Title: Kiss and Tell (Loose Lips Sink Ships)
Author: texaswatermelon
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Shelby, eventual Quinn/Brittany, eventual Rachel/Santana
Rating: R, for language and possible adult situations
Summary: Most people in Vocal Adrenaline tend to feel one of two ways about Shelby Corcoran: they either loathe her with all the fire of a thousand of Carmel High's stage lights, or they possess some amount of sickening admiration for her. Quinn is really a mix of these two extremes.
Disclaimer: Glee is property of Ryan Murphy Television and 20th Century Fox. All characters, places, and recognizable names herein have been borrowed for the use of this fanfiction. Title from "XO" by Fall Out Boy. This story is a work of fiction and is in no way affiliated with the aforementioned groups. No infringement intended.
A/N: AU Quinn has always gone to Carmel school district, so none of her storyline from Glee applies. This takes place during the same year as season 1 of Glee, so just assume spoilers for all episodes. On the WMHS side of things, there will be an OC who will replace Quinn and take over her whole plot. Assume that everything follows cannon over there unless otherwise mentioned in the story. As far as Vocal Adrenalin goes, I'll be mentioning some real characters and some OC characters, so don't get confused there. If anything is unclear, just ask and I'll try my best to Windex that shit. Unbeta'd; all mistakes are my own.
Warnings: This story deals with issues of alcoholism, abuse of prescription medication, neglect, minor instances of child abuse, student/teacher relationships, sexual relations with a minor, and of course femslash. Now, as far as I know, the legal age of consent in Ohio is 16, but it's still pretty taboo; we're talking about a relationship between a sixteen-year-old and a woman in her mid thirties, so. If any of that stuff is a bother to you, I would suggest finding something else to read. Also, angst. So, that being said, please enjoy.

Note: Against my better judgement, I'm posting this story here before it's finished because... well, whatever, I'm an attention whore so. I do plan on finishing it, probably more than I've ever planned on finishing a story in my life, but if it takes me a while to do it, I'm sorry. Just bear with me. Oh, and when I say eventual Quinn/Brittany and eventual Rachel/Santana, I mean REALLY eventual. So don't get impatient or anything. Also, most of these chapters will probably be anywhere from 2,000-3,500 words, a.k.a. annoyingly short. Sorry about that.


The lights are relentless. They're about to take their fifth five-minute sunscreen break, because the last application of block has already melted off of their skin, and some of the paler girls are beginning to turn pink with the heat exposure. And yet, the lights continue to blaze down on them so fiercely that you can hear them buzz with electricity if you listen for it in the off moments when they're being scolded for doing something wrong.

Quinn sighs as the cool lotion soothes the heat on her face, even as it smears around and refuses to absorb into her skin because there's too much sweat beaded there to allow it. It's only five o' clock, maybe even five-thirty. She knows this not because she has a watch or a cell phone or even a clock within the vicinity with which to tell time-they are not allowed such distractions as those during practice-but because there are five empty coffee cups strewn across the wooden table in front of the stage, and one cup approximately half full clutched tightly behind slender, white fingers. After one whole year of performing in Vocal Adrenaline, Quinn has learned to tell time in Starbucks. Shelby usually limits herself to one cup of coffee per hour, sometimes less if it's a particularly bad day and she has to spend more time yelling and less time drinking.

Most people in Vocal Adrenaline tend to feel one of two ways about Shelby Corcoran: they either loathe her with all the fire of a thousand of Carmel High's stage lights, or they possess some amount of sickening admiration for her, the level of which reminds Quinn of a gaggle of imprinted ducklings.

Quinn is really a mix of these two extremes. She admires Shelby's dedication and success. She knows that if it wasn't for Shelby, Vocal Adrenaline would be just another no-name Ohio state high school glee club that only ever comes thisclose to winning titles, but can never clinch that last vital vote. Shelby does not accept such mediocrity, and Quinn values that. She also enjoys watching Shelby perform, because she isn't the type of coach to sit back and yell orders at people until they get their heads out of their asses and do it right. If something isn't going the way she wants it to, she'll get up on stage and show them how it's done. She has a wonderful, captivating kind of voice that's full of all kinds of pain and regret that Quinn knows she will never understand, and she can tell that Shelby adores these chances to reclaim the spotlight for herself every once in a while. She's a totally different person on stage; energetic and glowing and just gorgeous. Quinn admires that.

What Quinn does not admire is Shelby's tendency to be unforgiving. She's pretty sure that the amount of time they spend practicing after school every day has to be against some like, child labor law or something. And she tolerates no mistakes. If you fuck up, Shelby will let you and the entire rest of the team know it. You get no pity or mercy from her; those things tend to breed losers, and Shelby Corcoran only breeds winners.

So, there are approximately six and a half hours left for practice today, and Quinn doesn't really mind. She's hot and tired and her feet have so many blisters she thinks that they'll probably resemble the Stay Puft marshmallow man when she finally cuts them out of her shoes. But she doesn't mind. She knows that it's worth it in the end, to practice so much that you can be no less than perfect; to have the melodies etched into your vocal cords and the choreography carved into your muscles. To be a part of a winning team, no matter what the personal sacrifice. Quinn knows she hasn't always been this ambitious. There was a point in her life when she was content to just take life as it came. Somewhere along the line, whether very gradually or very rapidly, all of that changed. She feels the constant need to go out and take what she wants from life, because life will not give it to her free of charge. That's why she puts up with nine and a half hour long practices every day.

That, and because every minute that she doesn't have to be at home is like a gift directly from God.

xx

When practice is finally over, Dustin drives her home. Dustin is an amazing guy that Quinn met in seventh grade after he'd transferred from a school in Minnesota. He was quiet and shy, a little awkward perhaps, but he pulled Quinn's chair out for her when she was assigned to sit beside him in Algebra class, and he offered to carry her books for her on their way to earth science. He's her best friend in the whole world; the only person she actually considers to be a true friend, and on most days he is her one and only saving grace, when even belting her lungs out on stage does nothing to lift her spirits.

He hops out of the car once they come to a stop in front of Quinn's house; a small rancher built sometime in the 1950s in an uninteresting neighborhood where all of the neighbors are at least fifty years old and have been living in the same houses on the same street for their entire lives. Before she can even open her door, Dustin has done it for her and he grabs her book bag and helps her down out of the obnoxious Range Rover that he and all of the other kids on the team (with licenses) own, compliments of the booster club. He walks her to the door, hands her the bag, and stands there with his hands in his pockets and a lopsided grin on his face.

"Good practice today, yeah?" he says, rocking on his heels a bit to keep from fidgeting with himself. He's always doing that, always tapping or shaking or moving some part of his body like he's got a billion amps of energy surging through his body at all times and needs to give it some sort of outlet so that he doesn't explode. His ruddy brown hair shifts a little with the breeze, like a field of wheat that bends and sways with the will of the wind.

"Not too bad," Quinn replies, shouldering her bag and leaning against the door jamb. Quinn is glad that Dustin can sing, that he joined Vocal Adrenaline with her even if he really didn't want to. She's glad to have someone there with her that she knows isn't out to sabotage or sleep with her. (The sabotage thing is incredibly likely, especially since Shelby has started giving her more solos this year.)

"Well, I don't want to hold you up too long. It's late, and you've got that Spanish test tomorrow. You should get to sleep," Dustin says gently. He knows the situation, knows that Quinn doesn't mind if they stay out there all night talking or sleeping or staring at each other if it means she doesn't have to face what's on the other side of that door. He wishes he could save her, has told her as much before, but she assures him that he saves her every day just by being her friend. It's not enough for him, but he'll never tell her that.

Quinn nods her assent, thanks him for the ride, gives him a kiss on the cheek. She takes a deep breath and twists the knob on the door slowly, stepping in with one last glance over her shoulder. Dustin waits until she's shut the door to walk back to his car. His heart sinks and soars all at once, like it usually does whenever Quinn is around. He knows that she will never see him as anything more than a friend. It doesn't seem fair, but being Quinn's friend is better than being nothing at all to her, and there's a part of him that likes the pain a little more than it should.

Inside, the lights are a murky yellow, bouncing off of murky yellow walls and a murky yellow ceiling, getting lost in an ugly brown carpet. Quinn can hear the soft chatter of the television, some infomercial that started playing once midnight hit and was allowed to remain on the television. She walks into the living room area, tip-toeing and trying to stay silent as she heads towards the couch. Already she can spot the source of her misery littered across the coffee table: a tall glass bottle with only a third of Vladimir Vodka left. Quinn sighs. That bottle had been unopened when she'd left that morning. Beside it are various containers of prescription painkillers, some of them with the caps thrown half way across the table.

On the couch lies Judy Fabray, Quinn's one and only mother. Quinn stares at her for a moment, her slightly wrinkled skin and splotchy complexion illuminated in the blues and whites of the television set. Her flaxen hair is ragged and unkempt, splayed across the pillows like the mane of a crippled lion. Black spandex pants and a Carmel High sweatshirt hang limply on the tiny body.

Quinn looks at her mother and tries, tries with all her might to hate her, but she cannot, so she hates herself instead.

She takes up the television remote and stabs at the power button angrily. The tube dies out and static crackles across the surface of the screen for a moment before it settles as well. At the sudden absence of sound, Judy stirs, her eyes cracking open and squinting against the dim light. It seems to take her a second or two before she even realizes who Quinn is, but when she does she attempts a smile that turns out to be more of a grimace.

"Quinnie, you're home." Her voice is rough from sleep and Vlady, but she makes no attempt to clear it or repeat herself. "How was school?"

Quinn does not answer; she never does. She merely unfolds the blanket that hangs over the back of the couch and lays it over her mother, tucking it in around her shoulders.

"Goodnight, Mom," she whispers, kissing Judy on her clammy forehead before she walks down the hall that leads to her room. She makes no effort to stay awake and study, or get on the internet and connect with the rest of the world, or do anything that most of her teammates are probably doing right now. Instead, she throws on an oversized t-shirt, brushes her teeth, and crawls into bed. Sleep comes eventually, but it puts up a fair fight.