Straight on 'til Morning
Chapter 1
Rachel hadn't picked the hotel. She never has any say in it, like the rest of the cast and crew, who do their jobs and play their roles and sleep where they're told to after living it up night after night. The producers – the financers, the planners – had put them in a beautifully concealed dump in Seattle, and then a newly renovated Hyatt in San Jose with complementary muffins that Rachel had not been able to stop eating.
She really never knows what to expect when it comes to touring accommodations, so the Pacific Palomar is a nice surprise.
It's a grand place, a spot of luxury on San Diego Bay, with shiny steel siding that reflects pinks and oranges on pleasant mornings, gray on cloudy days, and always, reliably, the ocean blue of the harbor.
"It's like a mood ring," the young woman at the front desk had said when she'd commented on this.
She'd told her how, on sunny days, when the Embarcadero is crowded and a baseball game has cluttered the city, the hotel surface is a mirror for boats and clouds, and on the rare, dismal, rainy days, the building will blend into the gray of the sky, distinguishable only by the bright green lights that form a dotted outline.
Rachel decides that it's far better than the giant marble place with lice pillows and a diving board in Nevada, and the touring company spends the day excitedly wandering the city.
It's evening by the time they realize that they're short a room, and Rachel is the one riding the elevator down at 10 PM, shuffling past the bar and through the cool, quiet lobby to the reception area.
Her flip-flops echo around her and she curls her toes to stop them from making a sound.
There's a different woman at the desk now – a young, rakish blonde in a white button-down and bow tie, immersed in a book – and Rachel's abruptly self-conscious about her lopsided ponytail and glasses, her t-shirt with, "PUG LIFE," in solid block letters.
She's soft and messy, out of place in the echoing lobby.
The woman – Quinn Fabray, according to her polished palm tree pin – has an amused little smile on her face, and she carefully marks her place and slides the book away with a warm, "Good evening. How may I help you?"
Her voice is sweet and melodic, and Rachel puts her palms flat on the cool counter.
"I'm with Peter Pan, and we seem to have…belatedly discovered that we are short a room."
Quinn nods and taps away at her keyboard, humming lightly to herself. Rachel doesn't recognize the tune, and she's observing Quinn's face, her bright hazel eyes, to guess how old she is, when the humming stops.
Quinn is smiling when she asks, "Rachel Berry?"
"Yes, I checked us in earlier."
"Your reservation was for twelve rooms. Is that right?"
Rachel nods, tapping her fingers against the counter in annoyance. "The people who booked the rooms didn't take into account the three members of the pirate crew that we added after the disaster in San Jose."
Quinn hums wisely, widens her eyes like she'd witnessed the disaster, and it makes Rachel smile.
"We do have rooms available, so I'll set you up with another one," Quinn offers.
Rachel agrees and leans against the counter, arms crossed on top of it. She watches as Quinn types and decides that there's no way she's older than twenty-five, because of the miniscule horses on her bow tie.
"Are you cast or crew, Ms. Berry?" Quinn wonders.
Rachel props her hand on her chin. "Just crew."
"Not just," Quinn glances at her. "I'm excited to see the show."
"You're interested in theatre?"
Quinn's gaze is still on the computer monitor when she grins and says, "I see everything that comes to the Civic Theater. I've been waiting for Peter Pan."
Rachel hums thoughtfully, tiredly.
"That's not – I'm not asking you for tickets," Quinn says quickly, looking at her. "That wouldn't be professional at all. I'll get my own."
Rachel lifts her eyebrows, amused.
Quinn's much less poised – definitely a little flushed – as she quietly finishes up, and she fumbles to fit the new room keys into a paper sleeve and hands them to Rachel with a bright smile.
"Don't hesitate to let us know if you need anything else, Ms. Berry."
Rachel's lowered her estimation of twenty-five to twenty-three now, five years younger than herself, because Quinn's sweet energy and honesty is charming. She takes the card and returns Quinn's smile with a self-assured, "You can call me Rachel."
She's turning around, flip-flops echoing, when Quinn says, "Goodnight, Rachel," and Rachel looks back to see her smiling down at her book.
Rachel is up before the sun the next morning, and she does laps in the pool for half an hour and finishes a vegan omelet before her roommate even rolls out of bed. While she's an expert at getting the show up quickly, Sam's a lazy problem solver, part of the lighting crew and capable of getting dressed and out the door in four minutes flat.
He looks like a mess, but he does it with a smile.
Rachel's pulling out her card to unlock the door when Sam swings it open, wearing a tank top and a backpack, and bustles out, nudging Rachel along.
"We're goin' for a walk," he declares, grinning.
"We are not," Rachel says, just out of principle. She doesn't make any move to stop walking and Sam is mostly sensible.
He's far more pleasant than her former roommates – first, a loud redhead from Boston who slept like a vampire, then an Amazonian model-type who'd worked on costumes and brought the same deep-voiced hulk of a football player to the room every other night.
Sam's jolly, "We're goin' to see an aircraft carrier!" is more than welcome.
"I have to stop by the theater," Rachel says, and he easily agrees.
They greet a few other cast and crew members in the hallway, and then in the lobby on the way to the concierge. The valet is dapper in a deep blue vest, curly brown hair, and he greets them with a pompous smile and playful blue eyes.
"Can I call you two a cab?"
Sam nods, already rummaging through one of his backpack pockets for cash.
"Thanks, uh…" he squints at the valet's palm tree pin, "Jesse. Thanks, Jesse."
Rachel smiles. Sam's made buddies out of the valets, bartenders, and bellboys at every place they'd stayed, a particularly novel concept in the bigger cities, and Rachel's reaped the benefits.
Her t-shirt today says, "Get ready for the alpacalypse," around the outline of an alpaca, and Jesse's twinkling eyes are on her when he says, "My pleasure. It'll be just a moment."
"This is the fanciest place so far," Sam murmurs, looking up at the ceiling like he hadn't seen it yesterday.
Rachel hums. "There's a hot tub and a diving board at the pool."
Sam gasps, looking at her. "No way."
"Seriously."
"Really?"
Rachel snorts. "Yes, Sam. Seriously. Really."
Sam's still reeling when Rachel catches sight of Quinn across the lobby, striding – gliding – purposefully towards the elevators with sharp clicks of her heels. She thinks of adjusting twenty-three up to around twenty-seven, because Quinn's in a black dress and blue blazer, emanating authority.
Quinn glances at the concierge and does a double-take, slowing slightly. She lifts her hand with a small smile, and Rachel glances around to be sure she's not actually looking at somebody else before waving back.
Quinn's smile widens then, because the alpaca's big enough to be seen from distance.
"Your cab's ready, ma'am," Jesse says warmly, gesturing towards the glass doors. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."
Sam steps forward with a tip in one hand and a wad of lollipops, guitar picks, and condoms in the other, wearing his backpack backwards on his chest, and Jesse adds, "And you, sir," to his statement as an afterthought.
Rachel can tell he's stopped himself from making a comment because his smile's lopsided, like he's holding back laughter at his own thoughts. She thanks him and he winks at her and returns to his concierge cubby.
Quinn changes direction – a guest's iPhone lodged underneath a vending machine on the fifteenth floor can wait – and she crosses the lobby and leans casually against the concierge desk, eyes on Jesse.
"Quinn Fabray," he greets, and his knowing grin makes her want to fire him.
Her voice is clipped when she asks, "You weren't flirting with her, were you?"
"Who?" Jesse tips his head innocently.
She doesn't bother replying, just holds his gaze.
Jesse smiles, "Not blatantly. You've got a classy establishment here."
Quinn eyes his vest, reaches up to straighten his collar while Jesse stands patiently with his hands in his pockets, watching her.
"Why?" he chirps, eyebrow lifted.
Quinn shakes her head and steps aside to nonchalantly read off his clipboard, see what he'd parked that morning.
"It would be unprofessional," she murmurs.
Jesse stands right next to her, so they're both leaning against the concierge desk, reading the clipboard. He's still smiling, always amused, when he loudly whispers, "Who is she?"
"Part of the Peter Pan crew."
Jesse nods. He nudges her shoulder a moment later and says, "Is that blonde guy her boyfriend?"
Quinn cuts her gaze up to his, pushing away from the desk. "How would I know that?"
"You know everything."
Quinn cracks a smile, nodding. "I do, yes."
Jesse taps the black frames resting on his nose and says, "Her glasses match mine. I have an in. I'll hook you up."
It's said with a playful grin, as Jesse's backing towards the glass doors, and Quinn gets out, "No, don't even try – " before the door swings shut behind him.
Sam's chosen a barbeque place for lunch, purely because a section of Top Gun was filmed there, and Rachel sits across from him with a monster plate of fries while he works on a full rack of ribs. There's a large mural on one wall, representing everything Kansas City – fountains and wheat fields and Jayhawks and The Wizard of Oz – and Top Gun memorabilia everywhere else.
Rachel's halfway through her fries when Sam wipes the excess barbeque sauce off his lips and says, "So, listen."
"Oh no," Rachel drawls, smiling.
"It's not totally bad."
Rachel tosses a fry onto his plate. "Just partly bad."
"No, not bad at all," Sam says, eating the fry and then investigating where it had landed, a puppy looking for more. Rachel blocks him from stealing any off her plate and waits expectantly, intrigued by his apparent nerves.
He's focused entirely on her when he takes a deep breath and says, "I'm leaving the crew after San Diego."
It's silent for a moment, and Rachel's, "Oh," comes out more like a squeak.
"I wanna work on my song-writing," Sam says, hopeful. "I'm going back to New York to give the whole music thing one more shot before I decide to spend the rest of my life playing with lightbulbs."
Still processing, Rachel manages to reach over and slap his arm. "You do more than play with lightbulbs."
Sam grins. "They've found my replacement already."
"How can they replace you?"
He tips his head forward, like it's obvious. "Well, somebody's gotta – "
"No, not…not like that," Rachel shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself. Sam's her only real friend on the tour, the only roommate she'd been able to stand in eight months, and he's heading home to give it all one last go and she's just having trouble smiling.
"I'm really…that's great. I'm happy for you," she says genuinely, lips quirked. "I mean, if you cut your goldilocks hair and shave that gerbil on your face, you'll do really well."
Sam grasps his chin, eyes wide. "Gerbil?"
It's enough to make Rachel smile fully.
Sam watches her, then leans forward and says, "You could do the same, you know."
Rachel sighs.
"No, seriously," Sam insists. "You could come back with me and start auditioning for things again. Do what you love and don't give up, right?"
"I didn't give up," Rachel pushes her fries towards Sam, though he ignores them. "It wasn't working. I got tired of it."
"And you've had a break now, so it's time to get back to it."
Rachel stares at him, unimpressed.
"We're still young," Sam says, then flexes his arms like that's supposed to convince her of something. "We've got loads of time for our big breaks."
"I like what I'm doing now," Rachel argues, though it's placid and unconvincing even to her own ears.
She does enjoy the atmosphere of a touring show, the actors and performances, the music, the excitement and satisfaction. It's watching from the sidelines, setting up the framework and then vanishing into the darkness with a clipboard and a headset that breaks her heart.
"And you're really good at it," Sam nods, distractedly dumping ketchup over his fries, "Like, you're the mastermind, Rachel. Way too good for this stuff."
Rachel flushes then, like she does every time Sam or Mike or Mercedes or her dads voice the same sentiment.
She pushes her glasses back up her nose and glances at Dorothy on the wall, and her voice is quiet and firm when she says, "I want to finish this tour."
Sam just smiles at her, nodding. "That's cool." He shoves a handful of fries into his mouth and leans back in his seat. "You got tons of time."
They spend three hours on an aircraft carrier in the harbor, where Sam is delighted and fascinated, and Rachel entertains herself by taking pictures of him without his knowing to send to his parents and siblings. It's her idea to ride the flight simulator several times, and Sam buys her a straw hat on the Embarcadero when they leave.
She convinces him to take a mini-cruise around the bay on a Hornblower, and she spends the whole time battling the wind to take blurry pictures of a sea lion that swims next to the boat. Sam drops his room key and a packet of gum into the ocean trying to assist.
The sun is setting when they get back to the hotel – a bright orange ball reflecting off the siding – and Rachel falls tiredly, happily onto her bed. She's deciding between Netflix with room service dessert and Skyping with her dads when there's a knock on her door, and she opens it to find Bruce Barrow, the eleven year old, blonde-haired sweetheart playing Michael Darling.
"Hey, Rachel," he greets, grinning lopsidedly, and his hands are jammed in his pajama pants pockets.
Rachel smiles warmly. "How's it going, Bruce?"
She knows he's sharing a room with the Lost Boys, so she prepares herself for something disastrous.
"Isaac keeps saying I kick him when we're sleeping, so we switched beds, but both Justins say I kick them too, so they told me to sleep in the bathtub last night, but I just slept in the arm chair instead."
Rachel lifts her eyebrows, smiling. "And how was that?"
Bruce seems not at all concerned with the situation. He shrugs and says, "It was cool. But I was thinking we could get a cot for tonight."
Rachel laughs. "You think that would work?"
"I mean, the chair's fine, but it kinda made me sore and I have to dance tomorrow, so…" Bruce bounces on his bare feet in the hallway.
"A good night's sleep is very important for a performer," Rachel nods wisely. "I'll see if I can get a cot sent up, Bruce."
He proclaims, "Thanks, Rachel," with a wide smile, before running back down the hallway, and Rachel puts her shoes back on to head to the front desk. She could call down, but she likes the walk, the smell of nice hotels, quiet elevators and sock-clad feet on the carpet.
Also, there's a vending machine with mini pretzels on the way back.
She leaves a detailed note for Sam and doesn't bother checking her appearance. Her hair hangs messily around her shoulders and she's still in the alpaca t-shirt she'd gotten in Kansas. She runs into both Justins – Brown and Donnithorne, polar opposites – on the elevator, and they thank her profusely when she tells them where she's going.
It's only because of a throwaway glance at the bar that Rachel sees Quinn, still in that black dress, leaning against the counter with a glass and an iPad. Rachel hesitates for just a second before heading in her direction, slipping into the open space at her side.
Quinn actually startles when she looks up from her iPad to see Rachel there, and Rachel smothers a laugh.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
Quinn's wide-eyed, unprepared, but smiling. "No, I – that's okay," she fumbles. "What can – how can I help you, Rachel?"
Rachel's charmed that Quinn remembers her name. She eyes Quinn's drink and says, "Are you – I don't want to bother you if you're not working right now."
Quinn follows her gaze, then assures, "Just water. If I'm here, I'm working."
"Do you live here?" Rachel asks impulsively. "Sort of like…an Eloise situation?"
Quinn's purely entertained for a moment, and the sleeve of her blazer has dipped low enough that Rachel can make out two miniscule penguin tattoos on the inside of her wrist. She refrains from aww-ing at them and peels her eyes away from Quinn's pretty wrist.
"I actually live with my sister, but I do have a room upstairs because I'm on call twenty-four seven."
Rachel nods thoughtfully.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Quinn asks again, ducking to catch Rachel's gaze.
"We need a cot in one of the rooms. The Lost Boys are having a disagreement," Rachel says, and it makes Quinn laugh.
"I'll get that done right now," Quinn assures, messing around with her iPad.
Rachel settles onto a bar stool and orders a vodka tonic while Quinn's fingers glide over the screen, typing a message, pulling up various pages. She's not sure what possesses her to ask, "How old are you, Quinn?"
Quinn looks at her with surprise, because Rachel's used her name, knows her name, and Rachel interprets it as mild offense and backtracks quickly.
"Just – you seem very professional and authoritative, but so young," Rachel explains, ears reddening. "I apologize. That was a rude question."
She's swigging her vodka tonic when Quinn says, "Twenty-three," with much amusement.
"Twenty-eight," Rachel offers when she's swallowed.
It's an odd road to go down, exchanging ages, and Quinn's wondering how professional she needs to be and what sort of conversation is appropriate when Rachel says, "You must be quite adept at your job to have secured it at such a young age."
"I – yes, I'm – thank you," Quinn stammers.
Rachel smiles at her.
"I'm sure – you as well," Quinn says disjointedly, then clears her throat. "Touring with a Broadway company must be incredible."
Quinn's never been great at speaking to women, but Rachel doesn't seem to mind that her sentences are barely strung together.
Rachel tips her head curiously. "Have you read the Peter Pan stories?"
"I've read everything," Quinn blurts, and Rachel pushes up her glasses and listens intently.
"Not…literally," Quinn clarifies, "Obviously. But all of J. M. Barrie and – just – "
"Everything else," Rachel says with a laugh.
Quinn sips her water to cool down her face and muses, "There's always more to read."
Rachel props her chin in her hand and stares at Quinn, eyes bright behind her glasses. "How about the Broadway shows based on books? Les Mis? Wicked? Phantom of the Opera?"
Quinn's smiling as she nods, and she adds to Rachel's list, "Ragtime, The Color Purple, A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder."
Rachel's impressed, and she stares off over Quinn's shoulder trying to think of some more.
"I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Matilda over and over growing up," Quinn says, smiling softly, "And then I saw the shows when my sister took me to London after graduating college."
"Incredible kids," Rachel recalls about Matilda, and Quinn agrees and says, "It's the same for Peter Pan. Brilliant, talented little kids."
Rachel snorts when she thinks of Bruce kicking Justin Brown and Justin Donnithorne and Isaac in their sleep, then being relegated to the arm chair.
Quinn looks wistful though, off in her own world, and Rachel sips her drink and thinks about how early she'll have to wake up in the morning.
Probably five, because the first show in a new location never goes off without a hitch.
"Rachel," Quinn says, and she looks apologetic with a hand on her iPad, "I'm needed at the front. It was – I enjoyed speaking with you."
Rachel smiles. "You're very sweet."
Quinn's face warms then, and she remembers her position and says, "Don't hesitate to let us know if there's anything we can do for you."
It's a rehearsed line, but Rachel agrees with, "Goodnight, Quinn," and Quinn looks pleased as she strides purposefully away.
Quinn gets home a little after one in the morning, and she changes into a t-shirt and boy shorts – she's incapable of keeping pajamas on all night – and brushes her teeth and heads straight to her sister's room because she's barely seen Frannie the past couple days.
She's creeping through the door, eyeing the blonde head that stands out in the dark when she hears a muffled, "Oh no."
Quinn grins and shuts the door behind her, hurries around Frannie's bed to get in the other side. She's pulling the covers up when Frannie rolls over to face her, exasperated and amused from what Quinn can see of her face.
"How was your day?" Quinn whispers, fidgeting to get comfortable.
Frannie's pursuing a Ph.D. at UCSD, fascinated with European history, barbarians and pirates, and she's constantly telling and texting Quinn entertaining tales, like she had when they were kids. Today's was about Black Sam, the English pirate who captured more than fifty ships before the age of twenty-eight.
Quinn likes to spin Frannie's stories into the ones she knows, Treasure Island and The Count of Monte Cristo, The Mysterious Island and Peter Pan, and Frannie always makes sure to tell them in the most creative ways, from the first time she'd donned an eye patch and tugged her saddened, six-year old sister to sit under the tree in the backyard.
"It was exhausting," Frannie murmurs, looking pointedly at Quinn.
Quinn cuddles up with her pillow and says nothing.
Frannie laughs quietly, and her eyes are the same green as their father's, but kinder, full of warmth and creativity, hazy with sleep. "How was yours, Luce?"
"Long," Quinn sighs, shifting again.
"You're such a fidget."
Quinn moves deliberately closer, clutching her pillow. She sighs contentedly when Frannie drags the mess of blonde hair off her face, and it makes her sister smile.
"Did you see Sheep today?" Quinn whispers, and Frannie rolls her eyes.
Owen Lamb is her sister's boyfriend, a small, dark-haired, biologist with sweet eyes and a lively laugh, and he takes Quinn's nicknames in stride and shares with her every detail of his Bactrian camel research. He'd let her name one of his subjects, so somewhere in the Nubra Valley is a two-humped camel called Bagel.
Frannie sounds like she's falling asleep when she says, "I did. He leaves for India tomorrow."
Quinn hums, staring at Frannie's closed eyes. "It'll be just you and me then."
"Oh, God," Frannie mutters.
"Will you come see Peter Pan with me?"
Frannie opens one eye curiously. "Yeah, have you met the cast?"
"Some of them," Quinn shrugs vaguely and presses her face into her pillow, decides to sleep now. Frannie's smiling at her though, interested again.
"Did you meet a girl, Lucy?"
Quinn breathes evenly, in and out, and Frannie's silent laughter shakes the bed.
"Sweetie, come on," Frannie says.
Quinn mumbles, "No," into her pillow, and Frannie starts playing with her hair.
"I'll kick you out of my bed," Frannie whispers, and it's an empty threat, but Quinn still opens her eyes and holds her sister's gaze in the dark.
"Is the girl in Peter Pan?" Frannie asks gently.
Quinn debates further denial, but her sister is always able to pry things out of her anyway, so she shakes her head and murmurs, "She's part of the crew."
Frannie smiles. "Is she cute?"
Quinn's cheeks are warm when she rolls over to face the other way, hugging her pillow.
"Oh no, Luce, wait," Frannie says, laughing. She lightly scratches Quinn's back, then leans up and kisses the side of her head. "I'm sorry."
Quinn doesn't respond, mostly because she's falling asleep and Frannie's still playing with her hair. She knows she'll wake up clinging to her sister because that's what happens when she shares a bed with anybody.
After a few minutes of silence, she offers, "Her name's Rachel."
Frannie repeats it quietly, and Quinn mumbles, "And she is cute."