Hey errybody! This is my attempt at a Faberry Fic. I can honestly say, that it was the awesomness of the Faberry fanbase that turned me onto Rachel and Quinn as a couple. And even better than that, it was the amazing writers of Faberry Fanfics that got me hooked on watching Glee! I mean, seriously, you guys are the best of the best! The best fans, and the best writers! I hope this story can do the Faberry name justice.
With that said, I would like to note that this story is pretty AU. I have read many many many Faberry stories and have yet to see one set in a universe quite like the one I have created, so I hope you enjoy! This will be a multipart fic, and if you finish reading this with unanswered questions, don't fret! I assure you they will be answered in a gradual manner as I write my way through this story.
Story Rating: M because it's awesome
Chapter Rating: T for language and quite possibly some mild inappropriate interaction.
Disclaimer: I do NOT own the title to Glee or any of it's characters. I am just borrowing them for my own selfish pleasures and will return them slightly used when finished.
CHAPTER 1: This Mix Could Sink the Sun
The flash of a red light. Everything I know and am begins with the damn flashing of red that dances mockingly across my face, warning me of potential impulse engine failure. Any other day and this would send me into an imminent rampage, flailing myself about; cursing at my no-good mechanic for his patented incompetence.
"What the fuck Puck!" I scream into the intercom connecting me to engine bay one. Not too long after, I hear my mechanic's shaky reply as he stumbles on the other side to respond.
"Hey—uh…we might have a problem babe. I think you better get down here quick!"
Okay, so maybe this wasn't much different from the "any other day" I so casually mentioned. I'm increasingly ignited with a burning ferocity by every flash of warning light before me. I'm aware that every second I take to think is a second I lose of reaction time, which puts us all only minutes away from indefinite disaster. However, at the time, I wasn't aware that this one particular incident would inevitably change my life forever. Almost as if the twenty-five years I had already spent existing in this God damned universe only served as an insignificant precursor to the flash of red light that now awakens me to the beginning of my life.
"Santana!" I call for my Chief Officer before I head down to the engine bay. The ship's power starts flickering on and off continuously in accord with that blasted red flashing light. As if I couldn't tell before, I'm almost positive it's mocking me now.
This plays up the seriousness in my tone as I call for her again somewhat frantically. I should probably pre-note the lack of taking anything even remotely serious on this rust-bucket of a ship. It seems to be a common theme around here.
Though, this time, the unruly circumstances did a good enough job of whipping my second in command into adequate shape. She's beside me in seconds. Without another word from either one of us, she immediately grabs the controls and takes my place piloting the large ship.
The time limit allowed for hesitation is becoming more and more limited. If the flashing of lights across the ship weren't evidence enough, then surely the looks on both our faces relay that fact. I don't have time to explain and she doesn't ask for it. So, I leave her to it with nothing more than—what is meant to be—an encouraging whimper and a slight pat on the shoulder.
Before I can even catch my breath, I'm down in the engine bay searching for any sign of Puck through the thick fog of smoke and electrical sparks flying throughout the room. It's hard to see in the thick atmosphere of engine exhaust. The electrical sparks make me jump as they nip and burn my skin. My senses are mildly preoccupied by all the commotion happening around me that, not too long into my search, I run straight into a rock solid chest. Strong arms struggle to catch my shoulders before I can fall flat on my ass.
"Puck! You fuckin' asshole! Watch what you're doing! This is why shit like this happens in the first place God dammit!" I scream above the loud squeals of the engine. Though I think my words are easily lost in the thick cloud of smoke fumes that builds between us, and it's only then I realize that I'm wasting even more time—more time that I really don't have. I push past him, ignoring his lame attempts to explain, and slip up under the faulty engine.
It wasn't hard to spot out the problem area. Damn near blinded me with just one look in its direction; blinded enough sense into me to feel ready for the reaction phase of this situation.
From my spot under the engine, I grab what I can see of Puck's baggy work pants and tug his feet out from under him. He slips backwards and crashes to the hard floor beside me with a loud grunt, signaling the intense pain I know he has to be feeling by now. It may seem harsh at first, and even when I look back at it, I might feel somewhat bad for treating him like that so unexpectedly—okay, so that may possibly be yet another lie. In all actuality, the action was one that brought joy to my soul and is honestly the only entertainment anyone on this ship gets during those long deep space voyages. He knows he's just expected to deal and surprisingly has nothing to say as I jerk him closer to yell instructions in his ear.
"It's a busted thruster! I need a metal plate and the welder! Any metal plate you can find will do! After you get me those two things, I want you to run up to the main deck, wait EXACTLY fifteen minutes. Then, tell Santana to flip the entire power grid! Can you do that asshole?" He just nods his head frantically in reply, not accustomed to this side of me. As a matter of fact, none of my crew ever really sees this side of me. It's only on the rarest occasions that my HBIC manages to leak through, and I'm fairly certain it's made quite the impression today. It frequents mostly on the days we're the most careless, this day being no exception. Maybe today was just the day they finally slackened to the point of almost useless.
Thankfully, Puck makes up for all the moments I had wasted in thought, with his fearfully speeded attempt to gratify my most displeased alter-ego. Only seconds after my rant, I can hear the clinking of tools as they touch the ground next to my head. He even went as far as to bring a face-mask for protection—how thoughtful.
I don't tell him this though. I hide my appreciation like candy from a toddler in fear that even the slightest, "thanks," would happily send him spiralling back to his old ways. It's better that I stay silent; not let him see an ounce of emotion either way—neither happy nor mad. Now that I finally have their attention, I would thoroughly like to keep it...at least until we're further out of harms reach. It's only when he turns away to leave that I feel a necessity to speak to him.
"Seriously Puck! No less than fifteen fucking minutes! All I'm asking for is fifteen to get in, patch up, and pull out!" I see the internal struggle across his face as he desperately battles the smile that threatens to arise at my innuendo.
"Sure thing captain!" he responds in a hurried tone as if it were the cure to the giggles currently welling up inside him. The point is he's trying to remain serious—so, I ease up on him slightly.
"If Santana flips that switch while I'm still under this thing and I get fried, I swear on my mother's grave I will come back to life and kill every God damn one of you." My tone, however, is much harsher than I had originally intended. It's hard to find common ground again after the bitch switch is flicked. Puck, however, makes the smart move and lets me hold onto the rest of this moment, leaving me to my work with a sloppy salute.
After the slackest attempt at patchwork I have ever seen, I quickly slip out from under the engine and brush the dirt and fumes from my pants. The engine has stopped smoking, and my lungs are thankful for the deep breath of fresher air.
Not too much later after that, I can feel the power snap off per my instruction. The darkness that overtakes the Unholy Trinity becomes chilling as I fight to find my way back to the main deck. Never underestimate the blackness of space. It's well-known for the way it sucks away the weakest of light, hiding it away in dark abyss as if it had never existed. I can almost feel it tickling at my neck hairs, causing me to jump at every sound.
What is it about darkness that makes us so fearful? Is it the lack of control we feel at the loss of one of our most vital senses as we search our way through, blindly, for some form of relief? Or perhaps it's the stories we're told as children, about all the horrible things that undoubtedly take refuge in the dark—aside our darkest of secrets—that scare us well into adulthood. Regardless of why the sudden fear, it stirs up enough motivation for me to get back to my crew, and I waste no time finding the answers to that question.
"What the fuck Q? 'the hell happen down there? Has this hunk of junk finally given up on us?" Santana greeted me as I finally find the control room.
I sit down in my chair and cover my eyes with my sweaty, grease-stained forearm. Exhaustion presses lightly upon my shoulders, and I slink forward until I can no more.
I can hear the aggravation in Santana's sigh when I don't answer her immediately. It's easy to see her worry by the shortness of it, and this makes the slightest grin rise to my face. It's these moments that remind me of our humanity. It's always nice to be reassured every once in a while that, we as pirates, have a layer beneath the rough exterior we project to society. It feels nice to have moments in which we feel, even if they are short-lived and only comprised of the most basic emotions—such as fear or worry. Luckily, the sleeve of my ratty, matted shirt hides the sneer or I'm sure she would have lost more than just her temper.
Most employers would find the Latina's fiery attitude off-putting, but I guess this just further proves that I am far from most people. Besides, Santana can have her moments where she's almost loveable. And I emphasize the almost. We are pirates after all. Kindness and care is a sure sign of weakness where we come from. In terms of business, any "soft side" the Latina may have is useless to me and my operation.
Soon enough, my whole crew is glowering in my direction, and I can no longer stall them with my inner monologues. I straighten my posture to that of a true captain's stature, hardening my features to mask any disarray they might find in my emotion.
"Brittany! We need to land somewhere—preferably the closest planet you can find. The patch won't last long, and we're in desperate need of a magnetic rocket nozzle thruster ay-sap. I'd say we can probably get about 3pc's out of this baby," I command of my very blond navigator; tapping one of the nearby compartments as if it were my pet.
"Eye-eye Captain!" She responds, and I watch as her fingers take off into instantaneous combat mode, beating against the keyboard in front of her.
It's no surprise, and I'm sure you will see it numerous times during this tale, that Brittany's antenna has a little trouble picking up all the channels. Which, in turn, might make me seem like an idiot for selecting her to be a part of my crew in the first place—much less the ship's navigator—but what most people don't know about Brittany, is that, what she lacks in mathematical skills, logistics, and common sense, she greatly makes up for with her innate sense of direction.
She can navigate these skies as if she had created them herself. I would even venture to say she is the best damn navigator in the galaxy, and most definitely a huge asset to my crew! The best part is no one ever sees it coming from the girl. This alone has given me an advantage over my adversaries more times than I can count. And then there's Santana…
"Look Q…I know you're extremely attached to this metal deathtrap, but maybe it's time to move on. I mean, do you even know how many amazing new ships there are out there just waiting for us to loot? I think the Trinity has run her course." I don't look at her, too stubborn to admit she's right. I can feel her eyes playing across my face in attempt to better read me. She's almost the only one who can. There are very few times when she doesn't see right through my façades. I think she just likes tearing them down; like it's some sick hobby or something.
What's more important, I can see her hand out of the corner of my eye as it rests lovingly across the back of Brittany's chair. This is common of the Latina to do—always finding some way to be conveniently touching the blond in some way. They often get mistaken as a couple by onlookers and authorities.
One of the planets we raided a few months ago even released a universal article about them titled, "Nefarious Pyromantic Lovers Bring Destruction across the Galaxy: Love at Its Darkest." Santana always denies it; Brittany never focuses enough to respond with a relative answer; but I am almost positive there's something behind the Latina's gestures of affection, as elusive as they may be, it's the look in her eye that gives her away.
And it bugs me. It easily gets under my skin for a few different reasons. For one, she either won't admit it—and continues to live in denial—or she's hiding it from me. I'm leaning more towards the latter; it seems like a very "Santana" thing to do. I just, for the life of me, can't figure out why.
She knows she'd never be able to play the whole "approval" card, because, let's be honest here, that is a very unlike "Santana" thing to do. She's never needed approval of her mates before, and usually pursues them with even more persistence if Puck and I ever vocalize our disapproval—which is actually quite frequently.
It almost comes off as if she doesn't feel I'm important enough to be in on what she and Brittany have. As if she's keeping their relationship a secret, like an inside joke that all of us outsiders watch them laugh over time and time again. Reason two, I'm a fucktard to admit it, but…I want that too. All of it! Right down to the Nefarious Pyromantic Lovers part. I'll just never admit it out loud. It's my inside joke with me, lonely as it may be, and I don't think either one of them really even gives a damn.
"Land ho, Q. I've got confirmation of a planet not even two parsecs away. Lima? Some small merchant planet in the gamma quadrant," Brittany announces to the group, furthermore, detaching me from my musings.
"Holy—the gamma quadrant! Isn't that like, really close to one of the primary Demagogue bases!" Puck chimes in effectively taking a stand behind Brittany to search her screen for other options.
"Well, fuck a duck, Puck…I think you're right," Santana answers rather sarcastically. The look on Puck's face contorts to a different kind of dejectedness.
"Seriously Santana? Is it really necessary for you guys to constantly make nursery rhymes with my name?"
"Seriously Puckerman?" Santana imitates mockingly, "Stop being such a little girl. You're startin' to sound a lot like my mother—God rest her soul—and I'll do you a solid by warning you right now…she's proof that no one likes a whiny little bitch!"
I watch the two as they act out what is to be translated as their unconditional love for one another. Then again, picking on Puck has always been one of the most beloved pastimes for, well, at least Santana and me. There's not really much more to the guy other than that and the occasional basic mechanic skillset; just a big, brawny, straggler that somehow got sucked up into our little group. It's probably because of the immense entertainment value he brings to the ship.
"Look, I'm just worried about keeping a healthy distance from those bastards. Don't get me wrong, I'd fight off armies of them to protect this ship and its cargo, but I think this might be too risky…even for us." Okay, so maybe he's got that going for him too. He's the steel that holds this all together—whatever this fucked up situation may be—and I'll admit to maybe almost kinda sorta missing him if he ever left the crew. "I need a captain, navigator, and—whatever the hell it is you do Santana—so that I don't have to fuck around finding something else better to do with my time."
He scrapes up what very little is left of his manhood and turns back to the screen to end any further conversation. Santana has an arm raised up to a tightly clad fist that she is delicately aiming at Puck's mohawked head. And as much as I enjoy watching them go at it, I feel a slight pang of guilt for allowing it this time.
I give the girl a wink, signaling her to hold off on the guy and let him have this one. She knows as well as I do that he cares. Plus, he's like a weird pet. You kind of have to stroke his ego every once in a while to let him know you aren't really mad and want him to stay. So, she does and the resulting silence makes us become increasingly more aware of the decision that has yet to be made.
"Alright Captain, what's it gonna be?" Santana says in my direction. The usual sarcastic connotation in which she says the title is gone and that almost scares me more than crossing enemy lines. But to question my captain skills at this point of the game would not be very smart of any of them to do, and so I take her tone more as encouragement than anything. As if she were silently cheering me on in her head, "Go Quinn go!" How could I let them down now?
"Brittany! Set us a bearing of 330 mark 15 engage, and make it hot! Puck! Man engine bay one and keep a close eye on our bleeder. Notify me of complications effective immediately! Santana! Get your ass in the cockpit…we're goin' to fuckin' Lima…"
Nobody questions my decision. Instead, they quickly scatter to their assigned tasks. This abnormally compliant behavior, while strange and foreign to me, puts a smile on my face and determination in my heart. I'll never truly know exactly why they all went along with it without any further discussion, but I will always hope it's because this was the prime time to show me how much faith they have in me as a leader.
It doesn't take us long to get to the small inhabitance of Lima, but it does take a hell of a lot of engine power. It's easier to tell the ship's in trouble by now. The lights continuously flicker on and off; the ship itself sputters to stops every now and then as we fly along; you can easily smell the fumes springing up from the engine bay through the ventilation system again, and I can almost see Puck cursing as he struggles to maintain what's left of the engine. I know we don't have much longer until she finally gives out in pure exhaustion and leaves us all to die a slow death stranded out in space. It's only when I see Lima that I finally stop my silent prayers.
There is only a small amount of internal celebration that I allow myself to partake in, however, because now we have a different problem. We are wanted criminals…for crimes that are punishable by most immediate death. This realization is reflecting across my crews' faces in a silent plea for further command. So, I calm their fears as best I can.
"Don't worry guys. I have a plan, just lay low, follow my lead, and everything will run smoothly," I promise as I guide the ship into the planet's orbit.
But I don't have a plan. I have no idea how this is going to play out. The only thing I do know is that I've got a severely crippled ship, no parts in order to fix it, a severe criminal record, and three crew member lives that are contingent upon my every move. I know that if we can just bypass security and receive some form of temporary residency until I can at least do a better patch up of the ship so we can make it to the closest blacklisted planet, then everything will run smoothly. But I can't place my bets that it will. And I probably wouldn't if I had the chance.
The Coalition has recently placed governmental checkpoints throughout the universe—or at least the parts they have supreme rule over. That means Planet Landing Harbor Security has increased to the point of making any criminal of the law almost suicidal in nature to try and dock one. That's why we stick with the blacklisted planets. Most of them have been either exiled from the Coalition, supposedly destroyed in battle, deemed to have "unlivable" conditions for our species' survival, or any combination of the three.
Mostly, it's just a planet that, once upon a time, pissed the Coalition off and got sent to permanent timeout as punishment; a way to show not only the perpetrators, but everybody else on every other planet that they were in control. Very few of the planets are actually unlivable. For the most part, they harbor people like me, who wouldn't bode well in the Coalition's public eye, while the Coalition turns theirs blindly. They don't, however, turn a blind eye to criminals brave enough to enter their territory.
But, between the condition of my ship and the impact it will have on my crew, I'm fresh out of options. Chances of us being figured out instantly upon debarkation are the highest odds I've faced in a while—even with my less than flawless gambling record. I can't help but think to myself you really are one suicidal son of a bitch.
My moment to shine comes quickly as the planet's air traffic control man dictates loudly through our radio controls. I pause briefly to compose myself and get in character. One deep breath in, one deep breath out. In with the good shit, out with the bullshit. Cue line feigning severe mechanical distress and requesting a voluntary landing visa. Luckily, this is easy and requires very little skill on my part to achieve a solid win. I would give myself a congratulatory pat on the back, but before I can the ship jerks unexpectedly. The planet's Control manually guides it down through the atmosphere and into an open bay.
I can once again feel all three of my crewmembers' eyes submissively waiting for me to deliver the next move—the next instruction. But I won't give them words, only the presence of a leader who is hell-bent on deceit. I am fully aware that this is where I truly need to be in full character. I relay this thought to each crew member through brief eye contact before the doors to the ship slowly open.
I must be a better actor than I thought, because before I know it, the control crew has already given thumbs up on the inspected ship and we're following one guy off to fill out necessary paperwork for both the temporary residency pass and access card to the bay.
As we're walking to our attendant's office it becomes clearer that the planet size is quite proportional to that of its subsequent landing station. In fact, there isn't really much of a landing station at all. It's just a random assortment of ship docks scattered across the dirt planet.
This lack of an official station upturns my hopes. Not only that, but it also gets me questioning the planet's security levels. Is it possible that, the size of the planet masked its importance as a security threat and the Coalition overlooked it when assigning the new protocol? If so, does this mean we have a fighting chance?
The Gods I prayed to earlier have answered these questions, and more, with the residency pass and access card that are effectively placed in my care by Lima's chief of control. I can't tell you why, but I always knew they had a soft spot for little old me. Note to self: thank Gods later…preferably sometime before you begin celebrating—but that's just a rough estimate.
And just like that, the deal was sealed; with nothing more than a handshake and a, "Welcome to Lima."
"I need a fuckin' drink," Santana finally released with a breathy sigh once we get back to the Trinity.
My crew looks rough and tired. Then again, I can't recall many times when we don't look that way. Brittany's normally beautiful blond hair is frizzy and loose in its ponytail atop her head. Its current luster has faded into the pale imitation of a glow it used to know. Her head looks heavy with the burden of unmanaged hair as it rests upon Santana's shoulder.
If you look closely, you can easily spot two barely noticeable bags taking refuge beneath the Latina's half-closed eyes. The fact that she is leaving them this way is shocking. Even more so is the fact that she didn't put make-up on at all today. If anything were a sign of exhaustion, surely it would be this.
Not that I would bring it up. Santana would be overly sensitive about the topic. But sometimes it's just enough to recognize the small tolls our travels take on the irrepressible Latina. It's a reminder for me to accept that none of us are immortal. She throws a canteen filled with water down to the mohawked boy beside her.
"Heard!" Puck adds, slumping to the ground and allowing himself to finally relax.
He's wearing one patented "Puckasaurus" smile as he stares off into the distance at nothing in particular. Who am I kidding; he's always wearing that stupid grin as if it were the latest fashion statement, flashing it to any human receptive to whatever alluring charm it has to offer. He offers one to me. And God help me, if I don't bite my lips any harder, the contagion of it all would soon spread across my own face, making me no better than the stupid grinning fool before me.
I throw the smile Santana's way, desperate to rid myself of its daft glow, and Brittany intercepts it before it can reach contentedly rigid lips. I hate how it looks on me and Puckerman, but the way it brightens up the blonde's worn-out face sends waves of joy throughout my body. She's aiming that idiot's classic grin at me, cocked and loaded, and I can only smile harder. It has the same effect on the Latina the minute Brittany fires one her way. That's all it takes, Santana's ugly-ass interpretation of the "Puckasaurus" grin, before we spill over the edge of sanity and into a sea of frenzied laughter.
"I think that after a day like today, I'm not opposed to a drink or two," I answer them as we settle down. Their faces doubly brighten to the good news and they fidget excitedly in their seats waiting for more. "As far as I see it, we have more than enough time to fix the ship and leave. I don't see why starting can't wait until tomorrow. Besides, we should spend tonight celebrating…we are the luckiest bunch of motherfuckers I've ever met, after all!"
A loud cheer is raised to my proposal. I smile in my reverie. Tonight is, indeed, the night that would be utmostly celebrated for years to come.
It didn't take much to guess this was a merchant planet. Signs of the lowly lifestyle decorated their buildings and covered their streets in various forms of trash. Depression hung thick in the city's air as if it were eagerly trying to choke what life lingered about its already frail-looking citizens. But this was to be expected of a merch planet. They were not a rich nation. They were not a happy nation. They are poor and hungry; always watching you as you pass them on the street like they were sizing you up for their next meal—really, not too different from the blacklisted planets. Not too far off from the life I've come to know.
The only difference might be that these people were ultimately innocent—hungry to the point of starvation, but harmless—where, you wouldn't be as lucky to find such innocent intents on a blacklisted planet. They may not even be hungry at all, but would eat you just to hear the grinding of your bones in their teeth.
That and the Coalition enjoys the amount of power they hold over these poor merchants as well as the immense payday from their offerings. How could you not when you have the ability to leech off of ignorant peasants with varied trades willing to do your bidding? This is why the merchant planets are kept so close to military bases and government stations. So they can be monitored. So they can be easily controlled. So they won't get any crazy ideas from outsiders and potentially try to rebel. In fact, they don't really want them to communicate with anyone at all; that's the real reason they started enforcing the harsh protocol.
And as Santana, Brittany, Puck, and I are walking through the city trying to scrounge up what little scraps of food this planet has to offer with some of our looted money, I can't help but think to myself, obviously the Coalition didn't fully analyze the risks involved in breeding generations of ignorance, or they wouldn't have made them dumb enough that they'd readily forget protocol and welcome people like me into their homes.
Eventually we stumble upon this little hole-in-the-wall bar, deep in the heart of downtown "crapsville." It's cleaner than most of the places we frequent on other planets, so as long as they've got the liquor and I've got the tolerance, I really have no problem with it. The encouraging smell of feet and mushrooms lulls in the air, strangely enough, causing my shoulders to finally relax in the foreign environment; the smell of home.
I perch myself up on a barstool and call to the bartender for two rounds of the strongest drink they have with familiarity in my voice and the remnants of Puck's stupid smile in my soul. I don't like allowing myself to feel such an illusory happiness, but, as it is, I'm still just too tired to care. In fact, I'm willing the bartender to bring my drink faster, so I can begin to carry on with this drowning of myself in as many false senses of security as humanly possible.
A big burly man glowers down from his place beside me, aware of my non-native stature and seemingly angered by my presence at his local bar. The big ape doesn't intimidate me though. I've fought off bigger men than him before. Plus I have puck to the other side of me, and we have become quite the contenders when it comes to bar fighting. I almost want him to start something. But he doesn't. I've forgotten that this isn't one of my usual blacklisted bars. I shouldn't expect any fights tonight unless I'm the one who instigates one, and even then, I think the worst they would do is throw me out as soon as I start it. A weak planet indeed.
Two drinks slide down the bar; one slipping past me to Puck's waiting hand, and the second into my own. All it takes is a knowing wink and the celebratory clink of our glasses to bring start to our unambiguous night.
The liquid burns my throat as it crusades its way to my belly and suddenly drops to the weight of lead when it hits my intestines. It is instantly one of the best drinks I've ever had, and this brings another involuntary smile to my lips. I'm impressed by Lima's prospects in the form of alcohol. How can a city so shitty and poor have something so very good? I suppose they are merchants. Hell, half of the people here tonight probably irrigated, brewed, and supplied most of the liquor at this very bar. It's a pity that something as amazing as this has to go to waste on the Coalition.
I tip the mug back against my avid lips and dump what's left of the drink down my ready and willing throat. If all of life's most carnal desires could be dealt in this manner, I would relish about in the smooth way it goes down, never once leaving me dry and unsatisfied.
I'm in the middle of enjoying the burning sensation, when all of the sudden I can feel the lights around the bar slowly dim to darkness around me. The sound of a microphone being rustled about can be heard through the speaker system and a bright spotlight flashes on the small stage in the corner of the room to reveal a dazzling young girl lying atop a piano. I lower my drink to get a better view; the mug suddenly becoming more obstructive than helpful to me at this point. Her red, sparkling dress reflects beams of direct light to my eyes making my vision foggy as I soak in what looks to be an angel through the haze. Then, the skilled hands of the piano man send an amazing riff of piano chords throughout the room, adding even more to her heavenly air. She begins to sing.
"If you came to make some trouble… Better make it good."
Her dark eyes rest upon the audience—concentrated orbs of persuasion and perfection—able to capture the attention of even the drunkest man.
"Your sexy cocktail hour stubble…is doing what it should."
I am captivated immediately by the abrupt upward inflection in her alluring voice as it melds with the piano and pries a stake through my very soul.
"Looks may be sweet and subtle…I think its trouble, honey, I think it's good."
"If you came to make trouble…make me a double, honey, I think it's good."
Her voice flows so sweetly through those last few lines that I'm surprised to see them fade so quickly, almost as if they should still be hanging in the air. The sound is so pleasant to my ears that my heart aches for the tune once more.
The stage lights up once again and reveals a full band, complete with guitar and bass. As if the piano didn't add enough to the sound already. The girl suddenly comes to a sitting position atop the piano, and while doing so, she makes full show of flipping her long dark hair before it falls in loose ringlets on the feminine, muscular crest of her bare shoulders. She oozes pure confidence like I've never seen from a mere merchant girl. It's drilling the power into every note she sings. It controls the seductive manner in which she's moving as she walks across the stage to toy with the fellow bar patrons closest to her. Soon enough, I can tell she's making her way off the stage and her confidence pinpoints me as the next target.
Love will not be outdated…maybe placated, but it's got to be good…
The bass rumbles across the floor, making my body vibrate to life as if that's what she's willing me to feel behind her steady gaze. The little red cocktail dress she's wearing moves with the sway of her hips that, must be in tune to the beat of my heart by now. Though the music is loud, I can still hear the clicking of those delectable heels as she approaches, through the untethered rhythm flowing throughout my chest. She's stalking in my direction with a mischievous grin across her ruby lips.
We're so precarious...with semantics
She continues to sing compellingly, only this time it seems as if it is just to me as she circles where I sit at the bar. One of her perfectly manicured fingernails slips its way lightly between my shoulder blades and I watch it hungrily, loving the clash of her cherry red fingernails against my faded black captain's coat.
I think this could be trouble…I think its trouble, honey, I think it's good.
She sits sideways across my lap. Her face inches closer with every word she is still singing directly to me. The light shift of her weight across my legs as she's moving forward combined with the way those cherry red fingernails play at the baby-fine hairs of my neck send multiple chills throughout my body that I'm almost positive have nothing to do with the deep baseline that still rumbles throughout the building.
If you came to make trouble…make me a double, honey, I…think it's good…
I can taste her sweet breath on my lips as she hovers ever so closely, and the sweet meringue taste makes my mouth water with desire. I can hear the catcalls from everyone in the room, especially Puck, who is currently my biggest cheerleader for the happening in this moment. Just as I expect the taste of her breath to turn into the feel of that same tangy sweetness dissolve across my burning lips…She smiles. And before I can even fully grasp the situation, she's once again on her feet.
The absence of her body brings me crashing to reality in time to actively reach out to wrap her back in the safety of my embrace. But before I can, she pushes me back to my seat harshly, with just the flick of one dainty hand. Those same red fingernails I praised only seconds ago, now seem deceptively cruel as they once again clash against my captain's coat.
I am left there, in my humiliation, to stare after her well-rounded ass that mockingly waves goodbye with the continued sway of her hips as she's walking away. To stare after her would mean I willingly admit my failure. To admit my failure would mean I am voluntarily showing weakness. To show my most agonizing weakness for the marvelous shape of this woman would make me so vulnerable. Vulnerability that, up until this moment, I haven't even fessed up to having myself—and god forbid I lose what's left of my pride. I am a fearless leader. I have no weakness. I am the dreaded captain Quinn Fabray: terror of the undivided universe!
But I cannot resist watching that ass as she walks away. I am under the spell of the bewitching singer, and almost don't care that this makes me weak. My mind is still too messed up from the events that just happened to care. I just now signed over my captaincy to the marvelous ass of a woman, and God almighty does it feel good.
I can still sense her quintessence floating in the air around me as she disappears backstage. The lights dim and the song fades away into the sounds of raucous bar conversation once again. My body suddenly feels overheated under the dusty bar lights and I excuse myself for some fresh air.
As I step outside, I am, all at once, overwhelmed by the amount of dirt and sand being blown through the air. It's only the coolness of the breeze against my blazing skin that convinces me to stay. I cough mildly to pass the rubble that comes along with it, now building in my lungs. I should have expected this of the planet. You couldn't see the slightest trace of water from space, and its rustic color hinted at the clay-like surface. My coughing drowns out the creaking of the bar doors behind me.
"Hey Q, you okay? You seemed a bit….flustered back there," Santana asks flittingly.
"I wasn't flustered! I was sitting under all those bar lights and then, with the spotlight shining down on me, the heat became almost unbearable!"
"Toe-may-toe, toe-motto, Q...anyhoo, I just came out here to tell you that I think you should go for it," she says, void of all playfulness in her tone.
"What are you talking about San? Go for what? A heat stroke!"
"You know what I'm talking about Fabray—" she starts to say angrily. But something inside her wouldn't let her continue that way. Instead, the rest comes out as more of a slightly annoyed growl, "Just... Consider it okay?" and with that said she is gone; back into the swirling mass of sweaty life forms most likely to go and find the object of her own smoldering affections.
I know exactly what she is saying. This is the only way Santana "the Brute" Lopez knows how to genuinely give someone her blessing. Though, this is the first time I have ever heard her with such sincerity when suggesting I chase a skirt. Between her, Puck, and I, you'd think we lived amongst a pack of wild dogs the way we voice our admiration of women. Brittany is the only one who doesn't treat people like objects aboard the Trinity.
The tone in Santana's voice as she said what she did sounded sympathetic; almost as if she could see something about me that I failed to see myself, which had to have been horrid enough to make her feel the need to remedy it. Now, this is a sign that something must actually be wrong with me. Santana Lopez never feels the obligation to help someone. Why, just using the word in the same sentence as her name sounds blasphemous as it is, so I have to be giving off some vibe that was strong enough to affect that cold black heart. I dust off the back of my cargo pants, adjust my gun holsters, and recharge my confidence levels before reentering the bar. Maybe Santana is right. Maybe I should give it a shot.
I look to the spot I previously held at the bar and see Puck chatting up some blond floozy, that now commandeers my stool. In the moment, I know I should be furious at Puck for selling me out for a quick lay, but oddly enough I'm not. In fact, I'm not mad at all. I feel mildly proud watching the boy strive for that which makes him happy—even if it is just meaningless, casual sex that fulfills that void. This is the first moment I ever considered the fact that maybe casual sex might not be the thing that makes me happy like Puck. Maybe it doesn't even make me happy or feel fulfilled at all. Maybe I need something more.
But I don't have time to get all touchy-feely-deep with myself because as my eyes skate across the length of the bar-top, there she is. Sitting alone at the end of the bar, drinking some green concoction that has god only knows what in it. I can freely see the lipstick stain she's leaving on the brim of her glass, and it reminds me of the way her bright red fingernails felt on the nape of my neck. Obviously, if I had any self-control at all, I would grab another seat at the far end of the bar, send longing looks her way, and wait for her to come to me. Hook…line…and sinker. The operative word being if of course.
Obviously, I don't have any self-control at all, because I'm walking the opposite way I should be and eyeing her like the prey I have picked for my consumption. Trust me, the closer I get to her, the more I will myself to stop inside my head. It's getting louder and louder, to the point of screaming, with every step. When my feet finally follow my brain's instructions to stop, it's too late. I'm already standing right next to her; leaning tastelessly on the bar. She does a good job of ignoring me as she continues to sip her drink and stare off into nothingness before her.
I don't know if it was my intense desire for her or the fact that I knew I was mildly creepy and her classy well-deserved disregard for my presence only served to further fuel that desire, but it is at this point I feel the need to speak. In my head, I'm running through different ways I could apologize to her for my tactless behavior. I'm thinking through the ten years of classic poetry I've studied just for moments like this. I'm thinking about the way she looks in that dress, and the many ways I would love to remove it from her gorgeous body. I choose to speak after the wrong thought.
"Hi, my name is Quinn Fabray. I'm funny, financially stable, and have a very interesting DNA structure," I sputter out rather quickly, kicking myself internally for the stupidity of the comment. It gets her attention though. Even if she is glaring at me rather disturbingly, I've at least gotten her to acknowledge my existence again.
When a normal girl looks at me the way she is right now—face scowling, eyebrows furrowed, lips curled downwards, and leg shaking wild with annoyance—I give up and move on to the next ready and willing participant. But I'm so caught up in my determination for this goddess before me that I'm not even slightly embarrassed by the fact that I'm desperately taking her very basic acknowledgement of me as a sign of hope. Even if she is staring at me like she'd give anything to be one of those normal girls right now. I only wait a few more seconds before trying again.
"Can I have your name?"
"Why? Don't you already have one?" She says, still eyeing me as if she were trying to glare me to death.
"Well, yea…I just told you. Maybe I should try it again, more formally," I say before clearing my throat and offering my hand for her to shake, "Captain Quinn Fabray of the S.S Unholy Trinity. And you are?"
"What do you want?...captain," she responds coldly. She fully ignores my offered hand and takes another long sip from her drink.
I smile at the formal use of my title. She thinks her sarcastic tone is offensive, but little does she know, it's driving me mad with passion. I shake away the rather dirty thoughts that appear once again in my head before continuing.
"Well, I just saw you sitting over here, and…you did an amazing job tonight….I don't know, I just had to come talk with you. Sweetness is my weakness."
I honestly thought this was a pretty clever line, and finally gave myself a mental pat on the back for my long lost cleverness.
"You know," she says, her face less of a scowl as she leans in closer to me, "You are seriously validating my inherent mistrust of strangers." My face drops as the realization that I'm still a bumbling idiot sinks in once more. "Now, may I have the pleasure of your absence?" She continues sweetly as she pulls away and lets the same old scowl overtake her face for the second time that night.
I'm at a lost. I want to blame it on the alcohol buzzing in my system, but in the end I know my game is completely off. My jaw is hanging wide open, moving up and down as if it had something further to say. My mind is blank. I don't know how to handle a situation such as this. I've never been in one even remotely similar before. And worse yet, I look even worse than the babbling idiot I portrayed earlier. Why I'm still here is baffling me. Why I'm still trying anything, even if it be horrible conversation, with this girl is driving me up the wall.
I suppose she's bored watching my internal struggles, because she closes my jaw sweetly with her hand as she gets up to leave. My breath catches in my throat at her light touch, and before I can release it, she's gone from eyesight. I drop down into the seat she had previously occupied. The loudest bout of silence I have ever heard rings through my ears, despite the commotion around the bar. That damn heat rises up my neck again, making my ears burn with awkwardness.
"Here, this one's on me," the bartender says as he slides me a small shot of something that smells mildly of diesel oil. I lift it to my nose and it burns its way up through the cavity. I must be giving him a look of confusion, because he gives a small laugh and continues to say, "Rachel can be a heartbreaker alright. You're lucky you even got that much of a conversation. Usually, she just gets up as soon as the person starts talking. You almost deserve that drink. Kinda like an 'A' for effort."
With a wink he leaves to go about fixing another order being screamed from the other side of the bar. I throw the shot back as if my life depends on it. There isn't much of this night that I stay sober enough to articulate, but there is one thing that, no matter how much I drink, burns in my memory like a brand singed into whatever livestock most likely contributed to this drink. And her name is Rachel.