"...and although celebrity Rachel Berry has declined to comment on her sudden break from Broadway, her management will be holding a live press conference tomorrow afternoon. In other news, a disturbance of criminal activity in NY has..."
A fair skinned girl sits uncomfortably in the diner, the press of fake leather squeaking her discontent as patrons turn to stare; averting their gaze, she peers into her black coffee - the strongest to get her through long days and longer nights - and grumbles nonsense about just having to settle for the little West Village commodity, even if it happens to have the darkest roast coffee and best lethal, coma inducing pastries. A quick glance to her left, and then to her right, reveals much more flannel and metro clothing than usual, and she almost rolls her eyes at how they all seemed to be glued to the tiny television set, practically tearing already at the so-called loss of a star.
She snorts in disagreement, and no one so much as gives her a sideways glance as she stands up and throws a few dollars down, a quarter into the tip jar. It read 'all proceeds go to future Hollywood stardom!' - and she can't find it in her to blame sweet, owner Jimmy Perkins for being induced into the quiet, yet maddening dream everyone else in the Village seemed to have succumb to - might as well throw a starving dog a bone, right?
As she grabs her bag and heads out into the overcast, gloomy outside world, her teeth clench disapprovingly as yes, even the goddamn weather seemed to be pissing itself over one girl. For once, the streets are empty, residents either having a late dinner at the trendy little places around open until midnight, or as she reasonably deduced, also feeling as though the sun would never come out again in New York. Artists, she thought sardonically.
It's almost a little eerie, actually, so she walks hastily down the streets, even considering paying for a short taxi ride to her apartment. She grunts and lets out an 'oof,' as a soft body collides into her own and is momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of strawberry.
She pulls away a little, rubbing at the sore spot at her temple that will surely leave an embarrassing mark. Her breath catches in her throat as she opens her eyes, which are now treacherously watering at the pain. God, lady, you've got a head made of iron - she stops mid thought, blinking as dark eyes look up at her through long lashes.
"Oh, shit! I'm so sorry! Are you okay? I wasn't looking - I mean, God, this place is a ghost town tonight, and I was just, I'm - "
She infers at this point that Rachel Berry was clearly as rambly and inarticulate as every interview she'd ever seen.
"In my way," she narrows her eyes, and the brunette looks taken aback, "Clearly."
"Sorry," the starlet half whispers, gaze darting around nervously for - what the other can only assume - paparazzi on the hunt. For a second, she takes in Rachel's appearance: her clothes are windswept, and she seems jumpy, fidgety even, probably lurking about the Village like a lost puppy away from its handlers. Figures.
It's enough to make her stumble over a scathing remark, her "yeah, whatever" coming out much more of a mumble than a scowl.
"Can I do anything? I could take a cab with you to the hospital - "
"And see my face plastered over the newspaper tomorrow morning? Yeah, sounds perfect," she interrupts, frowning. Rachel squares her shoulders, though, and prepares herself.
"Well, I can't just let you walk off by yourself, you're clearly dazed, and if you have a concussion that would be an unbearable weight on my conscience," she says matter of factly, and the blond stares. Really?
"We bumped heads, and since yours seems to be made of rock and you're okay - I'll be just fine."
"But I'd feel much better if I could at least take you home and make sure."
The throbbing of her head, she wants to say, is probably more due to Rachel's interference than the initial crash collision, but all she does is shake her head.
"I'm not going to sue you."
"That's not my concern."
Her jaw tightens; that's right, Rachel freaking Berry wouldn't have to worry about anyone starting up a lawsuit against her. There was no denying a flurry of lawyers would get her out of it, because if OJ could do it, so could Rachel. Probably with more press, too.
"If I let you take me home, will you and your insufferable big head promise to leave me be?"
"Of course."
"Then call the goddamn cab," she mutters, and it's all the cue the other girl needs as she hails a cab - surprisingly fast, where the hell were they when she needed them? - and even goes as far as to open the door for her first. She resists the urge to roll her eyes again, judging Rachel she'd probably think she was going faint. Before she can comment a few twenties are slipped into the driver's passenger seat, for sake of anonymity, because resident concerned overachiever just has to sit so close and hover.
"Where to...?" she trails off brightly, realizing a little late she had never gotten the stranger's name.
"Augustine street."
"And your name?" Rachel implores, not catching the hint.
"Quinn Fabray."
"Well," Rachel starts, smiling, and Quinn just can't understand what this girl doesn't get about personal space, "I'm - "
"Rachel Berry," she mumbles, "Yeah, I know."
Part time actress and singer, full time heart breaker.
Quinn shifts her gaze to the window, eyes clouding over, away from the familiar stranger who's eyes she can feel on the back of her head.
I know.