(The first chapter was titled after a song by the 1975. This chapter is the song by Def Leppard)

Let me know what you guys think so far - Also shout out to Caroline (nerdybutt on tumblr) for being amazing. Last thing: I'm gonna be without a computer/wifi/service for two weeks but I'll get this updated when I'm back. Enjoy~

XX

Three: Pour Some Sugar On Me

Rachel was quiet.

She introduced herself and all, with firm hands and friendly smiles, and she looked Quinn in the eye during conversation, but it was usually Quinn doing the talking. And Quinn didn't talk that much to begin with.

"So, this is the servers' station." Quinn drawled, waving an arm dismissively. "Drinks, ice, condiments, takeout supplies… most anything you need that's not food." She looked back at the brunette, for some affirmation that she understood the simplest of concepts to a restaurant. Rachel stared right back, rocking on the balls of her feet.

She said nothing. The girl nodded after a beat of silence.

Quinn, slightly put off, pressed her lips together in a stiff line. "Um, right. Well this is the bar…"

Santana looked up as they walked up. Quinn mouthed "help me." Santana smiled and waved sarcastically. When Rachel lifted a hand to wave back, Quinn turned back around.

And yeah, Rachel kept a good distance away when Quinn dropped off food to tables, demonstrating the proper way of presenting yourself to a table, the pace at setting dishes down, and the type of follow-up questions/conversation – "are you folks all done with the calamari? ...Great, how was it? ...Well, that's definitely what we like to hear. I have to admit, I order it at least once a week… Sure sure, anything else for right now? … Alright, you enjoy your meal." And yeah, she wasn't too nosey, like poking over Quinn's shoulder awkwardly as some food runners had done (Puck). She certainly didn't try to distract Quinn with crude jokes (Puck), and yes, she gave respectful space, waiting for Quinn to come up with the right way of presenting a lesson instead of snatching a ticket from Quinn's hands (Puck) like a cocky son of a bitch.

But she didn't ask questions. She took in everything Quinn said and nodded vigorously as if she were scribbling furious mental notes on those fluttering eyelids. She seemed to remember everything, from the two pickle chips on burgers to the spoons in pastas and to lemons beside seafood. She barely needed reminding, like she had created flashcards already and memorized the lot before she stepped foot into the restaurant Sunday morning (for all Quinn knew, maybe she did. Rachel was given a printed copy of the menu). But Rachel didn't ask for clarifications, or ask for help. The exact problem Quinn had with her was that she had to have a flaw, everyone did, because Quinn was a personal representative of such a claim.

She let Rachel deliver an appetizer a couple hours into lunch, solo, – Quinn still hovered not-so-subtly – and Rachel flawlessly handed it off. She even offered to grab some small plates to make it easier to share between the couple, a task Quinn hadn't yet told Rachel she was supposed to get in the habit of doing..

Needless to say, Quinn irritably stalked off to the kitchen, Rachel in tow. The brunette didn't get to run anything else, Quinn dominating every ticket in the window, but she didn't ask Quinn what she had done wrong either (nothing, nothing at all).

It all was definitely annoying, Quinn decided.

"She's literally a robot," Quinn deadpanned, leaning against the bar.

Santana was pouring out a frozen margarita, smiling. But she said nothing.

"She just stares – she just fucking stares at me! Like, um, can I help you?"

Santana only raised an eyebrow, turning back to grab a wine bottle. Quinn stabbed her ticket, holding her tray up. "And she's only seventeen. Like, since when do we hire food-runners that young? That hasn't happened since–since–"

"You?"

Quinn glared at the darker girl, her lips downturned a with an ugly contempt. She ignored the remark, not bothering to correct that she had actually be sixteen, and opted instead for "She's a child."

"She is a child," Santana agreed, her back to Quinn. "But she's a child that's only two years younger than you. So by default, you're both children to me."

Quinn scoffed, her tongue flitting over her bottom lip. "You certainly didn't treat my like a child last night."

Having hoped to invoke a blush in the older girl, Quinn's defiant smirk faltered as Santana turned back around and smiled gently. "No, you're right," she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts breathed out her v-neck. Quinn's eyes quivered with the strain to not look down. "Last night, I was calling you something else entirely." Echoes of Santana's sex-induced screams clouded her eardrums.

Quinn changed the subject. She was hungover, yes, but she was sober. "Who does she think she is?"

"No clue."

"I swear, I could strangle her."

"Your marg is melting."

Quinn huffed, growling to herself before she stomped off to her table. As she rounded through the condiments area, Rachel emerged from the double doors to the kitchen. Upon sight, her eyes lifted visibly. But she said nothing. Quinn rolled her eyes. She felt Rachel follow her, and it only enhanced her irritation.

At the end of her shift, Will had disappeared down to the office, but Finn asked what she thought of Rachel.

"She's annoying," Quinn snapped. Her foot tapped hesitantly, and she softened. "She'll be good. But she's annoying."

Apparently that was enough for anyone.

XX

Quinn didn't work with Rachel again until Thursday night. And she was yelling this time.

"What the fuck do you mean you're letting her run food by herself?" Quinn screeched into Puck's neck. She was pretty sure he would never stop getting taller, and it only piled onto her anger.

Beside them, Rachel watched the two with wide, curious eyes.

Puck, on the other hand, was basically cowering and sputtering like a rodent.

"Sh-sh-she knows the food a-and the table numbers! I th-thought she might as well try it out, I–"

Quinn practically dug her nails into his chest as she thrust her finger at him. "Well, don't think then. She brought out their meals before their appetizers were even ready, Puckerman. They come here every goddamn week, request my section, and order the exact same goddamn courses. It's not rocket science, and now they're annoyed – this is coming out of your tips and I am going to fucking tear your-"

"Okay!" Santana called, bursting through the doors as she clapped her hands. "Wonderful performance, Q. Very dramatic. Puck, Rach, get back to the line, will you? Will's panties are very twisted." She wiggled her fingers as Puck scrambled off. Rachel smiled uncertainly, skipping after him. Quinn's eyes leered after the two – or, well, just one of them – before she rounded on Santana.

"You-"

"I saw that." Santana was smirking.

"Saw what?"

"That." Santana jutted her chin at the wake of the two younger workers.

Quinn's anger was dribbling. "I really have no idea what you're talking about."

Santana let it go, sighing with a wave. "Just play nice, Fabray. You don't want everyone to know you're a bitch."

Quinn didn't get it. Except the bitch part – she understood that flawlessly

XX

Quinn was leaning against a counter, waiting for 75's entrees to come through, when Rachel appeared beside her, mimicking Quinn's bent-over position of an elbow propped on the metal surface and fingers over her mouth.

It was impossible to not view the gesture as anything but challenging.

Quinn's eyes narrowed with a menace.

Rachel met her evenly with steady eyeballs.

They were maybe a foot away from one another, definitely nothing to get her itching with the spark of a presence between her legs. But with the steam, and all the stove-tops and fryers scorching up the kitchen, the heat was restlessly exposing her nerves. Quinn had a gentle gleam of sweat caked over her arms and neck, her cheeks a deep red from the humidity, but the tendrils leaking from her headband and short ponytail were immaculate. Rachel, on the other hand, was a hot mess with her frizzy, wet hair, shiny face, and melting eyeliner.

Rachel had supposedly wrapped up her training on Thursday, and that Friday night was her first solo shift. The managers, in a huddle, had apparently agreed she was good enough to handle the rush of a Friday. Quinn was ready to start placing bets that it was Finn's idea to put the pretty new girl (what? Quinn wasn't blind) by herself tonight. With Will's enthusiastic backup, Brittany probably thought Rachel was nice and determined enough. Also, Brittany wouldn't be managing, and likely didn't care too much if Will and Finn had a meltdown based on their poor initiatives.

Whatever, the point was there were tickets upon tickets flooding the window, the cooks were yelling for a runner to clear the space, and Rachel was just staring at her. Recovering from arduous breathing, resting sore (wet, sweaty) muscles against the metal, brown eyes easily accommodating hazel ones but Quinn's own pupils dilating and–

Quinn cleared her throat, breaking away from the counter, breaking the uncomfortable haze. Eyes averted, she racked her brain to remember her table's food before promptly grabbing her ticket. Rachel appeared thrown off only by the amount that had accumulated (not Quinn's heavy eyelids).

With a devilish smirk at Rachel's oscillating stress, Quinn reached for her two dishes and stabbed the paper, already turning on her heel.

Rachel's crumpled brow and twitching lips were just the beginning of indicators to her anxiety with all the bills Quinn had left behind, unsure where to even begin. Up until this point at Holly's, she hadn't stopped moving and just blindly grabbed a ticket, ran it, came back and repeated. She was never scolded for doing something particularly wrong, so she was led to believe it was instead right. Right? But Rachel hadn't been faced with so many disarranging options before. How could this many people be getting their food at the same time?

"Quinn?" Rachel called, though it was more a flustered squeak.

Hand on the cool expanse of the door, Quinn wanted nothing more than to just go. Talk up her tables, flirt with college boys for a good tip, flirt with Santana to keep the margaritas coming, and maybe spend the night downing tequila shots the moment Brittany told her to start closing down her section.

But, inevitably, her sober conscience was rather nagging without alcohol.

"Definitely annoying," Quinn muttered, biting her lip.

"What?"

In a series of swift, fluid movements, Quinn marched back to Rachel, balanced 75's plates in one arm, snatched the thin stack of tickets, and rearranged them along the flat surface in a messy chronological order. "Just do them," she directed calmly. "Ignore anything Puck has told you about his method of prioritizing – he's a dumbass. It's the same as if there were two in the window, okay? Grab the first, do it, come back, do the next. Do two tables at a time if you can, but don't start a ticket you can't finish. Got it?"

Rachel's head bobbed like a buoy in a hurricane.

At least the girl could take direction, Quinn noted. A sliver of rather specific demands she could ask the girl ran through her skull – "Get down on your knees. Don't stop looking at me. Take off my underwear and–"

Quinn coughed. Rachel wasn't looking at her anymore. Quinn rushed out of the kitchen.

But Rachel was still definitely a robot.

XX

"I'm going to Starbucks, would you like anything?"

Quinn lifted her nose out of her phone's screen. Rachel was standing in front of her. It was Saturday afternoon, two weeks after their first shift together. While Quinn's yelling had lowered in volume to sharp hisses, they were more and more frequent and less and less called for.

"No," Quinn clipped. The hollow to her throat vibrated like the pristine blonde Quinn was molded from. It made her skin crawl. She shifted in the booth and crossed her legs. Behind Rachel, Santana was thumping her index finger into a hole created by her opposite hand. Pink crowded Quinn's jaw line. She looked away.

"Are you sure?" Rachel tilted her head, tucking her arms into her coat pocket. "You're a double today, aren't you?." She leaned a bit, trying to catch Quinn's eye. God, the way she pouted and puffed her cheeks – she looked so stupid. And how the hell does she know Quinn's schedule?

Santana was fanning herself, leaning back in her seat and forming O's with her thick lips. Brittany, the closing manager, was watching her bemusedly.

Quinn's cheeks burned hotter with desire than embarrassment.

"Yes, Berry. I'm sure."

With a shrug, Rachel left and Quinn buried herself into her phone..

Quinn only knew Rachel's last name because she'd gone rummaging through her file after flirting her way past Finn. There was nothing to see but her application, a W-22 form, and other contracts. But her application did mention Rachel relied on her fathers (Quinn momentarily paused) for transport to and from work. That had proved somewhat satisfactory, considering by the time Quinn was seventeen she had her own car — a deadbeat pile of junk, but a car nonetheless. This one-up proved a smug accomplishment and Quinn smirked.

God, she was losing her mind.

Later that night, Quinn caught Santana drinking from a Starbucks cup with Rachel's name scribbled on the side. Quinn gaped at her, fists condensing.

"What?" Santana asked. "She offered."

Quinn stomped back to the dining room.

XX

Rachel was bustling about behind the bar, refilling non-alcoholic beverages and putting glasses away.

Smoke was basically funneling from Quinn's ears by the gallon.

"She's not even allowed back there," she spat at Santana, who was trying to juggle pouring two different wines simultaneously.

"I needed the hands," she retorted with an edge to her tone.

"You never used to let me help you out."

"You would have gotten me fired." Santana shook a cocktail mixer, and held a glass under the Long Trail beer tap.

"What, and the midget won't?"

Santana glanced back at the fussing girl briefly. "She's not that short. Just a few inches less than you."

Quinn only glared.

Santana rolled her eyes, dropping her tequila bottle on the rack as Rachel leaned beneath the Latina to wipe down a lower shelf. "Look, I've established myself as a good bartender. You started around the same time I did; I was new, I couldn't just go breaking all the rules for you, could I? No matter how cue you are." She winked, and at this remark, Rachel glanced between the two for just a fleeting moment. Quinn scowled down at her. Rachel smiled and scurried to the other end.

"Take your shit, and quit crowding my bar. I'm busy, Pretty Lady."

Quinn refused the baited compliment, and grumbled a "whatever," as she took her drinks on a tray.

"Take it off," Quinn hissed, refraining from ripping the buttons of Santana's collared shirt.

Santana had just been wiping down the beer taps, lazily chatting it up with some forty-looking cougar about the stigma around sex toys after a long Saturday night of pouring sloppy beers and redundant margaritas. She was looking at Terri with her breasts bulging, just picturing her solo room back at the apartment, and debated if Quinn would care – not emotionally, they both were very clear about their feelings (or lack thereof). In fact, she was just turning to go find the blonde when-

Quinn careened out of the servers' station to a halt at the end of the bar, inches from Santana's face. Quinn's dilated pupils were not hesitant as the eyes dropped onto plump lips, eager and unashamedly an open book. Santana would have smirked if it wasn't so hot.

Now, after shoving Santana into the back bathroom, Quinn buried her tongue in Santana's lips, panting heavily with her fingers unhooking cheap buttons. Santana heard a tear, Quinn bit Santana's lip – hard – and the blonde was whimpering. She viciously tugged the shirt off Santana's torso, breaking their interlocked teeth.

Eyebrows high, ears pounding, fingers aching, Santana could not pull her eyes from the heavy vibrations Quinn's round chest labored by breathing, or the tight tick to her jaw. Her dark, dark green eyes and snarled lips. It was… dangerously different. Quinn had always just been desperate with her sloppy, drunk kisses. This was sober Quinn, purposefully targeting Santana's mouth and tongue and teeth with a precision not even comparable to the the best of hookups Santana had had. Quinn re-attached herself to the brunette hungrily, inhaling her and fisting her long dark hair – painfully, but oh so good – until her fingers dropped to the hem of Santana's black jeans. Quinn's hands were no longer needy, but firm and direct with their iron grip on Santana's hips, rubbing herself against Santana's thigh with quivering moans.

But it wasn't long before Santana flipped them around, propping Quinn against the wall, clasping her mouth to the blonde's neck. Quinn squirmed beneath her, fidgeting at the overwhelming desire and trying to reject it, but her twitches grew stronger and her frustration morphed to something else entirely before she was pushing Santana away, ready to scream in rage.

Santana didn't get it when Quinn stormed out. Quinn didn't get it either.

Rachel was just coming back to grab her things, having been just told she was good to go home, when a flustered Quinn with apple-red cheeks burst from the bathroom, flattening disheveled hair, cursing. Quinn stumbled upon sight of the food runner, recoiling to not knock into her.

"Hello Qui–" Rachel glanced at Quinn's smudged lipstick, and then down to the top buttons that had popped open to reveal not-so-innocent cleavage, before back up to the messy lips. Her roaming eyes made Quinn shift, her lust reconfiguring itself, contorting to something angrier and hotter and Quinn was looking at Rachel's wide-set mouth too, and in her feverish binge she was seconds away from absolutely destroying Rachel's delicious–

Santana slipped out of the restroom like she was being inconspicuous with her also mis-buttoned shirt. But she was what broke Quinn's sexually frustrated frenzy.

Santana appeared innocently unphased.

Rachel couldn't help but smile.