Summary: "Her enthusiasm is almost nauseating, but you find yourself suppressing a grin. It's strange – not caring – because, for once, you don't feel like you're confessing a sin when you admit to yourself that you like her ridiculous smile and long eyelashes." — one-shot, AU, Faberry, skank!Quinn

Rated: T

A/N: I wrote this after a good amount of bourbon and listening to Mary Lambert. Her cover of "Teenage Dirtbag" is amazing and gave me weird skank!Quinn feelings. This is pretty light and fluffy and not the tidiest thing I've written, but it was fun!

How Does She Know Who I Am

The first time you set foot in William McKinley High School, everyone's head turns. You're used to this by now – the stares. You slept with a boy you thought you could fall in love with, and he held your hand when you found out you were pregnant. It's an open adoption, but nothing about you has been open since she left your arms in the hospital.

Your father moved your family to Lima, Ohio because of "work," but you, your mother, and your sister all know that it was because you stained their family name in Cleveland. Your sister didn't mind because she's going to school out West and is finding herself independently of the Fabray name.

Summer before senior year is a shit time to move, but getting pregnant your sophomore year is also shitty timing. So you dyed your hair bright pink, got a fake ID, and joined a band in Columbus over the summer. Your parents hold a Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy in the house, and they figure you'll get this all out of your system soon enough.

You hear some whispers, but you just give a tall, doofy-looking guy a wink. Based on his facial expression, you think you may have broken him. You decide that's enough to give them something to talk about, enough so you can get away with being silent.

You skip gym class and chain smoke beneath the bleachers. You meet the "Skanks," and they're the closest thing to abnormal in this quaint, little town, so you settle with hanging out with them when ditching class.

"You like chasing skirts?" one asks as they follow your gaze on the cheerleaders.

Part of you freezes up because Lucy Fabray is a good Catholic girl who only has eyes on quarterbacks, but she's back in that suburb outside of Cleveland, wearing her sundresses and Homecoming Queen smile. You're Quinn now.

"I don't chase anything," you say with a shrug, "but I don't waste my time with boys."

The other girl smirks, "I don't play for that team, but I like your style, Fabray."

You've always been a quick learner, so it's no surprise that you've picked up the guitar no problem. You know how to read music from years of piano lessons, but your sister has always been the superior pianist.

You plug your guitar into your amp. You traded in the acoustic guitar for an electric around the same time you traded blonde for hot pink.

You strum, pleased with the acoustics in the auditorium.

You start playing the latest song your band has been working on, but your fingers slip and an ugly chord rings out. You're pissed because you know the band isn't rehearsing nearly as much as you, and you know that finding a time to rehearse together is nearly impossible now that the school year has started.

You hear the sound of a door clicking shut.

"Can I help you?" you call out.

You're only met with silence, so you shrug it off and start to play "Rich," by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, one of the few songs the band can cover well. There's something exhilarating about playing music, but when your voice echoes throughout the auditorium when you finish the song, you suddenly feel lonely.

You can't decide if you want to tell her to shut up or shut her up by pressing your mouth to hers. You're learning about the Civil War for the tenth time in high school, and it's all quite boring, so you welcome this interruption.

"As many of you know, New Directions," you chuckle at this, getting a few stares from classmates for actually reacting to something, "is due for a championship win at Nationals this year. We're always looking for new members of various talents. Since this is the last class of the day, I wanted to let people know that we'll be meeting in the choir room for the first glee club meeting of the year!"

Her enthusiasm is almost nauseating, but you find yourself suppressing a grin. It's strange – not caring – because, for once, you don't feel like you're confessing a sin when you admit to yourself that you like her ridiculous smile and long eyelashes.

Someone coughs a "you suck," but you don't see her react at all. You wonder if she's used to this or if she's a bit hard of hearing. You kind of want to punch the kid who said it because you assume the former.

You go to the auditorium after school and try to cover a bunch of songs that you know you'll never sing with the band. Again, you hear one of the doors open and close, but are once again met with silence.

"Hi!"

You look up from your book and see a peppy blonde in a cheerleading uniform sitting across from you. You successfully acquired your own table in the back corner of the cafeteria, and no one has dared to sit with you all week. The Skanks skip lunch and smoke cigarettes or drive off campus to smoke a joint, but you use this opportunity for some alone time.

(The table is also located close to the glee club table, and you haven't been able to keep your eyes off Rachel – turns out she's in your trigonometry, American lit, and gym class. You started attending those classes more.)

"Uh, hi," you respond.

A brunette cheerleader is watching from a few tables over, and when you make eye contact, she outright glares at you.

"I like your hair. Pink is my favorite color. I just wanted to come over because some people were saying you smoke math, and I was saying that's impossible and that you're probably really nice."

Your jaw just hangs slightly open as you try to think of any kind of response.

"I'm Brittany. That's my girlfriend Santana over there," she points and waves. "She's the sweetest." This is hard to believe because her girlfriend is still looking like she wants to murder you.

"I'm sure," you say, giving Brittany a small smile.

"You should join Glee."

"No thanks," you say. "I'm in a band. Can't commit to something else."

"Aren't you lonely though? We're a lot of fun. I mostly just dance," Brittany says, practically dancing in her seat in excitement, "So you can do whatever."

"I appreciate the offer, but I like playing my own music."

Brittany pouts, "Okay, but you're always welcome to join."

You nod and watch her skip away, kissing Santana on the cheek before sitting down. Santana softens once Brittany's sitting beside her, and something hopeful fills your chest. When you look over to the glee table, you see Rachel looking at you. It's brief enough to make you question if it really happened, so you just turn your attention back to Brittany and Santana, hiding your smile behind your book.

You left your guitar at home, so you sit at the piano bench in the silence of the auditorium. You're good at playing, but your sister mastered all the classics to the extent that you never even tried to compare. You've always had to find your way in the darkness of your sister's shadow. You glide your fingers across the keys and begin playing. You end up playing a cover you taught yourself over the summer because it came easy to you, because you want things to come as easy as music to you.

Her name is Noelle
I have a dream about her
She rings my bell
Got gym class in half an hour…

You laugh to yourself as you keep playing because it's a rather silly song, but you close your and imagine brown eyes and an award-winning grin. So you laugh because it's all so unbelievable that you've fallen for this obnoxious, tiny girl within a week at McKinley High.

And she doesn't give a damn about me
'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby
Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby…

"You know, smoking is very hazardous to your health. And your voice."

You spin around, seeing a very uncomfortable-looking Rachel standing near the entrance of the bleachers. The other skanks are out for a blunt ride, but you opted out to smoke some cigarettes and do some reading. You don't get high with them anymore because the last time you were so high when you got back to school, you couldn't focus on anything in American lit.

"No, shit," you say, and it comes out less confidently than you'd like.

She clears her throat, but looks right at you. "You can sing."

"Uh, a lot of people can."

"I mean, you sing. Well."

You both just look at each other for a bit, and when she doesn't carry on, you lick your lips to hide your smirk before taking another drag from your cigarette.

"So I'm guessing you were the one walking in on my rehearsal time."

Rachel nods, "Yes, and I'm sorry if it interrupted you at all. If anything, I have a huge amount of respect for an artist's personal space."

"So why are you here?"

She looks down at her feet, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to find something to fill the silence. You inhale more smoke, filling your lungs with chemicals to stifle the way your heart keeps thumping.

"I thought you were a talker. Aren't you supposed to be better at this?" you finally say, smoke leaving your mouth with your words.

"While I am quite articulate on many topics," she says, taking a few tentative steps toward you, "I have to admit that I'm quite speechless when it comes to you, Quinn Fabray."

Your heart stutters at the sound of your name, and you realize you've never heard her actually sing. Her saying your name is the closest to a song to leave her lips. Her head is tilted slightly to the side as she looks at you, and you bring the cigarette to your lips again as an attempt to shrug any discomfort.

"I think I'm one of many who can't quite figure out who you are. Lima's a small town, so everyone's a bit curious," Rachel explains.

"I like keeping the mystery alive," you say sarcastically, blowing smoke from the corner of your mouth, purposely away from her.

"I know Brittany asked you, but… would you reconsider joining glee?"

"Sure… Still no." Music has been for you more than anything, especially since Beth. To let people into that just seems too close for comfort.

Rachel almost pouts, but lets out a bit of a huff. "Look, I don't know where you're coming from, so forgive me for being so blunt when I say that I think glee club could use you just as much as you could use glee club."

"You're right, you don't know where I'm coming from." It's quiet, but harsh. You learned this from many years of training from your father – how to have the final say and shut down a conversation.

"Okay," Rachel says, a slow nod. She turns to leave, but not before adding, "You're a beautiful performer, Quinn."

You stayed up late talking to your sister, and she's doing the best she can to support you from hundreds of miles away. You didn't realize how much you had to say until you hung up the phone at two in the morning.

So the arm that's supporting your head keeps slipping off your desk, waking you up from unintentional naps in trigonometry. Eventually you stop trying to stay awake and fall asleep face first on your desk.

You shoot up straight when you feel something poke your back. You don't get the chance to whip around and break whatever woke you because the bell rings almost immediately.

You're rubbing the sleep from your eyes when a notebook is placed on the desk in front of you. You look up and see Rachel walking out of the class.

You get to the library for study hall and examine the notebook with a gold star on it. You open it to see neatly written trigonometry notes. When you get to the last page of notes, you find a post-it.

You started nodding off at this point in the class. Figured you might want the notes for the quiz in a couple days from now. You can give them back to me before gym tomorrow. – Rachel

You skip gym, and you smoke three cigarettes as you flip through Rachel's notebook, memorizing her mindless doodles and stars in the margins.

You hear the bell ring in the distance when someone clears their throat pointedly.

"I was expecting those back before the class you chose to skip."

You can't help but grin when you see Rachel standing there with her hands on her hips, her hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail, still dressed in her gym clothes.

You put the cigarette between your lips, still grinning as you close her notebook, walk over, and hand it to her.

"Thanks. And I'm not joining glee."

"Why?" Rachel practically whines, swatting the smoke from the air, "It's not like you're fending off people dying for your friendship."

"What makes you think I need any? Or want yours?"

Rachel actually looks hurt, but simply sighs before taking a seat on one of the beams supporting the bleachers. "To be honest, I don't know. I think I'm going a bit crazy." You grin when you see that her feet can't touch the ground.

You sit beside her and ash your cigarette on the other side of you.

"I saw you walk in, and I just thought there was something special about you," she continues quietly.

You swallow your reaction and take a long pull from your cigarette, "Sorry, but I'm pretty average."

Rachel lets out a breathy laugh, "Your hair says otherwise," she says, and she looks up at you before adding, "And your voice."

"I'm flattered," you admit, "that you thought that about me, but the music thing is kind of personal."

"I guess I'm being selfish," she confesses, "I just… I want this year to be the best year for everyone… and I really want you to be a part of it."

Something in your chest bursts open, and you feel your hands tingles as if the circulation has finally returned. You've grown so accustomed to carrying around knotted veins, choking your heart. Then her hand is on yours, and you're both smiling at each other.

"You want to help me study for trig?" you ask with a smile.

"Sure," Rachel says, her face brightening at your suggestion. "But only if…" she trails off and leans in closer. Your eyes begin to flutter closed, but her hand disappears from yours and you realize she's removed the cigarette from your hand.

"Really?" you say in an exasperated tone in attempt to hide your embarrassment.

"You can't smoke around me! Or ever, really. It's bad for you!" she says, dropping the cigarette on the ground and stamping it out.

"I know this," you say. You realize she also pulled the pack of cigarettes from your coat pocket, and she's holding them away from you.

"You realize you're basically a hobbit and I can just take those back," you say, frowning.

"Hobbit? Oh, come on. Santana has way better insults," Rachel says with a smirk, waving your Camel cigarettes in front of you.

Rachel might be shorter than you, but she's fast. Between the cigarettes and childbirth, you aren't as quick as you used to be. By the time you catch up to Rachel, she's flushed your cigarettes down the toilet in the girl's bathroom. You tell her she owes you six dollars and that you're just going to buy more, but when she smiles triumphantly at you, you know you only want to breathe in the same clean air as her from now on.

You can tell your parents are very impressed by Rachel when she compliments their home after politely introducing herself. You can see the faint glimmer of hope in your mom's eyes that this will be the girl who will put you back on track. You can only roll your eyes because she has no idea.

You both sit on your bed and review the chapter together, but during one of your study breaks, Rachel gets up and looks around your room. You knew this was a possibility, and you kind of hold your breath as you watch Rachel run her hands along your cheerleading trophies, pausing to look at a picture of you in your cheerleading uniform, your ex-boyfriend with his arm wrapped around you after an almost perfect football season. You almost hid some pictures before Rachel arrived, but you decided that you need to be honest with someone other than yourself.

"He's handsome," Rachel comments.

You smile, "He is."

"Are you…"

You shake your head, "No. We still talk on occasion."

Then she reaches a picture of you holding Beth, the only picture of her in your arms. Your blonde hair is sweaty and sticking to your forehead, and your eyes are shining, completely mystified by the life in your arms. You wait for the onslaught of questions, for the shocked response from Rachel; you prepared yourself for this.

But Rachel, as verbose as she may be, simply turns to you with a smile. "She's beautiful, Quinn."

"She is."

You can feel your ribcage creak open when you hear Rachel sing. You've been standing outside the choir room for ten minutes now, and you aren't sure what it means to feel so open again. You decide that if you're to open up to anyone, Rachel is the best option.

You see Finn – the tall, doofy guy you broke upon arrival – storm out of a room, quickly followed by a pleading Rachel.

You don't ask when Rachel shows up under the bleachers and sits beside you. You know she has class, but she looks sad, so you play a silly song on your new acoustic guitar to make her smile.

You've seen people get slushied before, and while you found it a disgusting display to begin with, you feel your blood boil when it's Rachel standing in the hallway, covered in blue.

The cheerleaders laugh, "You look good in blue, manhands," one of them says as they walk off, an exaggerated sway in their hips.

"You okay?" you say, walking up to her.

She shrugs, "Used to it," she mumbles. "What happens when you break up with the quarterback."

You shake your head, "They're stupid. Let's get you cleaned up."

As you walk with Rachel to the girls' locker room, people are gawking. You're not sure if it's because Rachel's covered in slushie or if it's because you're walking with her, but you glare until they turn away.

The cheerleaders that slushied Rachel all happened to find their bags full of slushie after practice.

"Quinn," Rachel chastises you immediately as she barges into the auditorium.

"What?"

"You know what."

"I didn't do it. I have an alibi."

She just starts to laugh despite her restraint. "One of the girls had a cashmere sweater in her bag," she says, walking up to the stage and sitting on the edge beside you.

"So?" You strum your guitar and lightly sing, "I liked the elephant sweater that you had on a whole lot better, but they dyed it blue because they're jealous of you. Because they were mean, now their sweaters are green."

Rachel shoves your shoulder playfully. "Remind me to never get on your bad side," she says.

"You never could," you say honestly, hiding your blush by focusing your attention on the guitar strings.

Rachel isn't in school the next day, so you shoot her a text to see if she's okay. When she doesn't respond, you decide you'll stop by her house after you rehearse in the auditorium.

You're glad only Rachel knows your growing preference for acoustic guitar and piano, that only Rachel has seen the softer sides of you.

She says I smell like safety and home
I named both of her eyes "Forever" and "Please don't go"
I could be a morning sunrise all the time, all the time yeah
This could be good, this could be good

A door in the auditorium busts open and slams closed. You look up from the piano to see Rachel quickly approaching, and there's something adorable in the way she moves like a tiny storm through the room.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" you say, an amused grin playing at your lips as you stand from the piano bench. "I was just going to call you."

Rachel just stands a few yards away, seemingly out of breath. You walk up to her and place your hand to her flushed face.

"You feel kind of warm," you say, but she just swats your hand away.

"I'm fine."

"Apparently not…"

"You are infuriating, Quinn Fabray."

"What did I do?"

"You're a pretty girl, Quinn. The prettiest girl I've ever met, but you're so much more than that."

"Is this about joining glee? Rachel –"

"No. I have no idea what I'm doing. Fuck it," she says.

You would comment on her cursing, but she wraps her arms around your neck and pulls your head down, pressing her lips to yours. It's done with such force that you feel your legs almost give when you feel the contrast of her gentle kiss, the trembling breath she takes when she pulls away slightly.

You wrap your arms around her waist and pull her closer, and your ribcage feels less like a cage and more like limbs returning in the spring, opening up to her and pulling her closer like sunshine.

A couple of days later, you aren't sure whose mouth is more agape when you follow a proud Rachel Berry into glee club. Even Mr. Schuester looks quite shocked.

"Can she even sing?" says some kid with a mohawk, unafraid as he quirks an eyebrow at you.

"I assure you, she can," Rachel states, hands on her hips.

The pianist all but leaps from his seat when you ask if you can play. You sit down and begin the song as Rachel sits beside you.

Beth, I hear you callin'
But I can't come home right now
Me and the boys are playin'
And we just can't find the sound

Rachel holds your hand after you talk to Beth's parents. You're lying on your bed, and she strokes your hair as some tears silently roll down your cheeks.

"Thanks," you mumble.

"You're welcome," she whispers, kissing a wet cheek before curling up beside you. Her free hand continues play with your hair as you run your fingers across the palm of her other.

"Your blonde's starting to come back," she notes.

"Yeah. I'm thinking of letting it grow back," you say, turning your face to her.

"I like the pink," Rachel says with a grin, "But I like whatever you like best."

You kiss her as much as you can that night before your parents come home. You want to get away with keeping your door closed for as long as possible.

The next week, people gape as you walk in. Your hair is a faded pink, but you're in in regular jeans and a band t-shirt. You just let them stare, listening to Rachel ramble about set lists and Regionals, occasionally putting in your two cents on song choices. You smile to yourself when she runs her thumb over the back of yours reassuringly, and you like the way your hands look interlocked.

You stop at your locker, and when Rachel exclaims she has to meet with Mr. Schue for something she almost forgot, she just stands on her tiptoes and gives you a quick kiss on the lips before running off. Your face is warm, but you see some bystanders staring.

"What?" you say loudly. It sends them running, pretending they didn't witness Rachel Berry and her apparently new girlfriend kiss.

You grin with pride as a straggler lets out a panicked squeak when he sees you glaring.

Still got it.