A/N: Alright, so this is an escape 4-parter, which means that the theme revolves around wanting to just run away from the world, so some bits require a bit of imagination and a leap out of reality. It's also a buffer fic that tends to happen between writing chapters. This is where I venture to when times are tough or when I just need to be somewhere else. It's still ongoing in my head, it's a bit dark, a bit angsty, and not very pretty, but I hope it gets the message across.
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Human
Part 1
She found him standing at her doorstep, sullenly staring at the ground and refusing to meet her eyes, and her aching heart constricted painfully in her chest.
I can hold my breath
I can bite my tongue
His shaggy dirty-blonde hair fell over limply, matted and tainted with patches of dried evidence and shielding half of the morbid artwork on his face. Her lingering gaze trailed lower, taking inventory of the remaining damages that were no doubt nicely concealed beneath the thick layer of his signature leather jacket, before finally landing on the tightly clenched fists by his sides. They were battered and bruised in a myriad colors of purple and crimson, and with a ragged exhale of her breath, she decided that they'd seen better days.
"Is he home?"
His voice was gruff and deep, scratchy with a slight Southern twang—thankfully the only thing he ever picked up from the fucked-up bastard he called 'dad'—laced in the slur of his words, and she had to bite on her lower lip when a delicious shiver ran down her spine. Damn, if it wasn't the sexiest thing in the entire world to hear Sam Evans speak.
"No," she whispered.
He slowly lifted his head, and it took everything in her power not to flinch. A trail of blood coated the side of his otherwise handsome features, trickling from a deep cut just beneath his brow. She noticed that he'd at least managed to save his nose this time round; his jaw, though, wasn't so lucky.
"Quinn…"
Wordlessly, she tugged on his wrist. Mindful to be gentle, she pulled him into her tiny excuse of an apartment before scanning the empty hallway for suspicious lurkers and quietly shutting the door.
"Fuck, Q," he winced, batting her hand away. "Stop it, already."
"Oh, suck it, you big baby," she playfully chastised, a devilish smirk on her lips as she held the alcohol-soaked cotton wool up for his inspection. "It's just a bit of antiseptic."
Sam rolled his striking green eyes and shook his head before taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Don't need it," he grumbled, turning away from her to stare out at the view of the cityscape and effectively shutting her out.
He'd had enough.
She sighed and resigned to abandoning her task, knowing that there was no reasoning with him when he was being a stubborn ass-hat. Prying would only irritate him further, so she allowed him that reprieve at least.
Just for tonight.
Side by side, they sat on the grated steps of the fire escape. The night was still—albeit too still for her liking—though somewhere in the distance, she could hear the all-too-familiar blaring of a police siren. Ten floors above outside her bedroom, they took it all in with misplaced serenity; just the both of them against the world—two damaged, imperfect teenagers—waiting for a way out.
"You can't keep doing this, Sam."
There was a hint of a smirk ghosting on his swollen lips. "What else is there, then?"
She plucked the fag from between his fingers and inhaled the hot burn. It swirled in her mouth, the nicotine hitting her just enough to calm her nerves.
"This place, it's toxic," she murmured. "We can't keep staying here. We need to leave, to go somewhere; anywhere, far away from here."
"Quinn—"
"I could've lost you today."
"You could lose me any day."
It was terrifying.
"There's got to be more than this."
The gentle breeze picked up speed as it blew tendrils of her hair in mild chaos; the chill in the air summoned goose bumps on her skin. Thin wisps of smoke danced in what little space there was between them, and instinctively, she leaned her head against his bare shoulder. He smelled of sweat, and Marlboro, and blood combined into a heady musk.
"We can't."
She faced him, then. "Why not?"
"That place; it doesn't happen. Not for us."
Still, she dared to dream; to venture on, even if it was only in the throes of passion.
He was buried deep inside of her, sheathed to the hilt as she gasped and clung onto him for dear life. They stilled for a moment, breathing each other in, and in his arms—in those tender seconds—she could almost believe that simplicity existed in her world.
She felt his plump lips ghost against the column of her neck and map a trail up to the shell of her ear, and inevitably, she failed to suppress a whimper from escaping her throat when he all but captured it between his teeth in a playful nibble.
"Sam—I can't—you—"
God forbid, how he could always reduce her to an incoherent mess, but damn if she didn't find a semblance of thrill shooting in her veins every time he chuckled in triumph.
"I'm sorry," he husked thickly, the tip of his nose tickling just the right spot. "Would you repeat that for me?"
Quinn was very much aware—however hazy she was—that he was baiting her, as he always did. He thrived on being in control; being the one on top, whichever way it was achieved, and just for tonight—despite it being one of the many—she decided that it wasn't a game she wanted to play.
Her fingernails dug into his back and left angry welts of crescent-shaped imprints in his pale flesh, adding to the multiple hues that were already there, and presenting him with an answer as she suggestively thrust her hips forward. He groaned, the sound vibrating in his chest, his grip tightening almost painfully into her flesh.
"Does it need saying?"
He growled, eyes flashing, pure carnal desire reflecting in his fully blown pupils, and a surge of molten liquid seared south to the apex of her thighs. She could see it then—just within reach of her fingertips—that magical place that belonged to them.
Some place distant; unreachable.
Somewhere only they knew.
Some place just for them.
"Just me and you."
They sat in silence again; with the sheets thrown over their satiated bodies and a smoke passed between them, simply basking in the afterglow and staring at the blank wall. Quinn took another draw from the cigarette before absent-mindedly handing it over to her bedfellow. She watched the white wisps dispel from between her lips, almost entranced by its beauty.
In that moment, she allowed herself the reprieve to clutch onto the last fragments of fantasy. It was so easy to get lost again—just the two of them—cocooned in a pretty little world of beautiful, endless skies and a road that would never end.
"What time is it?"
Just like that, it disappeared.
She turned to him, smirking, hoping it would mask her true emotions. "Time to leave before my dad gets back."
He scoffed, and then theatrically rolled his eyes. "You're such a fucking party pooper, Q."
"Well, I do my best," she replied cheekily.
"That you do," he agreed, closing the distance between them to kiss her, long and languid as he took the time to savor her mouth.
"Okay, you really need to go," she told him after regretfully pulling away, though she kept her palms splayed on his chest. Her voice took on a serious tone. "He'll kick your ass and you know it."
Sighing petulantly, he threw the covers off him and swung his legs over.
"You're still naked," she pointed out, arching an eyebrow.
He glanced at her from over his shoulder. "Look who's talking."
"I actually have underwear on."
"Yeah, right," he snorted. Bending down, he began rummaging the floor for his clothes. "Where the fuck are my boxers?"
From the bed, Quinn snickered.
"I'm wearing them."
I can stay awake for days
If that's what you want
Be your number one
Her dad was sprawled out on the couch, snoring like an industrial buzz saw and clearly had been drunk out of his ass when he arrived stumbling in the dark; not that she was remotely surprised. She had heard him—knew the routine to the second—and had wondered if she ought to check up on her only parental unit, but figured it would end up all the same, anyway.
Padding into the kitchenette, she pulled a mug out of the cupboard and flipped the switch on the coffee maker. As it started up, she leaned against the counter and watched woefully as Russell Fabray slept off his hangover, wishing things had been different for him. After the passing of her mom, he hadn't been the same person—simply a hollow shell of the man he used to be—and part of her would always mourn for his loss, but his wife wouldn't have wanted that for him.
The loud gurgling jolted her back, and after pouring the steaming beverage for herself, Quinn headed back to the sofa and knelt in front of her old man, placing the cup on the side table. He aged so drastically; the wrinkles multiplying at the corners of his eyes, his graying and unshaven face so pale and sickly. She gnawed on her bottom lip, studying the permanent frown lines on his forehead and his premature receding hairline.
"You need to stop this, dad," she murmured. "If she were to see you right now, I can almost guarantee you'd be in the doghouse instead."
He stirred for a bit.
"She loved you very much; please don't forget that."
I can fake a smile
I can force a laugh
Working as a shop girl didn't pay much—minimum wage and all that crap—and she loathed it every single time the bell jingled at the door to signal a new customer because she had just finished arranging those damn sweaters when an obnoxious-looking lady sauntered in with those designer shoes and that ridiculous magenta coat, sniffing the air like she bloody owned the place.
Quinn eyed her warily. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a cardigan as a birthday present for my daughter," the woman told her rather haughtily. "Preferably Angora, and in powder pink."
"Sorry, ma'am, we don't have that here."
The shallow slapper scorned, clearly unable to accept such an answer. "Of course," she huffed. "Didn't know what I was thinking."
"Yeah, me neither."
She was closing up that night, locking the front door as usual, when a pair of strong arms encircled her torso from behind. It startled her and she whipped around, finding herself face-to-face with a familiar, roguish face and those unmistakable pair of green eyes. He kept his hold on her firm as a flicker of recognition crossed her features. The corner of his full lips twitched in amusement.
"Hello."
"Son of a bitch, Sam," she snapped, slapping him on the shoulder. "You scared the fucking crap out of me."
Immediately after, she flinched at her disregard for profanities because she wasn't one for using them like that; it just wasn't her. Quinn parted her mouth, an apology already on the tip of her tongue; but before she could articulate her words, he had swooped down to snog her senseless, effectively shutting her up. Long, dexterous fingers weaved themselves into her hair as he tugged her closer. She melded into him without restraint—without question or hesitation—bunching up the fabric of his soft cotton shirt in her hands.
"Hello," she breathed.
"I fucking love it when you cuss," he crooned, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. "Turns me on."
She gave him a light shove. "We're in public."
"And nobody's around," he quipped impishly. "I can take you right here and—"
"No, don't—"
He took a dangerous step forward and boldly pressed her up against the brick wall, and at once, his musky scent assaulted her senses. A trail of smoldering hot liquid seared into her veins; it was making her head spin. "Don't?"
"Don't."
They ended up at a pub—a quaint little corner a couple of blocks away from her apartment—that couldn't be bothered carding underage minors, and she gleefully announced her sudden craving for buffalo wings and beer.
"Seriously?"
She slid onto the barstool, shooting a murderous glare his way. "Are you judging me?"
He masked on a façade of innocence as he held his hands up in mock surrender. "I wouldn't dare, Quinn Fabray."
They grinned stupidly at each other for a while, oblivious to the rest of the world, because it was these little moments that they cherished the most—the rare opportunity that they were allowed to freely enjoy—no matter how brief it was. It would vanish soon, as it always did with them; the universe was a heartless place, after all, so they found solace in things people took for granted.
"What's the occasion, Sam?"
Even so, she wasn't an idiot.
He paused for a moment, and she watched as he struggled to gather his wits. His hands were clasped together on the countertop; he coughed and cleared his throat, and then expelled a puff of air. The bartender—an old, scruffy guy with a red bandanna tied around his head—set their pints of cheap lager in front of them and ambled off without a second look.
"I've been thinking about what you said last night."
She stiffened at his words. "About what?"
He reached for the beer, though he didn't take a gulp. "This place, it's toxic."
"Sam—"
"No, you're right," he murmured, distractedly rapping his knuckles against the polished wooden surface. "We need to get out of here."
"Where is this coming from?"
"Karofsky is coming to get me, Q, and he's not going to stop until he succeeds."
The barbequed wings were long gone; they were on their third round of beer, and Quinn was getting drowsy. Someone had started up the rusty jukebox at the corner some time in the night and oldies country music was playing out of the speakers. Nothing about the place matched, but she rather enjoyed the irony. Subconsciously, she let out a chuckle, attracting Sam's attention as he took a pull from his cigarette.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I can't believe you," she grumbled, already regretting the morning to come. "I still have to go to work in six hours, you jerk."
"What?" he snickered, reaching over to shift the stray wisps of her hair out of her face, tucking them neatly behind her ear. His hand lingered, his knuckle brushing against the soft skin of her cheek. "God, you're adorable when you have alcohol in your system."
"I hate you."
His gaze shifted all of a sudden, his slightly-glazed eyes darting to a spot over her shoulder and his muscles went rigid. He frowned, jaws twitching; his brows furrowed and his lips set in a thin line, practically glowering. Quinn tilted her head inquisitively and was about to speak up when he beat her to it.
"We need to go now, Q."
She blinked. "What's wrong?"
He gave a curt nod towards the entrance. "Those thugs there, they're Karofsky's men," he said, his voice strained. "We need to get out of here."
Quinn stole a quick glimpse at the front door. "What if I distract them while you leave?"
"No," he was quick to rebut with a shake of his head, blonde hair falling over. "If they know you're with me, they'll come after you too."
The neon sign flashing against the back wall caught her attention.
"Back exit."
"Good idea."
Their hasty footsteps echoed in tandem with her racing heart, and it was all Quinn could hear thumping in her ears. Slipping out had been surprisingly easy—the dim lights, accompanied by the inconspicuous location of the washrooms, had aided them in the escape—and they were almost certain that they were safe from the goons.
Just then, there was a loud clank that reverberated off the walls in the dark alley. She yelped, almost tripping over her own feet as she felt the panic welling up in her throat; but then his hand slid into hers, grasping tight, and he all but uttered a word.
"Run."
"Did we lose them?"
There was a hard jerk to her elbow and the next thing she knew, she was hauled against a rough brick wall and a second later, she was squished up against his heaving chest in an attempt to shield her from the world. They molded perfectly; each curve and each line, so exquisitely flawless. His hot breath skirted the side of her neck, sending a lustful shot of desire spiraling down to her core.
"Sam?"
"What?" he hissed, his voice gruff and slightly wary.
"You're kind of…"
She trailed off, unsure what to say. In her defense, it was painfully difficult to concentrate when she was fully engulfed in Sam Evans; he was intoxicating.
"What?"
He must've realized something was off when she failed to reply, and then he was glancing down between them, their lips a scant of breath apart. Noses bumped lightly against each other as he loosened his vice-like hold on her hips. His thumbs stroked tantalizing circles on the silver strip of skin that was unconsciously exposed, eliciting a gasping sigh from her, and with a tilt of her head, Quinn found herself entranced by his hypnotic green eyes.
"You fuck me here, Sam, and I swear to God I'll kick your sorry ass."
Despite the dangerous note in her warning, she knew that he was never one for following basic instructions; he very much saw it as a dare, and he never really could resist it—not when it involved her in a pleasurably compromising position.
With a smirk so salacious, he replied.
"It's going to be worth it."
I can dance and play the part
If that's what you ask
Give you all I am
Quinn thought she heard the first droplets of rain, but she couldn't be sure; she was flying. The chill of the ocean zephyr caressed her flushed cheeks, now pink from the cold as she soared above the cerulean sea towards the offing line. She loved it here; the subtle taste of salt on the tip of her tongue and the warmth in the air, and up ahead, she watched the sun sink below the horizon. Painted in hues of orange and yellow, the sky was her oubliette; a place she went to forget.
She was so near now—she could feel the tingles in every nerve ending—but she was so alone. This place; it was empty.
And then he was there with her, intertwining his long fingers with her dainty ones. His rough, calloused palm rubbed soothingly against hers, and he was positively beaming in delight. She ever only saw him so buoyant and insouciant here when they were together like this; she loved it. Her heart thrummed in a song—something bittersweet, if not a little melancholic—as she thought about what could've been for them.
"Sam…"
His boyish grin grew at the breathless sound of his name, and he turned to face her.
"We're here, Q."
Some place distant; unreachable.
Somewhere only they knew.
Some place just for them.
"Just me and you."
A gasp.
A guttural groan.
One final thrust and he snapped, emptying himself inside her, shudders wrecking through his body, and all she could do was cling desperately onto him as she cried out into the night sky. Ripples of fireworks exploded in the pits of her stomach, and together, they plunged into the blissful abyss of ecstasy.
Upon returning back to Earth, they slumped down—spent and fully satiated—on the wet ground. The last remnants of rain were still trickling down, and Quinn grumbled in protest when she realized that her clothes were soaked through.
"What the hell, Sam," she griped, inspecting her jacket. "I told you—"
"Yeah," he snorted while zipping up his fly. "And I said that it was going to be worth it."
"Quite right, too."
She arrived home to an empty apartment, her dad nowhere in sight. A look of absolute disdain crossed her angelic features when she noticed the mess of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and with a reluctant sigh, she threw them all in the bin before remembering to take the trash out.
The circular clock on the wall read that she had but three hours before reporting for work, but after tossing and turning for a good thirty minutes on her bed, Quinn reckoned that she wasn't sleepy and decided that she might as well keep herself occupied. Doing her best to straighten the place as much as possible, she ended up vacuuming every corner, every inch and under every carpet. She cleared out the fridge of expired food, did a second round of taking the rubbish out, and eventually ran out of chores to complete—that was, until she spied the laundry hamper overflowing with clothes.
She always did hers on Sundays; it was her only day off and what better way to spend it than at the Laundromat? Plucking the stray fag that she had found underneath the couch out of her pocket, she promptly lit it up and took a long drag. Reaching for the remote control, she switched the telly on and channel-surfed for a bit, not even sure what she had been expecting for program at such an ungodly hour, so she turned it off again.
Perhaps she ought to do the laundry, after all; there was a place that never closed but it was quite a couple of blocks away—a good twenty-minute walk—and it wasn't exactly the safest neighborhood to be wandering about before dawn.
"Oh, what the hell."
The scruffy guy sitting behind the counter openly leered at her as she entered, so she did a thing and flipped him off before promptly stalking off towards the furthest available machine. Ignoring the git's blatant ogling as she thought of a million different ways to castrate him, Quinn agitatedly began sorting the whites from the colored clothing, knowing that she would definitely need a smoke to deal with this. In her turbulence, she dropped a quarter, and she watched—like a clichéd slow-motion scene from a movie—as it rolled down the aisle and landed an inch away from the simpleton's feet.
Fingers reached down for it.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath as she noticed him approaching from the corner of her eye. "Shit, shit, shit."
"You alright there, doll?"
He talked with a lazy slur, as though he couldn't be bothered to properly enunciate his words, and it was off-putting, especially when she could smell something suspiciously like weed on his person.
When she failed to respond, he continued, "Dropped something."
Silently, she snatched the coin out of his outstretched palm and waited till he got the message that she wanted him to piss off before resuming with her task. He slunk away, back to his initial spot behind the counter—mildly sulking—and she rejoiced in the reprieve from needing to entertain him with pointless idle conversation. Punching buttons to get the machines started, she waited until they were in full cycle, and then headed out.
She just wanted to be alone right now.
A lit up cigarette sat between the valley of her fingers, and she paused to release a stream of smoke from her lungs. Sat down on the curb, she cradled a notebook in her lap, writing furiously to fill the empty spaces. Words skated across the dotted lines in a dance she was so familiar with; her sweet escape.
She wrote of dreams; of unshed tears.
She penned down colors that she couldn't see; the different shades of fears.
She told unsung tales of flying—of soaring across Neverland—and allowed herself to feel.
Some place distant; unreachable.
Somewhere only they knew.
Some place just for them.
"Just me and you."
With a bag of freshly cleaned clothes, Quinn trudged back to the apartment. She had less than an hour to get to work, and she was positive she reeked of beer and smoke—and perhaps a hint of rain. Her hair felt icky and she would prefer to brush her teeth first at least. Unlocking the door, she lumbered in, only to find her dad perched on the couch with his head in his hands.
"Dad?" she softly called out, not wanting to spook him. Slowly, she edged nearer to him. "You okay?"
He glanced up, and immediately she noticed the familiar glazed-looked in his eyes and the inebriated crimson hue in his sunken unshaved cheeks; her father was inevitably still a drunken mess. It ached to see him so broken and reckless with his health; simply a ghost of a man he once was when her mom was still alive.
"What—what you doin' here, Quinn?" he gurgled.
"I—I live here, dad."
"Oh," he snickered, hollow and deafening. "What are you doin' up so late?"
"Just got back from the Laundromat," she explained with a weak smile. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"
He shook his head, and then gave a nonchalant shrug.
"Got fired."
She gnawed on her bottom lip, fidgeting with the hem of her flannel top, unsure of how to react. It wasn't his first time, after all, but jobs were scarce, especially for a man who had dropped out of high school during his sophomore year without a proper diploma. They were already behind on rent above everything else; she didn't know how they were going to afford to live.
"Oh."
I can do it
She was tired; so tired, and all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and fall asleep. Hours dragged on as she tended to pompous customers who scorned at her lack of fashion sense, and she was itching for a smoke before all hell broke loose in her system. The minimalistic-looking clock on the wall taunted her with each ticking second, and after glowering at it for a good five minutes; she reckoned she was going bat-shit crazy, so she yelled to Emma, informing her that she was going on a break before stalking out the back door to sit next to a rubbish dump.
I can do it
It was her last stick; the next packet would have to wait because she was living on ten bucks to sustain her till the cheque came in.
She let out a frustrated cry.
The lighter refused to work.
"Fuck."
I can do it
A/N: I hope that's not too depressing. LOL! I'm a happy person, I swear! Also, if you're a huge Doctor Who fan, I'm sure you'd get some of the references and lines that I've managed to slot in :P
Song used: "Human" by Christina Perri