fabrevans drink!fic prompted by professorspork

When he finally finds her sitting on a bench next to a bus stop he almost wants to faint. It's been three hours since Quinn's disappearance after the screaming match between Quinn and Santana in Puck's living room minutes after the New Year rang in.

He remembers how he couldn't hear them from across the room, with everyone cheering and celebrating, but he could see just how intense they were getting until Puck nudged him with a whisper on how Quinn was always an angry drunk with a frown.

Slowing the car to a stop, he figures it's safe to park it next the curb when it's this late, and the streets are completely dead.

This sets his heart pumping and he grips the steering wheel a little bit tighter. He can see her through the window, staring straight ahead with dried mascara on her cheeks, and all he wants to do is jump out the car and crush her into a hug, because girls like Quinn should not be walking around alone at night with nowhere to go.

Instead, he slowly steps out of the car and silently surveys her as he makes his way next to her, because girls like Quinn are skittish and fragile.

When he sits down next to her, he's unsure what to say or whether if Quinn has even noticed his presence. But then lifts her hand to him with barely a glance, and he looks down to see a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels he hadn't noticed before.

He clenches his jaw, and mutters a soft, "No, thanks."

Immediately, she takes a long swing of it and sets the bottle between them on the bench.

He sighs, "Quinn –"

"I thought college would've been different," she says, her words slurry and her voice is rough with what he could only assume were from crying.

"How'd you think it was going to be?"

"I thought...I thought..." She sniffs and grips the edges of the bench in a white knuckle grip. "I don't know - I thought I could have been...happier...happy."

He wants to ask her why, nudge her along, but he knows Quinn and he has this feeling that this is something she needs to admit by herself.

When the silence draws on, she begins to rock back and forth with her lips trapped between her teeth. Gently, her places a hand on her back and she freezes.

"I hate it, Sam," she whispers. "I hate it. I thought I would be happy, because it's not Lima, and there's no stigma or history. But...but there's no one. There's...so many people Sam, but there's no one. I thought...I thought I had Rachel. We were going to keep in touch, but she's been so busy, and she's working so hard, and I can't bear to be her nuisance."

"I wanted to be someone new," she says as more tears slip from her eyes, "But I'm still me…and I hate it."

She turns to meet his gaze and he's trapped by how sad they are and how they remind him of a Christmas tree with red decorations. He hates how the correlation makes him feel helpless. But this is probably the most inebriated he's ever seen her, and he's pretty sure now that Quinn is more of an honest drunk than an angry drunk, so he figures she won't kill him for this.

"Why do we fall, Quinn?"

She blinks a couple times, "What?

"You know, you remind of Batman a lot." When she frowns at him, he feels a little ridiculous but that's okay, because he's not sure if she's even going to remember this. "Okay, you're obviously not an orphan or a vigilante, but…after graduation you just disappeared, and the same thing with the summer before senior year. It was like you never existed – "

"You disappeared too," she snaps, that anger suddenly flashing again.

"At least I tried to keep in touch."

She flinches, and the anger dissipates into something like guilt. He sighs and says, "Look, Bruce…he has a lot of weight on his shoulders. He grew up with a lot of pain and guilt and anger, because his parents got murdered in front of him, and that's pretty traumatizing. So he internalized that and channeled it into the Batman, a hero for all he's worth, but a soulless figure as seen by the public. He channels this all the while keeping a persona of some rich, self-indulgent playboy to keep the press off him."

"Get to the fucking point, Sam."

"It's just, growing up the way you did, having gone through all that, that's what you've internalized. You've hide it from the world, you just haven't found a way to channel it into something…or…fix It, I guess."

"What are you trying to say?" She asks, looking like she's about to take another swing of whisky with a pained look.

He sighs and says, "You have a lot of weight on your shoulders, Quinn. When Bruce was thrown into that prison, he fell many times, but he fought his fear and he still rose. And that's what you gotta do, you're so scared of being happy and fighting for that happiness, that it's turning you into something you're not."

It's then that her face crumples. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and hugs her close. "You can't be Bruce Wayne without Batman, that's just ridiculous."

Her body shakes against his, and he hugs her a little closer.

"What do I do, Sam?" She says against his chest, her voice hoarse.

"Rise," he says with a small grin.

"Shut up," she smacks his arm lightly. "I mean seriously, what do I do?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but snaps it shut. The last thing he wants to do is presume what's the right thing for her to do, because really, it's not his decision to make, and her hands are really super close to his face…

"Should I…talk to someone?"

He glances down at the blonde mop of hair against his chest, "Do you think that would help?"

She's silent for a moment before giving him a small nod.

There's one more thing he's burning to ask, so he takes the hand that had been resting too close to his face and holds it there. "I just…have one more thing to ask."

She sniffs, "Okay?"

"I just…wanted to know…if…"

"Sam."

"Can I be the Robin to your Batman?"