AN: (Sweet Talk 101 by Cute Is What We Aim For)
I had some time to kill on the plane and a 12 hour bus ride, so I typed like 5k on my phone, and now that I have a computer it was a quick edit. I'm posting this like a week before I expected it to.
Leave a review! I thrive off your feedback, and I'll probably post more frequently if I know you guys are liking this :)
Happy New Year
Four: Sweet Talk 101
The first time Rachel Berry laid eyes on her, she was irrevocably smitten.
Just ugh — that rich, glistening golden hair — her toxic laugh juicy like vegan butter melting on her tongue — those long legs that are probably Rachel's height alone in length, so taut with delicious muscle and could likely hold her entire weight against a wall — oh God, her soft voice, so present and firm but — Rachel could just imagine being pressed against the bathroom door by her with fingers dangerously close to her waistline and-
Brittany looked up from her clipboard and smiled at Rachel across the room.
She melted.
XX
Quinn was making a brownie sundae.
"Mm, what's that?" Rachel popped up beside the blonde. It was the morning after the bathroom incident.
Quinn only hmphed in response, bending over deeper into the cooler. The fucking machine was four feet tall and anytime she needed something, of course it was buried under an old mudpie at the bottom. So Quinn looked like a damn idiot trying to reach the vanilla ice cream, stupid legs flailing.
Rachel tilted her head a little, looking at Quinn's butt. It was definitely some quality booty. Very round. Rachel giggled to herself, and Quinn nearly lurched out of the cooler with her humongous scoop of ice cream, tousled hair and pink cheeks.
"What's so funny?" she challenged heatedly.
Rachel was grinning, hands behind her back. "Nothing," she chirped, swaying. "Your ice cream is dripping though."
Quinn rolled her eyes, but nonetheless dumped the scoops onto the dish, mumbling with her back to Rachel again.
As Quinn scooped hot fudge, Rachel reappeared. "You know, my dads are gay."
Quinn nearly spilled the entire sundae, shot the most panicked glare, and scattered back to the cooler wordlessly.
It had been obvious Santana was gay, what with her one-liners and handsy habits – especially with their manager Brittany (Rachel scowled at the thought), giving over-excited hugs, or dramatic, lasting touches down the manager's arms that sent Rachel fuming, and maybe accidentally spilling Santana's drink. But Rachel had no idea Quinn was interested in woman. Frankly, Rachel had seen the way she flirted with Finn down in the office and assumed there was something behind closed doors there. Obviously, there could be, for all she knew, but Rachel was not one to make decisions of anyone else's sexuality.
She herself had never bothered much to think of her own preferences. She certainly had spent a fair bit of time chasing after boys with talents on stage hardly comparable to her own at school, and she had also never dated a girl. But Brittany was so… cute and alluring and Rachel was so in to her. Also, after the incident last week with a babbling and stuttering Quinn trying to act pissed off, and the amused, tranquil bartender that simply led Quinn away before she embarrassed herself further… well it was just juicy. Rachel had no idea that working in a restaurant might actually be entertaining. It was like a personal Grey's Anatomy without long hours spent on Netflix, Quinn being the standoffish but ridiculously attractive Addison Montgomery, and Santana mimicking a drop-dead gorgeous Cristina Yang (just because Rachel was unfathomably raging with jealousy whenever Santana and Brittany flirted, Rachel had to reluctantly agree the bartender's charms were impossibly amiable, and she quite liked her as a person). Rachel might compare this whole place to The L Word, because what—was everyone hooking up with the same sex these days?—but she had never quite had the guts to click on the title, but not for a lack of curosity. Her Netflix account was linked with her fathers', and sure, she doubted they'd go rummaging through her history and scold her for watching LGBT television, but still. The idea of her fathers knowing she'd be watching two beautiful woman ravish each other was just weird. She was beginning to wonder if she should watch it, though, because bisexuality was becoming a more appealing label by the second, and especially if she had any chance whatsoever with Brittany. Then again, she didn't even know how much older the blonde was than herself (seven years? eight? nine?). For all she knew, this crush would prove a tragedy before it even had the potential to begin.
Unrequited love sucks, Rachel decided.
Humming quietly, she let another peak at Quinn's rear (really, it was all out of curiosity—Quinn's soaring ego was a total turn off, and this was the first time considering the blonde as much more than a soulless enemy but actually a human with sex appeal that was fun to tease because she got flustered so easily) before she dashed off to the line of food waiting to be delivered, still well within the blonde's sight.
When Santana came down, flipping through the pages of her notepad, Quinn was the one staring at Rachel's ass.
Santana faked a cough as she bent to grab a milkshake glass from behind Quinn.
Quinn's gaze jerked up, inches from Santana, and she flushed.
Rachel turned around with a ticket in her hand and smiled at the bartender.
Santana just laughed.
XX
"They wanted the Chicken Carbonara," Quinn deadpanned.
"I believe the ticket said Chicken Alfredo."
"I think I know what my table ordered, Berry."
"I'm sure you do. But the ticket said-"
"I don't fucking care what the ticket said, Dwarf. Take this back, and go get me a carbonara."
"You need to ring one in first."
"I did ring it in."
Rachel raised her eyebrows dauntingly. "Prove it."
Quinn's jaw ground together painfully. She was probably still a little drunk, having been sipping cocktails constantly all of Friday night, still going at it with straight tequila until the early morning hours of Saturday, and then passed out for a couple hours, until Santana kicked her awake and dragged her ass into work (because she so was not driving.
Quinn had to run to the bathroom every ten minutes to either pee or vomit.
At one point, Rachel was in the back grabbing a bus-tub when Quinn languidly made her way out of the bathroom, clutching at her stomach in discomfort.
No one had to say anything for it to feel eerily like the last time Quinn came out.
Rachel really couldn't help herself. "No Santana?"
Quinn blamed the remnants of alcohol in her system on the fact she had no snarky retort and marched to the front of the house.
Now, Quinn was roughly punching her number into the computer screen, scanning for her table's order, while Rachel hovered behind her patiently.
"You're breathing is obnoxious," Quinn hissed.
Rachel waited.
Quinn had nothing to say when CHIX ALFREDO read loud and clear under the tab.
Ten minutes later, Rachel was bringing a chicken carbonara to Quinn's table with, "I am so sorry, that was completely my fault, I grabbed the wrong thing, and then the kitchen got confused and—it was all a mess. Don't let Quinn convince you otherwise, she just can't help but take the blame. She seems to think it's a noble sacrifice, rather than just some food." The group of older woman had all laughed with Rachel, offering assurances and guarantees it was "quite alright, hun."
Rachel hung around the group for a few minutes longer when they complimented her on her star necklace, and they traded preferences on local jewelry parlors.
Quinn was glaring from the server's station.
"Hey Q, get your Bloody Mary's off my bar, they've been sitting there for- What the hell are you doing?"
Quinn stopped squeezing the existence out of the used children's cup in her hand and blinked at Santana.
The latina followed the prior line of sight, before rolling her eyes back at Quinn. "I'm cutting you off at midnight next time, little girl."
"Whatever, grandma."
"Do you always let your grandmother handcuff you to the bedpost?" Santana asked bemusedly.
Quinn barely suppressed her aggravated scream when she stalked to the kitchen.
XX
"She's underage."
"So are you."
"That's different."
"How?
"I live with you."
"I could invite her over."
"Do you want people to start calling you a cougar?"
"Wouldn't be the worst thing to say."
"It'd be creepy."
"Why dont you want her to come?"
"Because she's annoying."
"She's said all of like, two words to you."
"Exactly."
"I like her," Brittany piped up.
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Yeah, obviously, you hired her."
"Wait, really? You picked the berry?" Santana asked, holding a dismissive hand over Quinn's face. Quinn would have bit Santana's flawless fingers off if she weren't so fatigued from her shift. Britt put her in the front, which meant she had to wait until the bartender's last call to close down the stations. And of course Santana was generous to the group of college girls celebrating the end of their first trimester, letting them go on and on, way past the appropriate time for a Tuesday night.
"I should have known it was you," Santana continued, all cheeky lips and dangerous eyes. "Finn would've been too busy staring at her ass to take her application."
Brittany laughed. "I know, he does that sometimes. Will doesn't let him do interviews anymore."
It was difficult to tell with Brittany, whether Santana's flirting was appreciated or completely lost behind blue eyes. As far as Quinn knew, Brittany had only ever been with men. Or, well, she was engaged for three years to some guy a decade older than her, who drove a Mercedes and smoked cigars but had perfect white teeth, before she called it off a month before the wedding because she "wasn't diggin' it." Santana was convinced the blonde left him for her. Two years later, Santana still hadn't even gone to first base.
"Well, Berry was A+ on your part, B. The chick's a machine."
"Aw, thanks. Isn't she the cutest?"
Quinn wasn't sure what was worse; Santana nursing a soft spot for the troll, what like some Big Sister program, or Brittany actually going as far as calling her cute. Maybe they were equally nauseating.
"Whatever, if she goes, I don't go," Quinn interrupted, palms up.
At a look to each other, a slight pause, Brittany and Santana nodded.
"Okay."
"Yeah, that's fine with me."
Twenty minutes later Quinn had her fists stuffed into her jacket, trudging ten feet ahead of the rest of them towards the pub, her Walmart sneakers smacking against the snowy sludge of the sidewalk.
"...this is just so exciting. I've always fantasized about my first time singing karaoke. Do you think they have all the Chicago numbers?"
Exactly what was so cute about a babbling little girl, Quinn had no idea. It felt more like babysitting with the high school girl skipping around them. Brittany and Santana, though, seemed entertained enough, tossing back heads and laughing like they'd taken a shot back at Holly's. Maybe they had. Quinn would bite Santana out later for not sliding her one.
When Rachel got cut from her shift, Santana caught her in the office to invite the brunette to their weekly karaoke night at the McKinley Pub. She'd have to wait a solid hour for Santana to close the bar, Britt to close the restaurant, and Quinn to... well, Quinn ended up waiting beside Rachel at Holly's bar in her uniform at the opposite end of the college girls, drumming long fingers and ignoring any of Rachel's irking attempts at conversation.
"Don't you have, like, homework?" Quinn snapped.
Rachel smiled. "I'm on my holiday break right now."
Rachel boldly asked Santana at one point "Are you gay?". The Latina shot an amused look to the blonde, who buried herself in her elbows with scarlet cheeks and pink earlobes, before saying "yeah, really gay." Quinn wasn't sure who the question had been about anymore.
Every Tuesday night since Quinn turned 18, all the servers (or, well, the group of them that could behave civilly together in public without diva-like disputes over who folded the most napkins at work) headed over to the pub after the dinner shift. It started as a form of "happy birthday, you're one of us now, let's buy you drinks" for Quinn, but when the Tuesday karaoke machine, $2 margaritas, and deliciously late hours were uncovered, it became a routine no one could resist. The bar always carded until around midnight, giving stamps to those underage, but the underage drinking laws were pretty relaxed in Ohio when it came to small-town establishments. The worse that could happen for serving a minor might be a written-up scolding by a manager that got lost in dusty filing somewhere.
Reaching the pub, Quinn (almost) regretted holding the door open for them as they filed in — hospitality rapidly became a habit in the restaurant business — because as Rachel rounded the back of the trio, bouncing, her bright eyes seemed to excel even more with an innocent excitement at Quinn's gesture, and she squeaked a gushing "Thank you!" along with a squeeze to Quinn's shoulder that was so out of place and lingered for so long, Quinn stood there for another few seconds in a daze.
"Shut the door, Q, it's fucking cold."
Rachel was right — the holidays were nightmarishly close, and so most of the Holly's-employed college students were back from school and in town to be with their families. Not many had had luck in picking up shifts, and so tonight would be the first time in seeing them since the summer (a few returned for Thanksgiving, but the gap was so short it was senseless to work when you could be with family). It was both a relief and a burden to have all the servers relatively her age back home — while it was great to see and work with people that weren't dinosaurs clambering about the restaurant, as well as someone else to drink with other than Santana, it was a nauseating reminder that they were living in dorms on campuses of mind-boggling schools, while Quinn was stuck fumbling for enough cash to pay rent and two classes a week.
Mercedes was on the stage already alongside Kurt. They were rapping a scrappy beat about asshole managers that they had written together (Brittany put them in bad sections that night, considering it was their first shifts back in at least a month, though the manager seemed unphased and was nodding her head along to the beat, grinning).
Quinn took a seat at the end of their banquet-like table, beside Santana.
"What's it gonna be tonight?" she asked softly to the blonde, reflexively dropping a hand on the blonde's inner thigh. Her thumb drew lazy circles over the material of her pants.
Drunk or sober, Quinn wouldn't normally care how handsy Santana was in public. They were friends. And Santana liked to touch all her friends a little too close to home. If Quinn was affectionate back, sometimes San bought her the first round of drinks. It was nothing to overthink, really.
But she met Rachel's eye, and the girl had that fucking smirk again.
Quinn pushed Santana's hand off and whispered in her ear.
Santana ordered an expensive wine for herself to tip off the night, and a margarita on the rocks for Quinn — "easy on the mix, more tequila, thanks sweetie," — and casually slid the respective drink towards the blonde when it was set on the table.
"You're buying her drinks?" Rachel blurted, having just come down from browsing through the karaoke selection offered. It had been very slim, to her disappointment. Mostly top hits ranging from today to the 2000's. No showtunes. She took a seat across from the two girls, Brittany having wandered off (much to Rachel's disappointment).
Quinn refused to answer and gulped at her margarita earnestly.
Santana was shameless. "Yeah, why not? No one cares here, babe."
Quinn cringed at Santana's use of the petname on Rachel.
"What's your poison?" Santana offered with this light to her eye that Quinn honestly knew she couldn't trust. It was the pursed lips she had before she pulled out a twisted new sex toy to try, or the crinkled grin when she made Quinn beg the older woman to touch her.
"San, don't be stup-" Quinn began.
"What do you suggest? I've only ever had wine coolers, really."
Quinn was pretty sure the complex weight of her glare on the underage brunette was heavier than the world on Atlas's shoulders.
They discussed for a solid five minutes the varying personalities of drinks (after a "wine coolers are so lame, Berry. Thank god you have us now," to which Quinn downed her drink at the concept of an "us" existing). The Grateful Dead: a dangerous mix of the hard liquors, sweet enough to taste like candy, and easy to lose count of. A cranberry martini: classic, simple, and a hard kick fast-forwarding to the next day if you let it. A slender glass of Barefoot: easy to sip, gets you giggly in the half hour. And so it went on, Santana a goddamn encyclopedia for the foodrunner to browse through at her leisure.
Rachel ended up getting a margarita "just like Quinn. That looks delicious." Santana had plucked Quinn's (second, by now) drink from her claws and offered it to Rachel to taste. It was back to Quinn's lips in the quickest of breaths, but Rachel still smiled at her warmly. Quinn in turn glowered at Santana.
Santana just laughed, and called for a whole round of margaritas.
Within the hour, Quinn was on stage with Kurt, crooning "I Kissed A Girl." Rachel had spent most the time cuddled up with her numerous margaritas and a sober, amused Brittany, chatting about mostly work ethics and industrial patterns — definitely not the kind of thing Quinn would ever divulge in with a bottle of tequila in the room. Santana frequented about the room, like a child on a sugar rush, playing darts with Finn, made out with a boy ("okay yeah I'm still gay, thanks though"), tried to dance on a table before Brittany pushed her back down because she didn't want to get kicked out, Santana flirted shamelessly with her, and so on. Quinn mostly drank at their table. She hustled Puck at a game of darts, earning more free drinks in the process, and slapped him when he grabbed her ass. Santana may have saw the motion we well, and yelled at the poor boy in Spanish, less out of jealousy and more out of a protective instinct. Quinn ended up on stage, really, to wave off Santana's growing advances (of course the nights she wasn't into the whole sex scandal, Santana desperately was — they'd typically argue it out heatedly until Quinn was pressed against the wall).
But when Quinn clambered down from the podium with Kurt — "you got way too sharp, Fabray," he called after her teasingly, though his tone was laced with an affection for the young blonde server — Rachel was on Quinn's side in a heartbeat, pulling her back to the table before Santana could say "fuck me."
Blearily looking after where Santana was fuming (Quinn mouthed "you brought her,"), Quinn had little say in being tugged down onto the bench beside Rachel. She would have asked what the brat wanted, but she supposed she was one of the few people in here Rachel knew well enough to converse with and that still wasn't plastered like paste (just Santana, actually). Even though Quinn kind of hated Rachel's guts in a not-really-at-all type way, it was surprisingly fine being clung to in such a heated proximity.
"Brittany asked me what my favorite color is," she yelled into Quinn's ear over the loud music, fretfully glancing about her like someone might eavesdrop.
"Cool." Quinn wiggled just enough from Rachel's grasp to reach for the drink Santana had left at the table.. "Where is Brittany?" she choked out after setting the lukewarm vodka tonic back. Maybe B would order her something with flavor. She honestly wasn't that drunk. She'd had, what, four margaritas? Five? Plus a few shots diluted into the hour. The way Quinn Fabray could hold her liquor was honestly getting expensive. She could so walk a straight line right now.
"I think she went to show Sam something." Rachel explained dismissively. "But pay attention — What do I say?"
Sam? Yeah, B was so straight.
"I don't know. What is your favorite color?"
"Gold."
Quinn's head bobbed a little, tilting. "Tell her black. I like black."
Rachel's eyes dropped to Quinn's fingernails, immaculately painted a jetblack, trimmed very short. A brief flash of Quinn leaping from the bathroom with Santana in tow burst behind her hazy eyelids, and she quickly pushed it back down.
"I love margaritas," Rachel stammered. "Your taste is impeccable."
"Thanks, I drink a lot."
"Do you?"
"I guess."
"Why?"
Quinn shrugged.
"How old are you, again? You're 19, right?"
Quinn's chin bobbed. Her thighs were growing an uncomfortable itch between them. Shit, Rachel talked a lot when she was drunk. "Do you know where Santana is?" she asked, voice pitched to be heard. She physically cringed at the obnoxious volume in the little pub.
Rachel ignored the question. "When did you start working at Holly's?"
Quinn puffed her lips, blowing bubbles with air. "I dunno. Few years ago."
"What brought you to the establishment?"
Quinn laughed, because it was airily sounding like her first interview with Will all those years ago. "No idea," she lied.
"Come on," Rachel prodded, her fingertips wiggling under Quinn's arm, tickling her. Quinn giggled — a chaste sound from her lips that was hastily swallowed.
"Um." Quinn licked her lips and scrabbled for focus, brushing her hair off from her eyes. Rachel inched closer, vigorously awaiting Quinn's answer. Answer. Right. She needed an answer. She also needed to focus. Rachel's tight black uniform shirt clinging to her curves was so not focus. How was Rachel so composed? Surely she'd had just as much to drink as Quinn, and the tiny dwarf was clearly no match for the toxins of ethanol. "I didn't want to so completely depend on my parents, I guess," she managed.
It sounded so stupid, now.
"I can understand that." Rachel nodded wisely.
Quinn nodded dumbly again and looked away. Sam was trying to wrestle some darts from Kurt, who was long past his countable cocktail, and Brittany nowhere to be seen. Quinn had to laugh at their boyish struggle.
"Do you still live with your parents?" Rachel asked beside her. Quinn physically swatted the question away; it was distasteful in her elated mood. She would so not cry tonight.
"Are you and Santana dating?" she tried curiously, raising her voice.
Quinn laughed once more and pointed at Kurt, patting at Rachel's arm so she'd look too. He was aiming the sharp utensil at Sam threateningly, who took a defensive football-like pose.
"You were on the Cheerios, right? In high school?"
This caught Quinn's attention. Her neck craned down to the girl slumped against her. "Yeah..." Quinn drawled cautiously, eyes narrowed.
Rachel trailed her excited fingertips along Quinn's forearm idly. "I was a freshman when you were a senior," she confessed.
"Oh... cool?"
"I mean, we never spoke, or anything."
"Right."
After a pause, Rachel added "You don't remember me, do you?"
No, she didn't, not at all. As a senior in high school with life just erupting at your feet, the girl of your dreams (so you thought) at your hand, a promise for an education and a future all blinking at the skyline... well, why should she have bat an eye at a freshman with a small voice and big words? But Quinn couldn't quite just come out with that, not under those wavy puppy-brown eyes. Quinn fumbled with her fingers, and she was reaching for the tonic again because no one tried to talk shit with her when she was drunk. Alcohol was about sex and singing, not reminiscing over the golden ages of stellar popularity and cheerleader thrones.
"I, um-"
"Yo, Q!" Santana bellowed, dashing from the bathroom with Chelsea's hand in her own (a new server: tall, quiet, cute).
Santana latched onto Quinn, clambering between her and Rachel, her nails scratching lightly at Quinn's bicep. "Why haven't we ever had a threesome?" she hissed in this low voice that rubbed Quinn in the wrong (right) way. Quinn choked on the drink, sputtering. Santana tugged on Chelsea's arm for directed emphasis. The redhead waved over Santana's shoulder.
Quinn blinked. Her cheeks were already a deep red from the drinks and the singing and the laughing and Rachel's questions. It would be unrealistic to think they could rouge darker. And, if she was being honest, Chelsea distantly reminded her of Jen, the ex from senior year that left nothing but dust in her high-heeled wake. She couldn't quite place whether or not that made it all the hotter, or just queasy.
Rachel, beside them, patted at her hair self-consciously, tugging on her sleeves, eyes unnaturally jerking around the room like she wasn't sitting less than a foot away from the coworkers she was acutely aware were engaged in a sexual affair. An affair that even the walls of the workplace had witnessed. And now the two were all over one another, contemplating an expansion of their duet. It was just awkward and she was too tipsy to suppress her wildly blushing cheeks.
"You don't like to share," was all Quinn could guess, not looking at Rachel either, though for different reasons than simple discomfort.
"True. Le t's do it anyway." Santana let go of Chelsea to straddle Quinn, completely ignoring the young brunette.
Quinn couldn't resist the temptation of the mouth hovering by her neck, murmuring "please," to her dry ears. God, it'd be so easy and normal to let her hands fall to full hips and make out with her right there and maybe call a cab later and-
A cab.
A ride.
Home?
"Rachel."
Quinn pushed Santana off her, albeit more roughly than necessary ("ay! Dios mío, marica.") and grabbed the girls arm beside her. "How are you getting home?"
Rachel wasn't looking at either of them, trying to focus on Finn and Will singing "Last Friday Night."
"Rach," Quinn pressed, prodding the girl in the stomach.
The girl squeaked and smacked at Quinn's hand. "What?" she huffed.
"How are you getting home?" she asked again. Did Rachel even have a home? Maybe she lived at Holly's. Did she live with Holly Holiday? Was that legal?
"No, I do not live with Holly Holiday. I've never even met her," (Quinn was friends with Holly on Facebook). "Though I don't see how that could be illegal, Quinn."
Quinn clamped her palm over her mouth, biting her finger. God, the last thing she needed to be was a sloppy drunk that voiced her every dirty thought.
Brushing at her nasty work pants, Rachel looked quite composed for a drunk high school girl. Well, aside from her tangled hair and clammy forehead. "Brittany said she would take me home." She smiled dreamily, her hand falling atop Quinn's. "Isn't that so sweet?"
Quinn blinked, looking down at Rachel's hand with her own. "Uh, yeah. Sure."
If Brittany told Rachel she was taking her home, Quinn knew she could count on her. Reliability was basically a second name glued onto Pierce. There was a reason she was a manager.
"Brittany is so sweet," Rachel continued.
"Yeah. Totally." Quinn swallowed.
She looked like she wanted to delve more onto the topic of her dream woman, but barely two minutes later Quinn was outside shoving Santana against the brick wall and dragging her hands under her shirt (after snapping at Chelsea to get lost, obviously. Quinn Fabray did not share either).