course. We can um, talk about that game that was on earlier. Go Bulls, right?”
Quinn runs a hand across her face with a sigh and says, “I’ll get us some more drinks; maybe you can Google the NBA before I come back, or something, and then we’ll try that conversation again.”
*
Rachel sends her approximately fifteen apologetic Facebook messages the next day, and Quinn reads and re-reads all of them.
“Is this a good thing?” she asks Sam, when he leans over her shoulder and reads the one that just says It’s only natural that I’m flattered, but I want you to know that I’m flattered not just because you’re so pretty but also because I know what a great person you are.
“Well, she’s not running and screaming, and she clearly hasn’t called your mom yet to like, ruin your life. Rach has always been pretty cool, you know. If you don’t ever want to talk about it again, she won’t.”
Quinn sighs and rubs at her eyes. “The problem is that I do want to talk about it, and by talking about it I mostly mean like, shoving her up against a vertical structure and showing her exactly—”
“Ew. Ew, ew. Ew,” Sam says, backing away from her chair. “Fabray, you really need to get some.”
“I’m saving myself,” she says, with a desperate sigh, refreshing Facebook yet again. “For the greatest, most wonderful, stupidly insane and amazing girl I’ll ever meet, who—oh God, here’s another one.”
Maybe we can meet for coffee and talk about it (without drinking). I really just want to apologize. Call me!
Sam grins when she reads it out loud. “Who knows, dude. Maybe you won’t be saving yourself for too much longer.”
*
Rachel gets an employee discount and the best, fast service that Quinn has ever seen in a Starbucks; and then she smiles when Rachel gives her a latte.
“Okay, we’re going to have to work on your assumptions about who likes the girly drinks,” she says, but gamely takes a sip anyway.
Rachel sits down across from her with a mocha and then says, lowering her eyes, “I’m really sorry I reacted so unbelievably poorly. I have two gay parents, there are just no excuses.”
“Rachel, it’s okay. If I’d been in your shoes…” Quinn says, with a small smile.
“I’d had too much to drink, and honestly, my instinctive reaction was to pinch myself, because this kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me. I mean, I’ve had a crush on you since the day we met, and I just always thought it was pointless because hello, bastion of heterosexuality and abstinence whohates me for completely obscure reasons that are possibly a sign of envy of my talent, but—”
Quinn promptly knocks both of their drinks off the table with one spastic arm jerk. “What did you just say?”
Rachel freezes like a deer in headlights. “I’m—you should probably—oh,man.”
“You had a crush. On me,” Quinn says, slowly.
Rachel bites her lip nervously and then rolls her eyes with a self-deprecating little laugh. “Quinn, I wanted your nose on my face.”
“Yeah, for Finn,” Quinn says, staring at Rachel some more. “… right?”
Rachel flinches and nods simultaneously. “Sure. That’s what I told myself at the time, because the alternative of just wanting to look at your face all the time was just—a little too much to handle.”
“It’s not even my real nose,” Quinn says, in a reed-thin tone of voice.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that then, did I,” Rachel grumbles, before leaning down and dabbing up their spilt coffee with some napkins.
”Why didn’t you ever—” Quinn starts to say, but then stops, because that’s a mutual accusation; the raised eyebrow on Rachel’s face pretty much says it all. “I didn’t know you were—”
“I’m not. I’m, I mean, I’ve slept with guys. … and girls. Juilliard is kind of… experimental,” Rachel says, blushing mildly in a way that makes Quinn want to knock over the coffee table between them and mount her.
She goes for something a little more dignified than that, though. “High school could’ve been so much better for both of us if we’d just been honest with ourselves.”
“I don’t know. I think we probably have more of a chance out here, in the real world,” Rachel says, cautiously, before glancing at Quinn from under the table. “Maybe.”
“Come to my house for dinner,” Quinn says, before she loses her nerve. “I’ll kill Sam and bury him somewhere so he can’t ruin everything with his stupidStar Wars jokes, and I’ll make you some pasta. You’re vegan, right? Still?”
Rachel hits her head on the table hard, on the way back up with two soggy napkins, and then says, “I’ll eat anything that you’ve had your hands on. I mean—that—oh, my God”, before covering her face with her hands and shaking her head. “What is wrong with me. I’m the most eloquent person I know!”
It’s like staring in a mirror, Quinn thinks, before bursting into laughter and saying, “We’ll start with pasta, then. I guess. And … see where that goes.”
*
They are absolutely incapable of talking like two normal people, which is why it’s probably a good thing that Quinn—after years of training on how to be a good housewife—is focusing on making an excellent, excellent meal, and Rachel is humming to herself while going through Quinn and Sam’s CD collection.
“You didn’t strike me as the Andrew Lloyd Webber type,” Rachel says, hopping onto the counter and watching as Quinn sautees some mushrooms.
“Yeah, I’m not really. I just have a penchant for… um. Things that a certain someone likes. Maybe,” Quinn says, tossing the mushrooms in the pan and then rolling her eyes. “I think I’m giving up on being embarrassed around you, now. It’s sort of losing all meaning.”
“You know, I always thought you were out of this world beautiful, and smart and admirable, but I never would’ve thought you’d be this sweet,” Rachel says, before picking up a fork and stealing a mushroom from the pan.
Quinn glares at her. “Don’t mess with dinner until it’s done.”
“Or what—you’ll Slushie me?” Rachel says, with an amused look on her face.
Quinn sighs and says, “I’ve never personally Slushied you, and I’m very sorry for all the times when I asked other people to. You know that, don’t you?”
Rachel snorts and says, “Honestly, Quinn, you’ve prepared me for the real world of acting and singing better than anything else in Ohio ever could have. I need the iron will and the elephant-like skin if I’m going to make it here.”
“Even so,” Quinn says, lowering the heat and flicking on the kettle to boil some water, before looking back at Rachel. “I would do a lot of things differently, if I could.”
“Like what?”
“Like… maybe kiss you. In the bathroom, at junior prom.”
“As opposed to slapping me?” Rachel says, with a little grin. “Yeah, that would’ve probably led to a more… fun conclusion to the night.”
Quinn laughs almost despite herself, wondering if she’s just going to be permanently blushing around Rachel these days. “When did you get this shameless?”
Rachel smiles and says, “Like I said. Juilliard is kind of experimental.”
Quinn takes a sip of wine before passing the glass over the Rachel. “You weren’t like this in high school, that’s for sure.”
“I guess not,” Rachel says, still with a coy little smile. “But… if you play your cards right, you can find out exactly how shameless I am these days. I think you might like it.”
Quinn fumbles basically all of the pans on the stove at once and watches as their entree goes sailing towards the wall opposite the stove.
“Shit,” she says.
Rachel hops off the counter, turns off the stove, and grabs her by the wrist. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking of dessert as the main course anyway.”
*
She’s not even wearing matching underwear, for God’s sake.
Rachel doesn’t really seem to care, though, if the speed at which she’s stripped from her black panties and blue bra are anything to go by.
“I’m sorry, this is probably a bit fast, but I promise I’ll take it nice and easy on the important parts,” she says, shoving Quinn backwards onto her bed.
“I’m fine,” Quinn promises, sitting up just long enough to yank on Rachel’s slip of a skirt and watch it sail down her endless legs. “God, I have thought about this so many times.”
“When?” Rachel asks, with another one of those knowing smiles.
“Like, constantly,” Quinn says, because it’s the truth.
“Be more specific,” Rachel says, shimmying out of her panties and then more or less crawling on top of her. “Because hearing you say what I think you’re trying to avoid saying would be fulfilling a very particular fantasy I’ve had since I was sixteen.”
Quinn makes a strangled little noise in response, and then can’t even respond anymore because Rachel is kissing her, deep and hard and with a lot of pent up want; it’s exactly as it should be, between two people who have been so dense for so long, and she feels her nails dig into Rachel’s back just hard enough for it to hurt.
“Say it,” Rachel murmurs, shifting just enough to start planting small kisses up and down Quinn’s jaw. “Or I’m getting dressed again and going home.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Quinn says, wrapping a leg around Rachel’s waist and pulling her back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“No, I’m not,” Rachel agrees, before pushing up a bit and smiling that same smile that Quinn has always been unable to resist. “Say it anyway.”
“I’m a good Christian,” Quinn protests. “I don’t do what you’re trying to get me to admit to doing.”
One of Rachel’s hands drops between her legs, which spread embarrassingly easily at just the feel of Rachel’s fingers near her thighs, and she says, “Really? You don’t ever—”
“Ugh, no, of course I do,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes. “I’m a twenty-one year old girl, I’m not a nun.”
“So say it,” Rachel asks, again, her nails dragging along Quinn’s inner thigh until she trembles.
“I don’t say stuff like this. I don’t go to Juilliard,” Quinn protests, but she can’t help a small smile at the challenging look on Rachel’s face.
“Give me time, and you’ll say things you’ve never even thought before now,” Rachel says, almost like a promise, before kissing her again, nibbling gently on her lower lip even as her hand skims forward just a little bit more.
“And to think that people thought I was the mean one in high school,” Quinn laughs breathlessly, when she can.
Rachel smiles when Quinn glances down between them, at where her hand is snaking up Rachel’s side and tentatively reaching for one of her breasts. “You’re pretty amazing, you know,” she says, and the playfulness threatens to drop away just like that.
Quinn sighs and says, “I know, but keep telling me anyway.”
It’s not at all serious, and it’s not nearly as wrought with meaning as she always figured it would be. Rachel’s gentle teasing is distracting her enough to relax completely, and when Rachel stops teasing and starts touching her in earnest, she almost says something stupid like thank you, because it couldn’t have been more perfect if they’d spent two years planning for the event.
“Amazing,” Rachel says again, when Quinn’s back arches gently into her hand and her eyes squeeze shut unexpectedly hard.
“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, when she can.
Rachel’s still just sort of goofily looking at her, an incredibly fond smile playing around her lips. “I can’t believe I just did it with Quinn Fabray,” she says, after another moment.
“Shut up, Rachel,” Quinn laughs, pulling Rachel down for another quick kiss, and then flipping her over in her first of many quests to find out if all that internet research on how to have sex with girls has been of any help at all.
*
They do have dinner, after that, and Rachel looks a little less rampantly horny and confident now, in one of Sam’s dress shirts and a pair of gym shorts, curled up on the end of their ratty old couch.
“I just thought it was for the best,” she says, when Quinn pours them both a little bit more wine. “I mean, I know you’ve said that you like me, but it’s just so hard to believe—I’m sure you feel the same way. Now we can stop wondering if we mean it, because, um. Wow. Right?”
Quinn smiles and nudges Rachel’s thigh with her toe. “Stop being so cute; if you keep it up, we’re never going to eat dinner, and it did take me about two hours to do the prep work.”
Rachel just smiles back, because holy crap they are lame together.
Then, she takes a first bite; her eyes widen when she swallows, and then she stares at Quinn and says, “We’re dating, right? Because after um, the best sex of my life and this absolutely amazing meal, I think you’ve pretty much ruined me for everyone else in this city, if not just everyone else in this world.”
Quinn laughs and, somehow channeling Sam, says, “Yeah, sure. Let’s date. That’d be cool.”
Rachel crinkles her nose and says, “We’re doing this completely in the wrong order and without a shred of romance.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve tried the right order, and that had me ending up with a guy that the girl I really liked also wanted to be with,” Quinn says, with a wry smile. “Maybe the wrong order is where it’s at for us, Rach.”
“Fine. I’m willing to compromise on the order,” Rachel says, after a long moment of inhaling more pasta and staring into the distance with a contemplative look. “Not the romance, though.”
Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “If you insist, you can buy me some flowers tomorrow. And maybe sing me a song about how much you like me, or something.”
“Okay then,” Rachel says, scraping the last bit of her sauce off the plate with her fork and licking it off. “I’m glad you’re amenable to reason.”
“Anytime,” Quinn says, stacking their plates together and putting them down on the floor, just in time before Rachel kisses her again.