Fight For You
I uploaded this story before but deleted it because it wasn't all that well executed in my opinion. I know much more about mixed martial arts now, and that world, and I'm better equipped to write faberry in that world as a result. So, all these years later when the faberry fandom is much quieter unfortunately, I have begun to re-work it, and it is much tighter. So I thought why not post it on FF? I have changed much regarding plotlines, and it is just better overall. It's not faberry in their usual contexts, but it's something different and still in charachter (I hope) :) I can't say how frequent updates will be. Bear in mind that I only have to re-work the story, but having said that I have already created and added in new scenes as well as taken out some, so I can't say how frequent updates will be.
Chapter One:
She lay stone still on the mat, eyes closed. Silence – but for the metallic jangle of a few punch bags that were swaying to a standstill – surrounded her. She drew in a deliberate breath, cool air coating her nostrils and filling her sculpted trunk before leaving her lips, recycled. Her defined sternum continued to rise and fall, glistening infinite beads of hard-earned sweat as the growing silence of mind began to dwarf her awareness of her body.
The serene silence of meditation. She'd spent her entire life avoiding it, the silence. Silence had always made room for her to see the monster that she had become. But when she'd discovered fighting, she'd also discovered a whole new way to experience the silence. New motives. Motives that were much more becoming.
The silence became a route to blade-like focus. A route to success.
"When there are thousands of blood-thirsty fight fans roaring, you'll need to stay focused. When you get punched and kicked and you swing back, only to find that nobody's there, you'll need to know how to maintain that focus! Find the silence," her first ever boxing coach, Alberto Lopez, had told her whilst pressing a guided meditation CD to her palm.
At the memory of how she'd raised a cynical eyebrow at it, a smirk twitched her lips, coaxing her away from that serene inner blankness.
"You're gonna win this fight, Q. You beat the breaks off that bitch before and you're gonna do it again."
Quinn sat up on the mat, a smirk much deeper than the previous marking her features as she watched her best friend navigate the gym. She noted the white tape that was wound around Santana's wrist and in between the caramel complexion of her fingers. "You looking to do some lifts, S?"
Santana hung her duffel bag up and started towards the mats, brushing fingertips loaded with quiet reverence over the steel and leather of the apparatus. "Nah, I just got done lifting at that spot a few blocks away. Britt's working late, so I thought I'd drop by and tune your ass up in prep for the Berry war you've got coming up," she answered, a casual way about her as she shrugged. Too casual.
"Just admit that you love me and came by because you care."
Santana rolled her dark eyes off to the side, but said nothing. It was progress in Quinn's mind. She thrust her hand up and Santana grabbed it, pulling the sweaty blonde to her feet.
"You hear Berry's latest interview?" Santana asked as she began peeling the tape off of her wrists.
Quinn ran her fingers back through the strands that had broken free of her bun, and grimaced at the moisture that coated her fingers. "Wow, Evan really pushed me today."
"Bitch, you listenin'?"
"I don't really care what that noisy dwarf has to say, S. It's not gonna stop me from reconstructing her nose," Quinn said, sporting a delighted smile like the pleasure would soon be all hers.
"Bitch was on Ariel Helwani's MMA podcast. I was listening on the drive over here. He asked about your first fight with her. She said you beat her by way of a fluke."
Quinn stilled, her cocky hazel stare icing over and narrowing at nothing in particular. "I choked her unconscious after timing the perfect right hook to her temple. Hardly a fluke."
Santana smirked, because if that wasn't a fired up serial-killer-esque Quinn Fabray stood in front of her, she was Michael Jackson. "And did you try to date her at one point?"
Unlike the many shots that Quinn had absorbed over the years had been able to do, that question rocked her. "W-What?"
"My my," Santana husked with sensual eyes, much to Quinn's displeasure. "I knew you thought she was hot but you asked her out, got turned down, and didn't tell me about it?" She squinted, thinking back. "In that last fight I bet you must have just loved body-triangling her from behind – constricting her lower abdomen between your legs as you cut off the oxygen supply to her brain. Though I gots to say… it's a little fucked up to be punching the shit out of someone you wanna bone, especially when you're as ferocious about it as you were when you blemished her perfect record."
"I… I." Quinn swallowed, frowning at the wall behind Santana. "I cannot believe she talked about that on Ariel's podcast. What the fuck?"
Santana waved Quinn's reaction off, dismissive. "She did it to get in your head. If she can make this second fight personal, you're more likely to rush at her aggressively, leave yourself open, and then she can crack you with something sneaky and dangerous. You know how technical her striking is – how sneaky she is about setting those kicks up."
"Fuck her. What if I hadn't been out to certain family members yet?"
Santana sighed, bored. "Really?"
"Fuck you too; I'm not so gay that it's obvious. In fact it's not obvious at all."
"That shit's all over the net, Q. You're a famous mixed martial artist – the first female fighter who's as hot as she is brutal and loved by the mainstream because of it," Santana pointed out, all but duh-ing her friend. "Everyone knows. Why wouldn't your family know you're a skirt-hound too?"
"But Rachel doesn't know that! As far as she's concerned, it could just be this ridiculous rumour that nobody brings up at family gatherings – something that I neither confirm nor deny."
An over-it scoff tumbled from Santana's lips. "Berry," she stressed, for no other reason other than to be brutish, "knows your homosexuality is a well-known fact amongst the public. She's a little bitch, but she's not gonna out you to the world thinking you weren't already out to begin with. The troll has two dads for fuck sake."
Quinn drew in a calming breath and blew it free. "Whatever, just wait 'til our staredown at the weigh-ins," she mumbled sulkily, stalking over towards the sparring pads that lay on the far mat. She snatched them up and thrust them through the air at Santana, who caught them despite the force and abruptness with which they'd been thrown. "You wanna help me prepare, S? Then put those on and let's bang."
She knew that she was being stupid. Of course Berry knew that she was out worldwide. Just last weekend she had attended a publicized pride event in New York to make a speech about the fight for equality in all walks of life. But fuck Rachel for telling the world that she'd spurned her advances. Fuck Rachel for stealing her silence.
The blinds were drawn, aiding the dark shadows that were frozen, mid-creep, across the surfaces of the hallway. "Dad? Daddy?" Rachel called, foot-nudging the front door in behind her and locking it.
She heard the familiar shuffle of slippers against carpet and smiled at the dark-skinned man that emerged from the kitchen, a mug of hot chocolate clutched in his careful clasp. She could smell it. It was the same brand that her fathers had raised her drinking, and whilst that hadn't changed over the years so many other things had.
"Who died?" she asked in reference to the barely lit hallway, but forgot about it in her rush to help steady her aging father's trembling hands. "You're okay dad. Nice and easy."
"Thanks honey," he said as he led the way into the lounge and sunk into the sofa. He granted his only daughter a trying smile that failed to reach his eyes, and the reason for the thick atmosphere suddenly became clear to Rachel.
"You and daddy do not have to worry. I've trained extensively for this upcoming bout. Quinn Fabray will not –"
"Sweetheart, after what happened last time at the hands of this… woman, your daddy and I do not want you fighting her. We're worried," Hiram admitted.
Rachel considered, and not for the first time since she'd decided to embark upon this career path, if she was perhaps being selfish. She'd given her parents something to be proud of, something to support when she was an aspiring Broadway actress. She'd had brushes with success, had dangled the safe stardom of the stage under their noses before snatching it all away from them when she'd realized that Broadway wasn't going to give her the satisfaction and fulfilment that she'd once dreamed it would. And what had she replaced it with? She'd replaced it with the ruthless fight game, which was a lottery of injuries, life-threatening risk, the highest highs, and heartache.
Rachel smiled to herself; whilst this game was ruthless, there was nothing else like it.
Her bullies had been just as ruthless. They'd been the conduit. The conduit to her obsession with yoga, and fitness, and eating clean. And fighting. It had been rough being the daughter of two gay men. Lima, Ohio had been unforgiving of anybody who dared to differ from societal expectations back then. It hadn't helped that Rachel had been a flamboyant ambitious adolescent, who'd encompassed an often misunderstood beauty, acne, a flat chest, a quirky fashion sense, and an effortless trust in her goals that eluded her directionless peers.
Predictably, they'd sought to punish her for daring to exist. From dumster-dumping, to demeaning insults, to prankster suitors, to having ice-cold treats thrown in her face, Rachel had experienced it all. But none of those things had jarred her like the day that Danielle Hamptom had punched her without provocation.
She'd spent lunch that day quivering in a bathroom stall slow-breathing away the nausea that had swelled in her stomach the moment Danielle had struck it. There she'd realized that it wasn't enough to eradicate her acne with clean eating and yoga so that the mean girls in the hallways couldn't call her crater face. There she'd realized that she needed to learn to defend herself too.
Concerned for their daughter's physical safety, and exasperated by the school's lack of enthusiasm when it came to Danielle's punishment, Hiram and Leroy Berry committed themselves to the weekly two hour drive outside of town – a rundown gym that taught an assortment of martial arts disciplines.
Over time those classes had turned Rachel into something that nobody could have ever anticipated. A popular teenager.
She'd been both the star Judoka and the star Muay Thai student, garnering the respect and envy of her peers for the first time. Class after class she'd shown a natural athleticism and feel for the human body as it related to combat. All the drive that she'd poured into dreams of headlining on Broadway met with her new found passion for combat, which set the two passions at war with one another, combat being the mistress. At least it had been in Rachel's mind, because whilst she'd loved it she hadn't – at the time – been able to foresee a viable path to stardom or riches via fighting. Women hadn't yet become a popular attraction amongst fight fans, and the sport itself had been in its infancy. Still, Rachel had loved competing – the perfect execution of technique, the learning, getting her hand raised. Her father's had still been under the impression that Broadway was the unequivocal goal, that their daughter needed applause to live.
And she had. Just not applause limited only to that of her musical, dancing, and acting talents.
When Rachel graduated high school the Broadway world swept her up after she landed the starring role in a small-time production called Fantasy. Her combat years lived on only in the animated stories that she'd tell her New York friends when they'd glance her trophy collection. She was a born performer, born with a voice that had needed little training, and dancing and acting skills that had needed little refinement. Role after role had sought her out, much to the jealousy of some of her so-called friends, an emotion that had been exacerbated by the fact that Rachel hadn't seemed all that fulfilled by the success that they so desperately coveted.
And she hadn't been fulfilled. Not even the Tony Award, presented to her by her childhood idol Barbra Streisand, had done it for her. She hadn't missed the irony – that she could spend so much of her early years believing that her destiny was Broadway... only to discover that it wasn't. When the Ultimate Fighting Championship began to sign female fighters for the first time, and Cassy Bliss – a woman Rachel had dismantled in a Muay Thai tournament years before – won the UFC Strawweight Championship, and became the face of women's martial arts, Rachel had known what her true calling was.
"Are you listening, sweetheart?"
She blinked her past away, granting her father a contrite but disappointed smile. "Dad, I'm going to beat her this time, and in utterly brutal fashion. My coaches and I have studied extensive tape on Fabray this fight camp. She makes small mistakes and leaves openings. Openings that I will capitalize on," Rachel assured him, trusting in the hard work that she'd put in over the past two month camp. "I was a little flat-footed in our last bout. However, my footwork has improved dramatically since then, along with my range management. Fabray will be lucky if she can hit me at all, much less do what she did the last time."
"Sweetheart -"
"I'm better than her! I know that without a shadow of a doubt!"
Hiram sighed, sunk his neck down into his shoulders, and sipped his hot chocolate.
It made Rachel all the more determined.
Quinn snuggled down in bed. She dared to let her gaze fall to the empty space beside her. Her cell phone lay beside her pillow. She could visit an adult site, find a clip of two moderately attractive women having sex, get herself off, and then maybe sleep would find her. A sleeping pill would be just as effective, but who knew what unlisted ingredients lurked within those?
Popping one and potentially flagging for a banned substance post fight wasn't a risk she was willing to take. No. She didn't want Berry to have any crutches or excuses, didn't want her to be able to say that she'd gotten her ass handed to her, for a second time, because Quinn had been taking performance enhancing drugs. A PED scandal, however innocent she was, would mean that Nike would likely stop sponsoring her, and her entire body of success in mixed martial arts would come under questioning. Like the accused pedophile later proved innocent, it would follow her for the rest of her career. Her accolades would forever be tarnished with the label: cheater.
Quinn couldn't have that. Not when every skill that she'd ever acquired had been earned through hours upon hours of repetition drills, sweat, injuries, and grit.
She blindly reached beneath her pillow, feeling around for the device – when it began to vibrate! Her fingers grasped it and she thumbed the screen, taking it to her ear. "Hello?"
"Miss Fabray?"
Quinn sat up against the headboard at the unfamiliar male voice. "Who is this?"
"Jesse St. James. I apologize for making this call so late but –"
"You're Rachel Berry's manager slash agent right?"
"Yes," Jesse affirmed, the prideful puff to his chest audible. "Yes I am."
"She could have called herself to apologize for putting our past out there for world consumption! She was out of line! I assume you're calling to do her dirty work."
"Not at all."
Quinn glared into the darkness. "Then why are you in my ear?" she enunciated, patience thin.
A sigh funnelled into her ear. "I've already informed Dana White, but the chances are his busy schedule hasn't permitted him to inform you yet. So Rachel instructed that I call you myself."
Quinn tensed. "Tell me what?"
"Rachel suffered an injury whilst training. Her doctor won't clear her to fight, despite her threats to take legal action against him."
Quinn stilled, blinking repeatedly as she watched the last two month's preparation flash before her eyes. Fuck, she thought. She'd needed this fight. Craved it. It'd been three months since her last fight, and she was crawling with that fighter's itch. Hitting pads and sparring in training wasn't enough. She needed to let her fists, elbows, and kicks fly at full power under the lights and in the heat of competition. She needed to let them fly at Rachel.
It took a few moments before Quinn remembered that she was on the phone. When she settled on a response, it hit the air as cool and as seamless as those bullshit speeches she would give as Captain of her high school Celibacy Club: "You know, I was really looking forward getting my hands on her again."
"Oh I'm sure you were, Miss Fabray."
"Don't get cute, errand boy; I asked her out, she stormed off, I'm over it!" Quinn grunted, her irritation over the cancellation, despite her efforts to downplay it, seeping in. "But I'm not over her claiming her loss to me was a fluke. I've got a right hook and tape of the fight that says otherwise."
"Errand boy?" Jesse huffed. "Look, I'm going to remain professional, regardless -"
"Just tell her to rest and heal up real nice, because the next time she's stupid enough to let officials lock her in a cage with me, I'm gonna embarrass her. Take delight in her tears, just like the last time I beat her and left her crying in the middle of the octagon."
Jesse's jaw constricted and pulsed, those cold words propelling him back in time.
He recalled the far-away look that had plagued Rachel's lost chestnut eyes after Quinn had beaten her – how she'd sat in her locker room concussed, asking team members as well as him what had happened, only to receive the answer and then ask again seconds later. For all his clients in the fight business, Jesse had never seen a concussion steal a fighter's recent memory, though he'd always been aware that short term memory loss was a potential consequence.
To see his then girlfriend repeatedly receive answers, forget, and have to ask what had happened again mere moments later, had tugged the muscle in his chest, because he'd known that once Rachel's brain stopped glitching out, she'd have to deal with the devastating fact that she'd lost without the luxury of forgetting seconds later.
And she hadn't dealt with it well. They say depression has many faces, and Jesse was a subscriber to that notion. Many of his clients had spiraled into depression. Some because an injury had sidelined them and taken precious months off of their prime years as an athlete. Others because retirement meant that they had to find a new identity, a new self-concept, no longer the storied prize fighter. Certain fighters drank and snorted themselves silly. Others took their pent up frustration out on wives and kids. Then there were those who were depressed because of all the concussions they'd endured over the years, their brains forever scrambled, which often resulted in random angry outbursts, slurred speech, decreased comprehension, and irrational impulsivity.
Rachel, however, had trained herself all the way to sickness. After her loss to Quinn, she'd lived at the gym. Morning, noon, and night she'd been there, neglecting other areas of her life, including her relationship with Jesse, which had quickly torn their romance to shreds. She'd neglected sleep, rest, and her social life, obsessed with getting back on the horse so that one day she could fight Quinn again and best her. Her obsession had been impossible on her body, and more impossible on her mind. The cycle of self-abuse had only ended when she'd beaten her next opponent, Maye Donnahertz, via a round one question mark kick knockout. But she'd never truly forgiven herself for the Fabray loss.
Jesse batted his curly fawn hair away from his face with a staunch hand. "I was questioning whether to believe those recent articles about you being a ruthless bully throughout high school. But it seems they painted you true. Next time, Miss Fabray, Rachel is going to bully you in the octagon. Good night."
With those parting words, Jesse left Quinn's ear.
She was alone again. Only now she was incredibly pissed off.
When she walked into the office Dana White, the UFC's President, was sat behind his desk telling whoever he was on the phone to that 'styles make fights,' and that they had to 'make it happen.'
Seconds later he hung up, smiled at her, and motioned for her to sit. "What's up, pretty lady? Make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks." She drew out the chair opposite her boss and sat down.
Quinn liked Dana. He was unlike any boss that she'd ever had before, with his no nonsense manner, his love for violence, and his habit of sometimes squeezing as much profanity as he could into a sentence. With her fight against Rachel off the table, she wondered what was next for her career in the Women's Strawweight Division. Dana would give it to her straight.
He clapped his slightly chubby hands together atop the desk's surface. "Alright! So Berry's injured. Since finding out I've been like a fuckin' mad guy tryin' to fix it."
"Fix it? Wait, I'm still fighting? I thought you were scrapping the fight altogether."
"Well, hey, lemme finish," he said on a toothy grin that suggested he knew something Quinn didn't. Her gaze narrowed with curiosity. "Someone stepped up to take the fight."
"Who?"
"You're gonna love this! How about you finally get your title shot, and you and Gertrude Fring put on a fuckin' bloodbath for the fans?"
Quinn's eyelids stuttered mid blink. "… Ex-Excuse me?"
"You're ranked number three in the division. Berry: four. Justino's ranked two, but she's suspended 'cause she popped for steroids. With you scheduled to fight Berry, and with Justino out, Fring was outta worthy contenders to challenge her title."
"Right," Quinn drawled, unable to grasp how Gertrude could be stupid enough to take a fight against her on short notice. To put her belt on the line against a short notice opponent. Against her!
"When news hit the media about Berry being out, guess who called me? Within minutes!" Dana exclaimed, hyped over Gertrude's thirst… or arrogance; he still hadn't worked it out. "She said you were a top five Strawweight, and that she might as well crush any hopes you have of becoming champ now – that she would knock you out inside one round."
The air in the office charged with something prickly and thick then... preceding the dark husky chuckle that bounced around Quinn's throat. Her lips slowly rode up over pretty white teeth to facilitate a wolfish grin, her eyes a gleaming champagne story of sadistic glee. Then, soft as a smile with underlying bad intentions, she spoke: "Watch me take that belt."
Dana's brows rose as laughter shook his broad torso. "Fuck, this fight's gonna be awesome." He gradually calmed and shook his head, shrugging like there was nothing more he could've done to deter Fring's cocksure notions. "I tried to tell her you were a serious fight. Ranked number three with the heaviest right hand in the division, and on a winning streak! But Fring's a savage. A fuckin' madwoman – didn't care that it's short notice or any of that. Said she just wants to get in there and fight, doesn't matter who it's against, and that's why the fans love her."
Quinn hadn't heard anything past her promise to take the Strawweight Championship.
Rachel groaned miserably, huffing when the loud expelling of emotion saw her in the same situation that she'd been in before she'd expelled it, which was injured with no Fabray rematch on the horizon.
"I can't believe any of this," she whispered, her voice made thin under the ache of unshed tears that had swelled in her throat. "I-I was so close to erasing my only loss, and then… then this happens. My parents are losing their minds because I'm hurt, and I – Fabray probably thinks I'm scared to fight her again and –"
"Hey," Noah cooed. "Chill babe." He dragged the table closer to the sofa and carefully lifted Rachel's bandaged ankle onto it. "R.I.C.E," he stated. "Rest, ice, compression, and elevation. You'll be good in no time. And, hey, if Fabray takes Fring's belt you'll probably get a fast-track title shot because there's real beef between you and Quinn, a real story. Dana and the fans dig that."
Rachel let her sight roam Noah's sculpted arms and back – the rivets of thick muscle that were his quads: barely encased in a pair of tight shorts. He was the UFC Middleweight Champion, known for throwing that lightning fast spinning back kick to the faces of those that challenged his spot at the top. It was okay for him, Rachel thought to herself, perhaps a little bitterly. He had championship gold, was on a twelve fight winning streak, and all of his limbs were working in perfect order. Was he really in any position to tell her to chill, regardless of how well meaning?
He ruffled his Mohawk, glancing towards the kitchen before looking to the crestfallen woman before him. "Want me to make you something to eat?"
Rachel suddenly felt like a burden. Instead of training for his upcoming fight against Jimmy, 'Guns,' Lolacoff, Noah was here taking care of her. She granted him a tight smile that faded as soon as it had formed. "No thank you. I appreciate your willingness to be here with me, really I do. But you have an important fight coming up that requires your utmost focus."
"What, are you saying you think Lolacoff can beat me?"
"No, that is not what I said," Rachel huffed. She gave Noah the once over. "How much do you weigh right now?"
"Around... two-oh-five."
"Your fight is in two weeks!" Rachel shrieked, momentarily forgetting her own woes. "You already should've started cutting! If you keep doing weight cuts like this, your thyroids will be shot by the time you're thirty! You could damage your liver!"
Noah rolled his eyes resignedly. "Okay, I see your point. But one-eighty-five isn't gonna be that tough to get down to. I'll make the weight."
"You barely made weight for your last fight. Cutting weight gets more difficult as one gets older -"
"I have this new nutritionist coming in, Rach. I'll be on weight come the official weigh-ins," Noah sighed. "Stop deflecting."
He dropped down onto the sofa beside her, sneaking his chiselled arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close as an impish smile shaped his lips. "Honestly, I'm just hanging around in the hopes that you'll tell me why you didn't dish that Fabray asked you out before. I had to hear about it on a podcast." He felt rather than heard Rachel's weak scoff.
"We're not talking about that," she petulantly murmured, looking to her lap. "I'm not done scolding you for your irresponsible mismanagement of your weight."
Noah chuckled. "My irresponsible nature is why the world loves me. Now dish. I need to know what kinda game that absolute fucking dime piece, Fabray's, got." Awe glazed his gaze over. "Man, I still can't believe she's not into guys. Every time I see her it's like – instant hard-on."
Rachel leaned out of his immediate space and radiated frail amusement at him. She then sniffed away the unshed tears that had begun to fog her nose, and found it within herself to tease, "are you threatened by the fact that she propositioned me?"
"Your ego is out of control, even by Rachel Berry standards," Noah retorted dryly.
It was one of the things that he loved about her – that she never settled for anything less than the absolute best. That she knew herself to be worthy of the best. That she knew she was someone special. It was the reason why she was smarting so hard about not being able to fight Quinn again and right the one loss on her record. Noah understood that. Being an egomaniac was an essential ingredient in the fight game. But in this instance, with that question, Rachel wasn't being an egomaniac.
In this instance she was right on the money.
"I'll always adore you, Rach," he confessed, suddenly sullen.
"Noah?" Rachel uttered, feeling his arm slip away from her shoulders.
"I adore you. But don't ask me shit like if I'm threatened by the idea of you moving on. Especially not right now. You're heartbroken about the injury and you're vulnerable, and if we keep down this path reliving old relationship dynamics, we're probably gonna end up fucking only for you to regret it. I'm not what you want. I had you, I screwed up, and you figured out what I'd been saying from the start – that you deserved better than me."
"Hey –"
"Yeah, I'm threatened. I was threatened when you started dating that preppy asshole, Jesse, and I'll be threatened when you start dating someone new. But I deserve it, and I'm gonna eat it like I ate that clubbing overhand right from Darren Dawson at UFC 161."
Rachel noted the hunch to Noah's shoulders. The boyish sulkiness that had commandeered his stare. The world saw him as the man. He was Noah, 'Hockey Puck,' Puckerman. Strong, quick, vicious, powerful, cocky, and possibly the best pound for pound fighter in the UFC. She wanted that guy to return.
She took her fingers to his chin and lifted it so that their eyes would connect. "I'm sorry. It was the easy thing to say and it wasn't fair. I will say that this is why I never dished about Quinn though. It happened shortly following our break-up, and it never seemed like the right time when we were rebuilding our friendship to tell you that other people were making advances towards me."
Noah nodded one time, sighing his discontent away. "So..." He shrugged, still somewhat solenm but accepting. "Tell me now."
Rachel briefly closed her eyes, and with it she closed the door on their past to open up another. "You remember that Quinn and I temporarily trained with the same camp a few years ago right?"
"The Wayne Harper camp in Alaska?"
"Yes. Well…"
Santana and Quinn stood, arms folded, watching the petite brunette put her all into squat-flipping the truck tire from one end of the gym to the other.
"Wow."
"Yeah, she was in here working that tire before we went out to grab lunch too. Bitch has cardio for days, I'll give her that," Santana mused aloud. "Where are those ropes I left on the bench? I swear to God, if Colton put them away I'ma get up in that boy's ass."
Beside her Quinn said nothing. She instead twisted the cap off of her water bottle and took a quick swig, her clear hazel eyes never leaving the small brunette's grunting athletic form.
Handing Santana the now capped bottle, Quinn removed the towel that had been hanging around her own neck and began to make her way over towards the noisy spectacle.
"Push! Push it, Rachel! This is round five of a title fight, and you're three rounds down to one! How much do you want it? Push!" Wayne Harper, the camp's founder, yelled when the panting woman's arms limpened against the tire and her legs gave out mid-squat. The tire rolled to a brief unstable stop before toppling to the floor when she collapsed flat on her back, arms splayed out either side of her torso. Her chest tugged in and shoved out air as though traumatized by what she'd just put her body through.
Wayne grinned and offered his hand for the fallen heap of a woman to take. "You've got an awesome gas tank! That's half the battle when you're in the octagon," he praised her, his narrow blue eyes gleaming like they always did when he discovered an athlete he thought could be the champion.
"What's up Wayne? Who's this?" Quinn asked, peering down at the sweaty woman. She dragged her sight over the woman's glistening clavicles, and all the way down to her small feet, which were clad in a pair of fresh blue Reebok sneakers.
"I'm... Rachel," the floor bound brunette panted. Suddenly feeling scrutinized she blocked out the fatigue that screamed in every muscle and managed to sit up, dragging the back of her hand across her dripping forehead as she looked up at the world renowned Quinn Fabray.
"Here," Quinn said, offering her towel to the recovering woman.
Rachel managed a smile. She took the soft bundle of material with a gentle clasp. "Thanks."
Wayne glanced between the two women and raised an eyebrow; he had two teenage daughters and always knew when he was intruding. "I'll leave you girls to it."
He was gone in an instant, moving off to bestow other fighters with the best kept techniques of mixed martial arts.
Understanding all too well the hellish state of exhaustion that Rachel had worked herself into, Quinn dropped to the mat, sitting with folded legs. They stared at one another, Quinn giving off an intense studious air, which caused Rachel's face to fluster more than it already was, if possible.
As if to hide, she dabbed her face with the towel.
"I'm really impressed with your cardio," Quinn told her. "You train with this camp before, or are you bringing in that gas tank from a previous conditioning programme?"
"No. It's my first time here. I thought I was aware of the elite level that this camp operated at," Rachel answered, heartbeat slowing as she gestured at Quinn as if to demonstrate her idea of an elite fighter, "but I'm frankly astounded by the level of skill and talent that enters this room on a daily basis."
Quinn chuckled, mentally filing away the shape of Rachel's lips for later consideration. "If you made it out here then that means you're also at that elite level. What's your background?"
Rachel couldn't help but smirk. "I would very much love to toss you around, or catch you with a spinning back fist, but I'm still recovering from the tire exercise." She cupped her still winded rib cage, and Quinn followed her every movement.
"Toss? So you're a Judoka and a Muay Thai girl, if the spinning back fist is anything to go by."
"Bingo. You know your stuff, but of course you do. You're Quinn Fabray."
Quinn simply smiled at her. "How many professional fights have you had?"
Rachel flashed all ten fingers, pride elevating her chin as she said, "ten, with a perfect record. I'm also a two-time silver medallist at the World Judo Championships."
"It's magnetic how you come alive when you talk about this. It's contagious, not that I need to catch the fight bug anymore than I already have it. But just, you need that passion in our sport; it's so competitive!"
"I've always embodied unwavering passion and determination. I was the same way when I was performing on Broadway, but –"
Quinn's sudden gasp saw Rachel's lips meet and stay that way.
"How could I have been such an airhead? You're that Tony Award winning actress prodigy with the amazing voice, aren't you? I don't follow theatre, but I remember something in the news about you being snapped up for all those big roles straight out of high school?"
Never one to shy away from prestige, Rachel chuckled, lapping up the recognition. "Yes. That was me."
"Wow. From Broadway to cage fighting, huh? Quite a jump. I bet your parents were pleased."
Rachel's eyes dropped to the towel in her lap. She began to stroke at it. "My fathers are terrified that I'm going to break something, or worse. But I've been engaging in combat since early adolescence, so their concern has become an ordinary facet of our family dynamic. Needless to say though…" She sighed heavy, her fingers stilling on the towel. "They would have preferred that I remain on the stage."
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to pry," Quinn gently offered. She knew all about parents and their stifling expectations. If she'd gone with what her parents had wanted, she would have been married to some guy named Larry and pregnant with her third child. The thought curdled her insides.
"No, it's perfectly alright. With your classic beauty, I'm sure your parents would have preferred that you take up modelling instead of getting punched in the face. I've heard the many and varied reactions that parents give when their child tells them they're going to become a professional fighter. It's almost similar to coming out stories you hear."
"Well, my parents wanted me to be a housewife. If they'd given me even the option to model, maybe I wouldn't have gone to such extremes and become a professional mixed martial artist," Quinn said, taking on a smug smirk. Then she softened her smile. "Look at us: family talk? We just skipped right past the pleasantries didn't we?"
Rachel, playful, side-eyed the flawless blonde. "I'm sure I'll get to punish you for bringing sore subjects up should we ever meet in the cage, Quinn."
"Bring it."
"I shall bring it. Be careful what you wish for."
Quinn's shoulders quaked with dark laughter. "Well, I know you're not gonna get tired in a three round fight, because your gas tank is something impeccable." She shrugged. "So I guess I'd just have to knock you out."
Rachel's eyes widened, a gasp hissing from her. "You would do no such thing! My extensive Muay Thai training trumps your boxing! If anybody's getting knocked out it's you!"
"I have both arm and leg reach over you, short stack," Quinn whispered, her voice padded with all types of sultry husk. "I'd get to you before you got to me."
"You think I'm not well-versed enough to use footwork to get on the inside? I may have shorter legs and arms than you but I'm more than capable of slipping punches from long rangy opponents, and getting on the inside where I can throw strikes that will land." Rachel dipped her head into one good hard nod, as if to punctuate her words.
Quinn sunk her two front teeth into her bottom lip, staring Rachel straight in the eye.
"What?"
"One: you think I can't keep you on the outside with my jab, or by stabbing your midsection with teap kicks every time you so much as think about crowding me? Let's really test your cardio – see how it holds up after a few of those. Two," Quinn purred, leaning in a little closer to the other woman, "you're actually getting riled up talking about this, aren't you? You wanna fight me."
"I don't appreciate you thinking I'm an easy win," Rachel snapped, folding her arms.
Quinn chortled. "I didn't say you were easy." She let that calculated statement sit between them for a while, but when Rachel's huffy demeanour remained unchanged, she followed up with: "Wow, look at you. You're just dying to get in the octagon with me right now and prove me wrong. It's kind of… adorable, Rachel."
Phasing out the silken texture to Quinn's voice, Rachel looked off petulantly. "Adorable," she muttered to herself, taking the word as a condescending dismissal of the very real threat that she posed inside the octagon. "You know, I have a Brazilian Jujitsu game too Quinn. In the event that I grow bored of toying with you on the feet, I'll take you to the canvas and dominate your body with my top pressure, superior positional awareness, and bullish strength. I'd have you sucking air like a vacuum, and then I'd elbow you until either the ref saved you or I'd submitted you. Whichever suited me best in the moment."
Quinn's eyebrow slowly arched. "I heard very little after you promised to dominate my body." She watched realization dawn on Rachel's face, the way her tan throat slowly bobbed as her mind revisited the past ten minutes and inspected it under new light. Quinn pounced. "How would you feel about me taking you out to dinner, Rachel? My treat. We could further explore how we'd annihilate each other in the cage. It would be fun."
Rachel's chestnut orbs, previously hard and closed off, grew apologetic.
"Or," Quinn quickly amended, "I could take you to a great Jutitsu place I know? We could grapple each other instead of sharing pet and family photos over dinner if that's more you thing? It's certainly mine." She winked.
"Quinn, I –"
"If you're already dating someone – I mean, I guess it makes sense that somebody would've already snapped you up."
"No, I – things are complicated. I'm truly flattered but..."
"You're not into women," Quinn supplied, tone flat with disappointment.
"I'm sure you've met my ex. UFC Middleweight up-and-comer, Noah Puckerman?"
"Wait." Quinn frowned, sure she must have been mistaken. "You dated Puck? Mohawk, tiger tattoo that starts at his chest and winds all the way down to his… nether regions Puck?"
Rachel rolled her eyes but nodded.
"I never would have put you two together. So he's your ex but there are still feelings?"
"Okay, now you're prying!" Rachel suddenly snapped, causing Quinn to sling her palms up in plea of her innocence.
"I was just trying to see if maybe I had a shot. I wasn't trying to pry."
Rachel's shoulders hiked up and down in a huff. She realized she was still holding the blonde's towel and was prompt about dropping it in Quinn's lap. "Thanks," she mumbled, standing up and walking off.
The space between Quinn's eyebrows pinched in deep frown. Then she consciously relaxed her forehead, evening her attractive features until her expression was a mask of cool indifference. Rejection had been bound to happen to her at some point, just as every fighter experienced their first loss…
Noah's eyes grew electric with realization. "Fuck! That explains why she's always bitchy with me backstage at events and shit."
"Maybe she's bitchy because you leer at her like sex is the only thing she's good for."
"Rachel, have you seen her? She couldn't be more wrong! I want her to have my Pucktastic kids and to marry me! We'd raise little ass kickers. Masters of shit-kicking."
Rachel fixed him with a disenchanted look. "Sounds like the plot of a TV show that's doomed to fail, especially the part where she's – I don't know – only interested in women."
"Regardless, you blew her off something harsh man. I'm not surprised she can't stand me. Probably thinks I mentally abused you or something, and that that's why you were still all messed up in your feelings when she asked you out. Gee, thanks for that Rach."
"You're most welcome. In any event, her unintentional prying annoyed me. You and I had just parted ways, and I didn't want to discuss the sore nature of my emotions with anyone, much less a stranger, whether I'd been a fan of hers or not," Rachel explained, unapologetic.
Noah nodded his understanding. "Cool. But she's just so fucking hot."
"She gave me my first loss," Rachel pointed out. "Whose side are you on?"
Noah kept quiet for a while, considering his selection of responses, before just coming out with it: "Quinn's fuckin' beautiful, Rach. The kind of chick you take home to your mom. And –"
"She's insufferable!" Rachel insisted, leaving no room for argument.
This had been one of their biggest obstacles as a couple. It was Rachel's way or no way, and Noah – with his numerous tattoos, mohawk, and boyish wildness – had always seen the world through a different lens to her. As a result he'd sought comfort in the arms of groupies that had only been into him for his name, and he'd lost Rachel because of it.
"Where's your sense of sportsmanship?" he asked. "Not everything's perfect. She beat you."
A grimace crossed Rachel's face at those words.
"Congrats to her," Noah continued. "But she also turned you into the monster in the cage that you are today. Without that loss, you wouldn't have fixed those holes in your game. Quinn deserves your respect as a fighter for forcing you to evolve."
"I understand that but it's frustrating. I'm the superior fighter. I know I am. She can't possibly work as hard as I do – can't possibly want it as much as I do. I was all set to prove that, and then I get injured."
"If you understand that she deserves your respect, and you know that her prying was unintentional, why do you hate her so bad?"
Rachel glanced down at her taped up ankle and shook her head."I do not hate her. I merely dislike her, which is strange considering the fact that she used to be my favourite female fighter."
"And why was she your favourite?" Noah sang, already knowing the answer but just wanting the admission.
"Because her classic Hollywood beauty was in stark paradox to her distinctly mean and gritty fighting style. She destroyed stereotypes about what women who looked like her were capable of, all whilst destroying her opponents."
The corners of Rachel's lips curved up slightly in a smile that she wasn't aware of as she recalled the first Fabray fight that she'd ever watched, which had been Quinn's debut fight back in a lesser known fight promotion company called Cage Fight Championships. The commentators had all but written the young pretty blonde off, claiming that after getting hit once she'd be over rebelling against her parents and all set to run off to the fashion industry, where she'd belonged all along.
"Unprofessional misogynistic brutes," Rachel grumbled to herself.
Noah held his hands up. "There. You admitted that she's beautiful. I rest my case."
Rachel scoffed. "Not once did I deny her beauty. I just – she didn't touch gloves with me at the beginning of our first bout."
"You serious? That's why you want to spill her blood so bad?"
"Regardless of what had happened years before in Alaska, she should've carried herself as a professional and touched gloves with me before the bell sounded on that first round."
Noah laughed thin, staccato, and airy. "She's a prize fighter not a stockbroker, Rachel. Professionalism isn't a priority when you're about to fight someone. Come on."
"She left me standing there holding my fists out for her to bump to the witness of thousands, further cementing my initial notions regarding her dismissal of me as a worthy opponent. She doesn't respect my skillset. She didn't, and with my terrible performance I gave her no reason to reconsider that insulting perspective. That's what cuts the deepest."
Noah face-palmed, because Rachel's obliviousness had been a thorn in the side of their relationship too. "You totally shut her down when she asked you out, and if I know you well, were probably pissy with her the entire rest of the time you guys were training in Alaska," he highlighted. "She wasn't gonna touch gloves to show respect, Rachel. You obliterated her ego."
"Perhaps..."
"I think you might've let your then insecurities as a fighter cloud your judgement," Noah carefully proposed. "Before the lead-up to Fabray versus Berry two, which no the fight isn't happening now, but yeah, she said complimentary things about how sneaky and cerebral your style is in interviews. Rachel, Quinn seems like a fan of your work if anything!"
"We'll see."
It was likely that Quinn had said those things, Rachel realized. She'd been tuning out mixed martial arts media outlets for the past few years, having learned the hard way that being married to the praise was just as detrimental as being married to the criticism. MMA was a game of sharp mental focus. At least it had always been for Rachel. Without that it was possible to be the best fighter in the gym but the worst under the bright lights when surrounded by all the noise, pressure, and the fear of loss.
It was entirely possible that Quinn had said those things and Rachel had missed it. There and then, Rachel decided that she would break her MMA media fast that night and try YouTube for clips wherein Quinn had spoken her name.
Hopefully you found this to be a good solid introduction, and you are intrigued to read more. Let me know your thoughts please. If there were any MMA (mixed martial arts) terms that you didn't understand, let me know and I will explain, or just google it :)