Title: Beers and Strippers

Chapter: 7/?

Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

Rating: T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

Summary: Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

Disclaimer: Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and or peeing that occurs within or around you when you read this story.


It's not even for Glee, funnily enough.

It's for Chemistry and Quinn just...wants to hang out with Rachel, so even though they both have A's in the class and don't need to study, the blonde stops Rachel before she can get out of the door, teeth nervously fussing at her lip.

"Hey, Rach."

She turns around instantly at the nickname, her smile bright but inquisitive. "Yes, Quinn?"

Quinn repositions her books in her arms, eyes flitting nervously to the ground before they meet eyes that the blonde is quickly becoming attached to seeing. "Do you want to come over, tonight?" Rachel's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and Quinn shrugs. "I don't know, study, or something?"

"While I certainly appreciate your love for academia, Quinn, we don't have another test for a month." Her smile turns a little amused. "Even I am not that pre-emptive."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Fine, come over to hang out then." She tries not to sound hopeful—she really, really tries.

Rachel's smile is the biggest thing Quinn's ever seen. "I took the bus, today—"

"Sleep over, then. It's a Friday." Quinn never thought she would be arguing for Rachel to come to her house, but she figures things change. Fabrays pick sides and stay on them her father used to tell her when she was little and not sure whether she wanted peanut butter and jelly or ham—back when those were her biggest problems—pick and never go back.

Sure, it was a weird life lesson to learn when she was six, but being a republican and picking sides started early for the Fabrays.

Quinn figures Russell never thought his daughter wouldn't pick his side.

If she's going to be friends with Rachel, she's going to be friends with Rachel. She hadn't expected to invite her over and she's not sure what she'll do, tomorrow, when she has to slip out and go to work...but she'll figure something out.

It's a little self-satisfying to see the brunette flounder for a minute though, her mouth wordlessly opening and closing. "I..."

"Yes...?" She drawls out, Quinn's eyebrow quirking, and Rachel shakes her head, blushing in response. It rings somewhere that this might be the first time Rachel's been asked to spend the night at someone's house—at least in high school—and she's not sure why she feels both inexplicably happy and angry at the same time.

"Of course. I'll call my parents before Glee and make sure."

They share a small smile and Quinn nods before she walks forward and makes to grab the brunette's books, her smile turning to a smirk when Rachel holds on with all of her might. "You might want to call, now, since we're about to be late for Glee. " Once again, Rachel looks a little floored and Quinn actually giggles. The brunette reluctantly lets go of her school things, looking ridiculously confused. "Come on, dopey, I'll carry your books and save you a seat."

Rachel just mutely nods, walking with Quinn towards Glee. When they get to the door, the blonde rolls her eyes, "Rachel...to call your dads you sort of need to, I don't know, call?"

With that, she carries the brunette's books into the class and sits down, still giggling at the sight of Rachel fumbling to gather her phone and confusedly raise it to her ear, eyes on Quinn the whole time. When the blonde finally rips her eyes away from Rachel to see Santana above her, a look of utter shock on her face, Quinn blinks. "What?"

Santana just looks from Rachel in the hallway to Rachel's books and sheet music resting on the seat next to Quinn and just blinks again.

"What, Santana, no mocking words?" Quinn tries again, a little freaked that her sometimes-friend is just gaping at her.

The Latina just furrows her eyebrows. "You're giggling." She mumbles like a confused child who opens her lunchbox that was supposed to have a sandwich in it but only finds jelly beans—freakishly happy but unsure if this is some kind of weird test.

This time, it's Quinn who's thrown off. "I...what?"

"You're giggling." Santana mumbles again and looks between Rachel—who's beaming as she walks through the door, squealing a little at whoever's on the other line—to Quinn, who is still smiling.

For once, Santana Lopez doesn't say anything when Rachel Berry walks through the door and the blonde below her's smile alleviates as she looks at her friend. Quinn kind of feels like she's been caught with her fingers in the cookie jar, the way Santana's looking at her, so before Rachel can hear their conversation, she prods, suddenly looking for some form of validation in those brown eyes above her. Quinn's not sure what the validation is for—or why she needs it so desperately—but she hopes, either way. "What?"

Santana still doesn't say anything. She just shakes her head and leans back in her chair, motioning towards Rachel wordlessly before she turns back to Brittany and smiles. Before anything else can be said Rachel bounces over and grabs her books from the ex-cheerleader's hands, a happy look in her eyes. "They said I could stay."

Quinn can feel Santana's eyes boring into the back in her head, but, for once, she doesn't care; She looks at Rachel, leans her head on her shoulder, and smiles.

Quinn admits, two hours later, that maybe Rachel coming to her house was kind of a...bad idea.

"Wait, isn't your house that way?"

Those were the first words that tipped her off.

Luckily, Quinn had shoved her waitress uniform into the glove compartment before Rachel could see it (a move that took some quick thinking and a claim that she had to manually open the doors...and ask Rachel to check her trunk for a tire gauge that didn't exist) but she figures if Rachel had found her uniform, then that would have been really—

"Quinn, what is this?"

Quinn, of course, looks over at the same time to see Rachel opening her glove compartment, pulling out her uniform. The blonde's eyes widen. "Geez, Berry, do the words personal space mean anything to you?" She snaps and violently grabs the uniform, throwing it into the back seat, fingers tightening on the steering wheel when they return.

"I apologize, Quinn, I was simply looking for a map, fearing that you might have forgotten where we were while we were driving since it took you so long to reply. Though rare, there are documented cases of amnesia brought on by familiar but mechanical acts like driving so I thought—"

"That it would be okay to go through my glove compartment without asking?" Quinn glares at the girl next to her, whose lips slap together. Rachel glares back.

"I apologized." Rachel's jaw sets before she continues, "That still does not explain as to why you have a uniform for—"

"It's a restaurant off Quincy—" Quinn tries offhandedly, eyes glued onto the road and fingers wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that her fingers have no circulation.

"It's a strip club in Troy." Rachel instantly cuts in, her voice practically a growl. "Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid or easily gullible, Quinn Fabray." Rachel's tone has a sharp edge to it that the blonde has never heard.

"You are gullible." Quinn mumbles, eyes squinting. Rachel hits her shoulder. "Ow!" She rubs her shoulder, glaring at her seat companion. "It's a burlesque bar, anyways. How did you even know about it?" She doesn't deny it, now, knowing that Rachel has her pegged.

"I may or may not have had a very...strong love for Flashdance as a child and thought that burlesque dancing was the proper path to fame and fortune." She scrunches her nose a little. "Or maybe just Juliard. I'm not sure. I was a little delusional." Before Quinn can pipe up, once more, with you still are, Rachel hits her arm again.

"Ow! Dang it, Berry, my mom is going to be really pissed at me, later, if I come home bruised." Quinn glares but Rachel just ignores her. The sentence chokes her, for a moment, but she passes by it before she can ruminate for too long.

"I knew what you were thinking." Rachel's eyes slit and Quinn deflates a little, in her seat. "We have been having daily lunches for months now and I really thought we were getting somewhere. I can't believe that you would hide the fact that you're a stripper from me, Quinn! And I am not delusional."

The blonde gapes.

"I am not a stripper!" Her voice is practically two octaves higher and she idly thinks that Rachel might have been impressed with her range if this were any other conversation. She swerves a little and has to remember that she's driving so she pulls over to the side of the road, twisting instantly around to meet her friend's eyes. Her tone is surprisingly soft instead of the cutting she thought it would come out as. "I'm not a stripper."

Rachel's shoulders ease a little before she twists over to meet Quinn's eyes. "Would you tell me if you were?"

"Yes." Quinn's a little surprised that she means it. "I'm not a stripper, Rach. I work at the bar." Her eyes flit to the back and she shakes her head, a little, head ducking when she remembers her uniform. "I'm a waitress." She taps her knuckles on the steering wheel. "I'm not sure whether to be offended or flattered that you think I'm a stripper."

She catches Rachel smile a little but it's quickly stamped down, her eyes soon serious, though there is a hint of blush on her cheek. "So that's where you were that night..." Rachel surmises and Quinn nods. "So...those women...that man yelling at you...at...the bar...?" Rachel trails off, eyes knowing, all of it clicking into place.

"Yeah." Quinn shrugs.

"Gypsy—Puck?"

Quinn sighs. "Yeah." She feels a little guilty and suddenly wants Rachel to understand that it wasn't a conscious decision. "He came in one night and...well...I work there."

Rachel nods thankfully, eyes settling on Quinn's and staying there."Why?"

Quinn sighs, shifting a little. That's simple: "Because we need the money."

The 'we' obviously doesn't escape the girl's pitch-perfect ears and Rachel blinks, her hand hesitant for only a second before she confidently reaches across and twines her fingers with Quinn's. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice is the quietest Quinn's ever heard it and the blonde sucks in a gulp of air.

"Because I didn't want you to know." She shrugs. Rachel's hand tenses in hers but Quinn doesn't let it go, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes. "It's...kind of illegal for me to serve drinks and I didn't want anyone to know, not just you." It's a moment later, hesitant, "Kind of...especially you, though. It's not the proudest thing I've done in my life." Quinn laughs a little self-deprecatingly, "And I've done a lot of proud things." Rachel scoots closer, her other hand tucking under Quinn's chin and bringing their eyes to meet. Rachel's tone is impossibly gentle.

"You can tell me these things, y'know." Rachel's biting at her lip and, with a small amount of horror, Quinn thinks of one very effective way to make her stop. Luckily, she doesn't move her head across the gap.

"Can I?" She asks, instead, eyes moving back up to connect with Rachel's. The brunette nods without hesitation. "Then I probably should tell you that I moved out of my house into an apartment with my mom."

Rachel blinks but her hand hasn't moved from under Quinn's chin and their fingers are still twined. The brunette gulps. "Well, that certainly makes much more sense than you dragging me all the way out here to murder me in the woods."

Quinn once more rolls her eyes. "Great, so now I'm a murderer and a stripper." She deadpans, a hint of mirth in her voice.

Rachel, in a move that surprises them both, leans forward and places the gentlest of kisses on Quinn's cheek, eyes dancing, "I suppose that just means you're a sexy Jason prone to streaking. Breaking the archetype." There's a long moment of silence before Rachel pulls away and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, that was ridiculously inappropriate." Quinn blinks before she realizes Rachel is pulling away. "I'm terrible in certain social situations, you see, and it was the first thing that came to mind so I just—"

Quinn interrupts Rachel by laughing harder than she has in weeks, years, maybe, her fingers gripping tighter onto the brunette's before she can let go.

She laughs until Rachel laughs with her and then they both laugh until they cry.

Quinn finally hiccups and brushes at her eyes, "Thanks." She runs her thumb over the back of the brunette's hand. "I really needed that, I think." They stare at each other for a moment before Quinn uses her free hand to start up the car, oddly resistant to the idea of letting go of Rachel's strong comfort.

"I'm sorry I forced you to tell me like this, Quinn." Rachel honestly sounds sorry and Quinn just smiles. Rachel says that she's sorry for forcing her a lot, it seems, but Quinn's never had anyone to even try to force her, so she doesn't mind at all.

"I'm sorry you had to force me to tell you at all." The most surprising part about the statement is that Quinn is.

Halfway through the ride to Quinn's apartment, they both start giggling about the image of Quinn running bra-less throughout McKinnley with a butcher knife and how that could legitimately break the "scary movie formula".

Quinn and Rachel are laughing when they make their way up to the blonde's apartment. A blonde brow arches as she leans up against the green door to 107B and Rachel smiles in anticipation. "You ready?" She asks, twirling her keys around her finger like Gene Kelly, a move that makes the little starlet smile all the wider.

Rachel nods excitedly.

Quinn slips her keys into the door and edges it open wide enough to see into it, Rachel's small fingers stopping her before they can walk in.

"Am I the first person that's been here?" She asks it with a small amount of hesitation and, honestly, Quinn's not that sure what the tone means. Rachel's brown eyes are batting at her from underneath surprisingly-long eyelashes and something in the blonde twists.

"Puck helped us move but..." She purses her lips, weirdly nervous, "Yeah. Yeah you are." There's a look in Rachel's eyes but, again, she can't place it, and before Quinn can say anything, her fellow student smiles so wide that she forgets what she could say. "It's not like it's a big deal or anything." She mutters after a moment, eyes drawn to the floor.

Rachel Berry, ever pig-headed and resilient, just smiles wider and rocks on the balls of her feet, "Yes it is."

"No it's not." Quinn petulantly protests, eyes slitting. Rachel's smile, creepily, grows even wider.

"It so is." Rachel looks damn near ecstatic now and, while Quinn's freakishly happy about that, she tries to frown. "We're friends."

This just makes Quinn's eyebrow quirk. "I thought we were friends, before. We've established this several times."

"But this makes me more important than all of your other friends." She says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You just admitted that I'm your best friend, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn was about to say something but that stops her right in her tracks, her mouth hanging wide open like a fish. "I...when did I say...what?" The last time Quinn had a 'best friend' was when she was in the second grade and Kelsi Livingston asked her to be her best friend so that she could have a cookie. It was a fickle relationship that ended in heartbreak ten minutes later when the little blonde saw Kelsi asking Ken to be her best friend for a gummy bear.

Quinn was always guarded with her cookies, after that.

"As I am an actress who is highly skilled at monitoring the undertones of relationships—both scripted on the screen and real-life, off—I can understand how you might not keep up with my deductive reasoning." Rachel says obnoxiously, but the twinkle in her eyes and the wide smile on her face makes Quinn want to punch her a little less.

"Really, now." Quinn deadpans, her eyes narrowing dangerously. The girl across from her, now gripping her forearm and bouncing up and down excitedly, doesn't seem to notice; or maybe doesn't care. Both are pretty likely.

"Here, let me spell it out slowly for you," Rachel starts and suddenly the urge to punch her is back. "You invite me to your house to spend the night; You tell me about your secret life as a hooker; You share with me about your troubles; You just admitted that I was the second person to see your new apartment, regardless of the fact that you have been here for quite a while; I am about to meet your mother, a woman that Finn only met on your anniversary, and that's because he snuck into your house and got caught." Rachel's voice is proud, smile wide, and Quinn doesn't even want to know why she knows that last tid-bit. "I'm your best friend." She concludes.

"Wouldn't Puck be my best friend, through that logic? He came here first." Quinn regrets asking a moment later when Rachel vehemently shakes her head and says something that makes Quinn's whole face as red as Rudolph's nose.

"No. That makes him your best boy-friend. I'm your best girl-friend." Rachel says this like she doesn't really understand what she's implying—even though some fear at the lower part of Quinn's stomach makes her think she does—but she tries to chalk it up to Rachel just being...Rachel.

"Can you please not scream-imply that you're my lesbian lover to all of my trashy apartment complex? You already belted out that I'm a hooker." Quinn quirks her eyebrow, her tone trying and failing to sound scathing because, honestly, she's more amused at the winning look on Rachel's face.

"But I—"

"Can be my best friend. Whatever." Quinn rolls her eyes and tries not to smile when Rachel kind of squeals and jumps up and down, bringing her forearm with her. "Yeah, yeah, Pippy Longstocking, I'm hungry, can we go inside, now?"

Rachel nods energetically and, surprisingly, the girl and Quinn's mother hit it off pretty well. It might help that, ironically enough, Judy Fabray's favorite movie of all time is Funny Girl, a fact that Quinn never knew.

"Quinn!" Rachel shrieks, indignant, "How could you possibly fail to mention to your newly-adorned best friend that your mother is my soul-mate?" The younger blonde just blinks when her mother laughs—guffaws, really—and she shrugs her shoulders, smiling shyly between the pair. It's weird, really, getting to know both her mother and Rachel, like this.

She kind of likes it.

Until her mother pulls out the photo albums. Then she doesn't like it as much. She honestly tries not to bristle every time she sees her father but, then again, so does her mother, and she thinks that the dancing happiness in Rachel's eyes kind of makes it a little worth it.

The majority of Quinn's pictures from before she was Quinn were all purposefully discarded from this album upon the young blonde's request when she turned 13 years of age. Some of the pictures stayed, of course, because they were too important—a fact Quinn can't deny, now, since she knows a large majority of their happy family memories were when she was young and Lucy and seven—and Rachel's eyebrows comedically go up to her hair-line when she sees Quinn as a young little girl. It's before Quinn's hit puberty—before anything's hit her—and she's smiling care-free and happy.

Quinn looks to the side to see her mother reverently slipping down the picture and Rachel's seriously gaping.

"Put up your jaw, Berry." Quinn drawls, knowing that, yes, she was just outed as a natural big-nosed red-headto her now-best friend, but she doesn't think the younger girl has to be so obviously thrown by it. The nose, at least, isn't very obvious in the picture (she's, like, six) but the hair is unavoidable.

Rachel mumbles an apology before she nods for Judy to continue, a blush tinting her cheeks.

There's one picture that her mother actually pulls out because Rachel's gasping—as dramatically as ever—at it like it's this giant dirty secret. It's the only picture in the entire album that isn't perfect, backs aligned and smiles in place. It's impromptu; a photo shuttered from the edge of a bed, two girls wrestling with giggles on their faces. "You have a sister?" Rachel's fingers brush over the edge of the picture like if she touches it it will disintegrate, so Quinn takes it to take a better look. Judy Fabray had a separate album for the since-married Lindsay Lauren once-Fabray as, due to their age differences and schedules, they rarely took pictures together that weren't family pictures.

Lauren went by her middle name until she had her own children and suddenly, it was all Lindsay-Lindsay-Lindsay but, like most things from your teenage years, Lauren still stuck. It's a little bit of a pay-back for Quinn, in a small spiteful way, since Lauren hates her name so much. Lauren's always been the perfect little girl—the perfect daughter—the perfect wife. She has a husband who she doesn't cheat on and who doesn't cheat on her and two children. On Facebook last year Quinn saw pictures of their house and noticed she even has a golden retriever and a white picket fence. She's also a natural blonde.

It's kind of sickening.

Quinn blinks, realizing she's still looking at the picture.

Judy, for a reason Quinn is sure Rachel doesn't know and is thankfully not about to ask, had taken all of their family pictures out of the album, save for this one.

She gently skims her fingers over her sister's face, looking over to see her mother with the same look that she knows is present in her eyes. Quinn doesn't remember a lot from her childhood, but she remembers this.

A little girl dressed in her mother's dress, hair wet and makeup smeared all over her face. She'd wanted to be a little princess. She stormed into the room when her mother was sick with the flu and tucked messily under the bed and the covers, her father at work even though it was a Saturday, and started yelling for her mother to do something that Quinn can't really remember.

Her sister had soon boomed in right after her and ended up dancing about with her, eyes alight and shining for one of the few memories Quinn can remember them. Judy, even sick, had reached over to her bedside table and grabbed the camera she had left there for a reason the blonde had never known.

The picture was snapped, then, and still stays in front of Quinn right now like a reminder.

A tall blonde—about sixteen, or so—is twirling a little eight year girl around their parents room with nothing but joy and love in her eyes, behind them a Popsicle Father's Day frame sitting precariously on their father's side of the bed.

Two days later, Quinn got the flu and she never could remember Lauren smiling at her, like that, again.

Her mother must notice the way Quinn's looking at the picture because she hastily snatches it out of her grip, her sure way of saying don't think about things, Quinn, you can't fix them. The younger Fabray knows all too well her mother's policy on fixing things.

"Quinn?" Rachel sounds hesitant, looking between the two women with some small confusion on her face. Judy just tucks the picture back into the album and hands it back to her new-found soul-mate Rachel Berry like nothing happened.

"Yeah, she's eight years older than me." Quinn has long since mastered the art of turning a frown into a smile. It's the same smile she's sure Rachel will find in most of the pictures. Her phone rings and after noticing the same number that's been calling, she shakes her head and silences it. "She's a Smith, now; Got married and moved out of Lima." Rachel nods but is looking at her like she knows there's more, but is thankfully quickly distracted by more pictures of her best friend when she was a little girl.

Quinn should know better; Rachel coos and "aww's!" and pokes Quinn on the nose over her pictures, but the little brunette is like a skinny short elephant who never forgets.

Rachel's fingers slip easily onto Quinn's hips when they're alone in her room and the taller girl tries not to focus on the fact that it makes her shoulders relax. "Your sister wasn't at your dad's funeral." The other girl has always been a tad too observant and Quinn's still not used to the way she talks about things—she's still not used to the way Rachel talks about things like things are supposed to be talked about. It's the first time Rachel's brought that day up since it happened.

Quinn almost says, "I wouldn't have been, either, if I had managed to make it the hell out of here." but she doesn't. Instead, she gives Rachel a false smile that she knows she can see through and simply states, "She was busy." She actually probably was. Quinn wouldn't know, though—it's not like she talked to her, or anything.

It's enough for Rachel to (for once) not push the issue. Her eyes, instead, seem to settle on something across the room. Quinn turns her head to see Rachel gazing so intently at her mirror that she thinks it might suddenly burst into flames, or something. Her gaze follows and she smiles lightly at the card tacked on the frame.

"You kept my card?" It sounds so uncharacteristically meek that Quinn doesn't even bother with a sarcastic comment or a feigned act of disinterest. She simply squeezes Rachel's hand and smiles widely at her.

"Of course I did."

Rachel looks like she might want to say so much that she doesn't know how to fit it into words so Quinn just waits. Surprisingly enough, the sentence isn't as long as Quinn's expecting.

"It's practically the only decoration you have in your room." Rachel sounds as amused as she does a little sad and Quinn just shrugs her shoulders.

"Yeah." Quinn's never had much for decoration or personal sentiments. She thinks that maybe she always knew she was going to get kicked out—maybe she's never really had a home. It's not until Rachel squeezes her hand that Quinn realizes she's actually said this out loud.

Even now the only thing that feels like home in this entire room is that card. Thankfully, though, she doesn't say this part out loud, because there is such a thing as too much.

Rachel looks at her with something so startling in her eyes that Quinn has to look away—has to focus on that stupid little picture of a cat and dog—and try not to shuffle on the bed. The brunette's vocal cords work for a moment—a small noise leaving—before she shuts her mouth and taps her foot. It's a habit she does when she's nervous—when she's flustered (or angry, sometimes, too)—and this finally makes hazel eyes twist back.

Rachel's smiling at her with this freakishly happily strained smile—like this warms her heart, this discovery of a card on a mirror, as much as it does stab a knife right through it—but she drops it and seemingly makes it her goal to perk her friend up, something that Quinn's found her best friend is really good at.

Quinn's happy she drops it.

Two hours later, both of them on Quinn's bed and totally belting out Pat Benatar, Quinn decides that being Rachel Berry's best friend isn't so bad and she, apparently, is thinking the same thing, because when the song finishes and they're both giggling, Rachel grasps Quinn's hand firmly and leans in like she's telling a secret.

"Hey, Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my best friend, too."

They both share small smiles before Sir Mixalot comes onto Quinn's iPod and her cheeks instantly flare red. When the brunette cackles at her, Quinn decides to sing the whole damn thing, just to spite her. It doesn't matter if knowing all of the lyrics to Baby Got Back is an admission enough.

The next day, Rachel wakes her up at some ungodly hour of the barely-morning to go jogging outside with her because, "No, Quinn, I don't have a portable elliptical" and "missing one exercise can severely hinder my metabolism and slow down my growth rate, both mentally and physically."

Rachel doesn't appreciate the exhausted quip Quinn makes about her never getting taller, so she finds herself out at 6 AM running around her neighborhood with a determined and annoyingly awake Rachel Berry.

It takes about fifteen minutes before she starts feeling kind of good about it, and finds an oddly comforting silence in the pads of her feet meeting the concrete, Rachel's hitting the ground right next to hers. Quinn has always been athletic and, despite a dead-stop for nine months, maniacally pushed herself harder this summer than even Sue Sylvester used to push her.

Well, except for that one time that Coach actually managed to convince the zoo-keeper to let her borrow that tiger. Quinn was never really pushed harder than that.

She's pleasantly surprised, though, when Rachel doesn't just keep up with her, but actually competes with her. It's something Quinn's found an odd love for, in their relationship—a competitiveness that isn't like any other area of her life.

It's not spiteful, like Santana, or maniacal, like Coach...it's...unintentional.

Rachel makes Quinn want to be better and, for some reason, the blonde thinks that if the glint in sparkling, awake brown eyes is any indication, she does the same for her.

So it's no surprise when they both end up even more exhausted and sweaty, three hours later, collapsed on Quinn's bed like neither one of them can move anymore; which, by the way, Quinn's pretty sure she can't.

It was like murder getting up those steps and into 107B.

"I've...I..." Rachel is gasping against her best friend's side, her head resting on an unintentionally exposed stomach and even though pale skin is hot and her head is heavy, Quinn doesn't mind. For another minute the only sound filling the room is both of their gasping breaths before Rachel dares try to speak again. "I've never...ran that hard...before." She weakly leans her head up to catch Quinn's gaze and a look of accomplishment shines between them.

"Me neither." Is all that she dares supply, breath too precious. They smile proudly at each other and let the same silence that enveloped them while they were running envelop them now. She closes her eyes, content, and sighs.

Quinn's sure she's going to have to wash her sheets because sweat's gotten all in them, now, but she doesn't care. Her fingers mindlessly reach down to brush a strand of limp, mostly dry, hair off of Rachel's forehead. She feels Rachel lean into her, dark eyes searching over a content face for a moment, before she relaxes again and hums, their breaths eventually evening out to a gentle pull of wisps between them.

When Quinn squints she can see Rachel looking at her mirror; looking at a long card of a puppy and a kitten—the only thing tacked up in the blonde's room—and she can feel her best friend's mind shift beneath her fingers.

The fan feels cool on her neck but dauntingly freezing on her stomach when Rachel finally whispers that she has to take a shower ten minutes later and stumbles out of the bed and into the adjoining bathroom down the hall. Quinn thinks it's going to be a little awkward when Rachel realizes that she didn't bring in a change of clothes.

Sure enough, Quinn's almost asleep thirty minutes later when she hears Rachel's loud, embarrassed shriek of dismay. Luckily, her mother has already gone to work. "Aren't actresses supposed to be ready for full-frontal?" Quinn yells through the other side of the door, Rachel's clothes in her arm and wearing a huge smirk.

The scoff Quinn can hear clearly through the door means that if Rachel had been close enough, the blonde would probably have a bruise on her arm.

Quinn blushes.

Rachel would also be naked, so maybe it's better that she is where she is.

"I'll have you know, Quinn, that while I am fully prepared for a wide arrange of situations and parts, I have a full-disclosure agreement evident in my contract that explicitly states that I will not undergo nudity of any kind." Rachel whips open the door barely enough so that Quinn can see her nose and one eye, and scowls.

"I guess you won't get any rom-coms, then." Is the quick-timed response.

Somewhere around the feeling of Rachel's head on her stomach and the look in her eyes when she awkwardly sticks her head out of the small bathroom, fully, just to glare at her with full effect, Quinn's decides that she's going to call in sick, today.


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