Rachel cursed herself for needing things too much. Not wanting. Needing. She had needed to have one last shot at her solo, putting off other, perhaps more important, bodily things, and as such had now needed to go to the toilet so urgently that she hadn't even locked the cubicle door. All she needed to do was reach over and turn the latch…
Except she was no longer alone. And what she really, really needed to do now, was to not even urinate. Because she really, really didn't need the two people who just came in and struck up a conversation to know she was there. There would certainly have to be no loud turnings of latches, not after the first words said in an off-kilter soft voice had been:
"S, do you wanna go to the dance with me?"
Followed by a rather frantic:
"What?"
And she just knew Santana had scanned the stalls for any sign of life that she might now need to extinguish. So there would be no turning the latch, no urinating, and no listening in to a conversation that didn't concern her in the slightest. She would just have to find other things to concentrate on.
None of which would be the pornographic pictures Quinn had drawn of her. She didn't like the way she'd been drawn singing off-key, and she didn't understand the hearts. Or the fact that it looked like the penis in the drawing had been tacked-on after the fact and it appeared that she'd originally been fucking a girl.
So no, that was out. But she definitely would not listen to Brittany and Santana's conversation. No. Definitely not.
It did sound interesting though…
"The formal, in a couple of weeks. We don't have dates. We could go together."
"As friends, right?"
There was a long pause. Rachel's mind started wandering downwards, so she took another look at the drawing.
Is that meant to be a Cheerios uniform?
"If you want."
"B…"
"I had to at least ask, San. But you're right, it's a stupid idea."
"You've never had a stupid idea, Britt."
"Misguided, then. I'll see you later."
As she heard the door go, Rachel reflected that she had never heard Brittany sound so down.
She's always the life of the party. I hope Santana's happy with herself. Oh shit, no…
Her bladder betrayed her, and she urinated. Finishing with the toilet, she prepared for death.
But death was not to be forthcoming. As Rachel exited the stall, she glanced over at Santana, whom she expected to be in a ferocious rage at having her private moment overheard, but the Cheerio was just staring at herself in the mirror, her expression unreadable.
Do I really need to wash my hands? Unfortunately yes. It could set a dangerous precedent. What if I'm running behind schedule in some fleapit on my stupidly necessary rise to the top, don't wash my hands, and catch some horrible disease? Qu-Finn would never get to see me as Éponine.
Still, and unaccountable mental near-slip aside, Rachel knew Santana, so she was prepared to run with wet fingers. Inching closer to the sink area, she finally got near enough to use one, and the act passed without interruption, Santana never shifting from her position, hands either side of the second sink from the left, eyes focussed only on her own in the mirror.
Finishing at the sink, Rachel now had to move past Santana to use the drier. She walked carefully along the wall of cubicle doors, trying to make herself as small as possible.
At least this shows Santana can't read minds – she would definitely've made a joke there, no matter what her mood.
She reached and activated the drier without incident. Her mistake was to not then exit instantly, trying not to make it to obvious that she was running away like the scared little girl she absolutely isn't.
She turned back to Santana, still just staring in the mirror, and felt a twinge of empathy. Studying her face, she came to the conclusion that maybe Santana was upset at her own treatment of Brittany. In fact, she certain of it.
No, her mistake was to let her need to make people feel better overwhelm her finely-honed sense of self-preservation.
Needing things. Always with the needing things. Shit, I am going to regret this…
"Y'know," as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Santana's head shot round to look at her, as if only now realising she was even there, "I'm sure that by the end of today Brittany…"
Santana's face cracked, making Rachel pause. Just for a second, Rachel's worries about Santana were confirmed by the almost pitiful look of hurt on her face, but then it was gone, replaced by anger and a hand turned into a fist on the porcelain.
"Please not the nose!"
Rachel knew that now she was the one who sounded pitiful, but she didn't care. She scrunched her face, but it was for no reason, as she heard a crash, and opened her eyes to see Santana's fist buried in the mirror.
She fled.
She was sure she heard the word "Coward!" growled after her. She would've been incensed if she didn't happen to agree with the sentiment.
Or, she would've thought that if she hadn't crashed into Quinn directly outside the bathroom. Their bags went flying, books spilling out, and Rachel ended up in the extremely compromising position of her head being directly between Quinn's legs. She spat out a mouthful of Cheerios skirt and tried to get up.
Wait, did Quinn just tense her thighs and moan?
"God Berry, dyke much?"
Guess not.
They got up, and gathered their possessions, Rachel trying to formulate a thought about how it might not be such a good idea for Quinn to bandy around words like 'dyke' when she had the best friends that she did, when her eyes fell to the last thing on the ground, a notebook that had fallen out of Quinn's bag.
"Again with the hearts?"
Did I say that out loud?
She watched the once-and-future Cheerio's eyes go wide, and Quinn almost violently snatched up the offending article and snapped it shut. The eyes grew cold.
Maybe I should've stayed in the bathroom; at least death by Santana would be quick.
Quinn closed what little gap there was between them.
"What did you do to Brittany?"
Confusion reigned on Rachel's face.
"I've just had to comfort a crying Dutch girl right here in the hallway after watching her come out of that bathroom. Now you come out of that bathroom flustered and throwing around wild accusations about the contents of my notebook. What did you do?"
"N-nothing, it wasn't me, it was Santana," realisation dawned. "Oh, that's why she punched the mirror…"
"WHAT?"
Quinn ran to the bathroom door, stopping there to turn back to Rachel.
"Why don't you make yourself useful, Man-Hands, and go and bring the nurse's first aid kit."
At Rachel's nod, she went into the bathroom.
"I'll make sure it's all up-to-date," Rachel called after her.
Gathering her thoughts, she made her way to the nurse's office. The nurse wasn't there, but Finn was, clearly following the advice he said Puck had given him about having a sleep in the middle of the day.
She didn't approve of this.
He got up as she entered.
"Hey, Rach, are you alright?"
"Yes, thank you, I'm fine, but… another girl has had an accident, so I need the first aid kit."
Rachel knew that while she was a wonderful actress, she was a terrible liar, but she didn't care. There was a certain mental difference, after all. And Finn never noticed anyway.
"Oh, that's… sad, I guess. Is she alright?"
"First aid kit, Finn."
"Right. It's over there, on the shelf."
She tried to reach it, failed, and huffed. Finn got it down for her.
"Thank you," she grinned. "You'll make a wonderful nurse."
"Thanks," he grinned back. Then his brow furrowed. "Hey…"
She smiled, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.
"It hasn't been a specifically female profession for decades."
"Oh."
She checked the contents, murmured her approval, and they left together, walking quickly back to the bathroom. As she was about to go in, she shooed Finn away, knowing the hulking but sweet boy would not be on the list of people Santana would wish knowing about this incident.
Frankly, she'd be surprised if she didn't enter the bathroom to find Quinn dead on the floor, and some sort of swinging axe trap ready to decapitate her if she moved the body.
As she watched Finn go off, grumbling slightly, and before entering the bathroom, doubtless to the refrain of "What the Hell took you so long, Treasure Trail?" (RuPaul had been nixed as an insult after she'd pointed out to Quinn that RuPaul was actually a very positive role model), she couldn't stop the fleeting thought that Quinn's smooth thighs had felt a lot nicer against her skin than Finn's boyish man-child stubble.