A/N: Once again, your response to the previous chapter was overwhelming, so thank you so much. It's appreciated. I hope that most of your questions/concerns are answered in this chapter. If not...hopefully you'll stick along for the ride :)
Chapter 7
"You like to keep things simple and I like you." Rachel's voice plays over and over in her head, to the point where she just has to close her eyes and it's there, taunting her, driving her to the point of near-insanity. Quinn stretches out her leg and flips up the hot water faucet with her big toe causing the water around her rise precariously high, until the bubbles are almost at her chin.
"Okay, I'll think about it." Her own voice flits through her mind and Quinn fights the urge to sink down into the bubbly wonderland and just stay there. "I'll think about it." She practically tastes the bland euphemism in the statement. She knows, she knew, even in that moment that she wanted to do so much more than just think about it. When Rachel had turned back and knocked on her door, she'd unwittingly reached inside Quinn and unravelled something the young artist had been keeping tightly coiled. Since then, she's been coming undone at an alarming pace. Of course, she knows that Rachel's proposition is absurd and fantastical, but the point is she made it. And, Quinn finds herself struggling to keep from indulging in the fantasy. The mere thought of having Rachel to herself for three weeks is…ridiculously tempting, but…Quinn's sure there's a 'but' here somewhere and the sooner she finds it, the sooner she can put this whole idea behind her and go on with her life. She's still searching for it by the time the water's gone cold and the bubbles have all but disappeared.
It's a typical Sunday night, which means that by 10pm Max is curled up with his T-Rex, Puck is curled up with his X-Box and Quinn, well Quinn is supposed to be curled up with the profile of one of the new artists they're showing this week, except she can't do anything other than mull. It's exactly this mulling that leads her to flop down next to Puck in sleep shorts, an oversized t-shirt and her black-rimmed spectacles, because really, those contact lenses are a bitch and after falling asleep with them in on Saturday morning, she's convinced her eyeballs are about to drop out of her sockets. With great skill, Puck manages to take the beer she offers him without losing grip of his controller as he slaughters a zombie-UPS driver with a machete.
"What's up, buttercup?" he asks, when Quinn makes no move to speak or do anything other than aimlessly watch his overly buffed up avatar jump into a warehouse to acquire ammo. She knows he knows something must be up, because she rarely, if ever willingly sits down to watch him play unless she's kicking his ass at the latest Super Mario on Max's Wii. She takes a sip of her own beer and watches him fist fight with an undead waitress before announcing,
"Rachel wants to sleep with me."
"FUCK!" Puck yells out and the waitress turns the tables – quite literally, she flips a diner table over and almost crushes Puck's soldier man. He presses 'pause' before snapping his head towards Quinn.
"What?"
"Rachel wants to have an affair, friends with benefits, whatever." Quinn doesn't even realise her hands are shaking until she tries to bring the beer to her mouth.
"She actually tell you this?"
"No, I saw it in a vision," she says dryly and Puck runs his hand over his shaven head, as if searching for a Mohawk, long-gone.
"Fuck, Q. What did you say?"
She looks down and shrugs a shoulder. Keep it light, she tells herself. "I said I'd think about it."
Puck leans back against the cushions with a heavy sigh that has Quinn looking up at him. His brown eyes are focused on her with an expression she's on seen on few occasions.
"I can't believe I'm about to say this," he looks truly remorseful, "I mean, seventeen-year old me would kick my ass for saying this, but Quinn, you know you can't go through with it, right? I mean, you're like…" his eyes dart to the mantle for a brief moment, and to the pictures propped up there before looking back to her, "you're my bro, you know and I… I kind of love you. So as your bro, it's my duty to tell you that you can't be fuck buddies with Rachel, cause it'll just screw you up even more."
"Thanks," she says tonelessly.
"Nah, look. The only reason you're able to sleep with those other chicks is because you don't give a shit about their feelings or whatever. You're like a female Puckasaurus and it's awesome. But c'mon, Q, you and me both know that Rachel is different."
She wants to roll her eyes and deny it, but she can't, because honestly, Puck's seen too much, he knows too much, he was there the day she got back from New York after seeing Rachel's debut performance in Wicked and she barely spoke to anyone for a week. He was there when his mother and sister came over for Yom Kippur and she tensed up when Mrs Puckerman started going on about Hiram Berry's latest news about his daughter. He was there when they went to visit Shelby for Beth's 6th birthday party and the little girl couldn't stop talking about her 'sister' who bought her a pony for her birthday.
There's no point in denying it anymore, least of all to Puck, who as it turns out, has just given her the 'but' she's been looking for.
She nods and softly says, "You're right. I know you're right."
"Does she know how you feel about her?"
Quinn buries her head in her lap with a groan and shrugs. "I don't even know how I feel about her," she mumbles. "I mean, it was a high school crush, Puck. We're different people now."
"Yeah, that why you were eye-fucking each other across the bar on Friday?"
She punches his shoulder lightly, "Must you always be so vulgar?"
"I just call 'em how I see 'em, babe." He appraises her for a second. "Here." He thrusts the controller at her. "Sometimes it helps to just beat shit up."
After violently hacking apart an army of flesh-eating zombies, Quinn's inclined to agree.
...
Two beers, one packet of nacho corn-chips and a tally of dead zombies later, Quinn bids Puck a fond goodnight and heads off to bed. She's in the process of brushing her teeth when she notices the faded imprint on the mirror. A star. Obviously made with a finger on the steamy glass, now just a vague stain and a reminder of the brunette who has currently taken hostage of her senses.
Two rings. This is a stupid idea. Three rings. Nothing good can come of this. Four rings. It's way too late to be –
"Hello?"
"Rachel? Hi. It's me."
"Quinn." There's no denying the higher shift in cadence as she recognises Quinn's voice.
"Hi," Quinn says again, settling back against her pillows and trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. "I'm not bothering you am I?"
"No," Rachel's quick to say and Quinn hears shuffling on the other end as if Rachel's moving somewhere or packing something. "Not at all. I-um, I'm glad you called."
"You are?"
"Well yes," the brunette sounds slightly breathless and Quinn wonders what exactly she's doing. "I've wondering…if you've considered my…proposition." Her voice is steady, but she takes enough pauses in that sentence for Quinn to know that it can't be easy to say.
"I have-considered it," she replies.
"And?"
God, is this what a heart attack feels like? Is it possible for one's heart to beat out of one's chest? "And I just don't think it's going to work, Rachel."
The silence on the other end is stifling, she finds herself pressing the receiver against her ear in hopes of hearing Rachel just breathe. "Rachel…you still there?"
Eventually, there's a tiny, "I'm here."
The voice is so small, so…wounded, that Quinn can feel her heart sink to the depth of her stomach. "It's just-"
"Quinn, really, you don't have to explain." Rachel sounds terser now.
"No, I do." She says, because she needs to make sense of it for herself more so than for Rachel anyway. "You see, it's not that I wasn't -" Intrigued? Interested? Aw, hell Fabray. "- tempted. Because I was. I…am. It's just that we're friends, Rachel and it's hard to keep things simple between…friends." Did she say too much, she wonders? It all just came out, but somehow, it feels right, like this is the only way to go.
"I understand," is Rachel's soft reply.
"I don't want to do anything to screw up this friendship," Quinn says just as softly.
"I don't either." She hears Rachel's deep breath, "Quite honestly, I'm starting to see my suggestion as a momentary flight of insanity. I mean, what was I thinking, right?"
"That you wanted an escape from your obviously boring and mundane life as a fabulous movie-star?" Quinn tries for a joke which has Rachel chuckling weakly.
"Yeah, I guess that about covers it."
"Look," Quinn sits up, with new zeal, "We can still hang out and do all kinds of crazy shit."
Rachel chuckles loudly now, "Crazy shit?"
And Quinn blushes faintly despite the fact that she's alone in her bedroom. "Living with Puck has somewhat…broadened my vocabulary."
"Okay," Rachel says, a smile still apparent in her voice. "What exactly did you have in mind, Ms Fabray?"
"Well," Quinn settles back into her pillows, very much aware of the stupid grin plastered, "I was thinking we'd start with jello shots…"
...
Two hours later and Quinn's face hurts from that stupid grin. They've spoken about everything from Rachel's dog to Quinn's college obsession with Gustav Klimt and now she's biting back a yawn as Rachel proceeds to lecture her on the importance of hormone-free dairy products.
"Really, Quinn, you have to think about Max, I mean he's-"
"Do you want to go out with me?" It just comes out. One minute she's hearing the word lactose and the next her mouth is moving.
The line goes dead quiet and Quinn quickly amends, "As a friend, I mean. I have this stuffy work function tomorrow night. A showing for a new artist and I thought maybe -"
"I'd love to," Rachel says in that breathy voice that has her all warm inside and Quinn smiles.
"Awesome."
"Awesome," Rachel echoes with slight amusement before her breath hitches slightly "Oh wait! I can't."
"Oh. That's okay, I mean, it's just an idea," Quinn rushes to say, but Rachel's already talking over her,
"No, I've a late call tomorrow. We're doing an evening shoot, so it'll probably run until god knows what time."
"It's fine, Rach," she fights off another yawn. "We can do something another night, okay?"
"Yeah." Quinn tries not to feel hopeful by the fact that Rachel sounds genuinely disappointed that they won't be spending time together.
"Anyway, I should probably get to bed. Work tomorrow, you know."
Rachel's quiet for a moment before saying, "This was nice, talking I mean."
"Yeah," Curse this stupid grin, Quinn thinks. "Yeah, it was. Night, Rachel."
"Goodnight, Quinn."
...
"Quinn! Quinn, mija, where did you disappear off to?" Quinn cringes as Hector storms into her tiny office.
"Hectooor," she practically whines before pulling on the hem of her dress – her tight black dress that ends mid-thigh. "I can't go out there in this."
Hector snorts. "I've seen pictures of you in that tiny excuse for a skirt you wore in high-school. Are you honestly telling me that this is any different?"
She scowls at him. "This is different. I'm not a cheerleader anymore."
"No, you're a successful assistant director at a prestigious art gallery and this is our newest artist's debut exhibition. You need to look the part and right now, you look - "
"Spectacular!" Paul gasps as he rounds the corner. "Oh, Quinnie!" His hands immediately come to his lips. "You wore it! I told you, you would look amazing! Didn't I Hec?"
Quinn raises her brow at her employer. "Is he crying?"
Hector chuckles, "Marc Jacobs tends to make him teary."
She takes a wary step back as Paul approaches her and begins tugging her neckline down. "There you go. Never be afraid to flash a little cleavage, especially in an original little black dress."
"I still can't believe you bought this by the way," Quinn huffs and he takes a step back to observe his work.
"Look, Hec, our little girl's all grown up."
Hector pats his husband's shoulder idly, before turning his attention back to Quinn. "Sweetheart, Leonard is out there and he's very interested in Georgia's nudes. Why don't you see if you can interest him further?"
Quinn's eyebrows shoot up. "What, on my own?"
Hector smiles. "You're the one who said you wanted more exposure and Leonard is the one you need to convince if you're ever going to get a showing here."
Quinn takes a trembling breath and nods. "Okay, I'm Quinn Fabray. I lead an army of Cheerios in my freshman year. I can do this."
"Damn right you can." Paul winks at her before she walks out on her 6-inch heels, silently thanking Sue Sylvester for those years of torturous balance exercises.
"So you grew up in Ohio? God, that must have been awful!" Leonard Banks laughs his smug laugh and shakes his head so hard, Quinn's worried his toupee's about to go flying.
"It had its moments," she says with a fixed smile on her face.
"And yet you ended up at one of the most prestigious art schools. How did you manage that?"
"Hard work," Quinn's smile grows tighter and forces her eyebrow to remain down. It's like a tic. "I got a partial scholarship and I worked off the rest."
"Impressive." Bank's eyes drift down to her chest. "I can see why Hector speaks so highly of you."
"Yes, well…Hector's a great boss. And he's done amazing things with this gallery."
"Oh, no need to convince me of that, Ms Fabray. This exhibition alone …" His voice drifts off and it suddenly hits her. Rod Remington! That's who Leonard Banks reminds her of. He's got the same smug, pompous, reptilian charm that exuded from the news anchor. Last she heard, old Rod was mauled by bears while at a nudist retreat in Michigan.
"Well, Mr Banks, I assure you," Quinn slips effortlessly back into the conversation, "Georgia will be only too happy to part with her -"
A sudden commotion at the doors has both of them turning and suddenly Paul's behind her, his eyes shining with excitement.
"There's a throng of paparazzi outside. Actual paparazzi!"
Quinn glances at Banks, "Excuse me a moment."
"What's going on?" she asks, once she and Paul are further away.
The older man shrugs. "I don't know, but I heard a rumour that Johnny Depp was filming something in Connecticut. Do you think he stopped by?"
"For Georgia's opening?" Quinn asks dryly.
Paul shrugs. "You did wonders with the advertising, darling." Suddenly Paul clutches his heart and his eyes along with a few other people on the room, who attempt to stare more discretely, fall on the young woman, now making her way towards Quinn. "Oh, my god, it's Rachel Berry!"
Rachel Berry indeed.
Wearing a flirty lemon chiffon cocktail dress with hair, tumbling in chocolate waves over her shoulders, she walks towards Quinn all legs and teeth, smiling broadly and for a moment, the blonde is quite certain her heart has dropped to her panties.
With absolutely no subtlety, Paul leans towards her and whispers, "Do you know her?"
Before Quinn answers, Rachel is there, in front of her, all legs and teeth and…oh god, she smells like honeysuckle and…something else, something…spicy. Cinnamon maybe.
"Hi," Rachel says a little shyly now that she's actually there.
"Hi," Quinn mimics, suddenly breathless. Is this what they mean when they say that someone can take your breath away?
Paul looks between them for a moment before loudly and obnoxiously clearing his throat.
"Oh," Quinn inclines her head towards him. "Rachel, this is Paul Dreyer. He's married to my boss. Paul, this is-"
"Rachel Berry," Paul holds out his hand with a wide grin. "It is an honour. I'm a huge fan. The hugest. I was telling my husband just last week that you're the next Barbra and Meryl combined. You're like, Beryl." He flushes and wipes his hand over his brow. "I'm sorry, I'm making a fool of myself. It's just. I've seen Wicked twice and, well you were fabulous, but I must say, your performance in Les Mis was…well it was devastatingly good. I have to ask, why, oh why have you turned your back on the theatre? Not, that you don't shine on the silver screen, because your performance in Red Periphery was outstanding, but really, the stage is where you belong and, oh dear, I'm rambling." He takes a deep breath.
Rachel smiles broadly. "Paul, firstly thank you. It's always a joy to hear from someone so knowledgeable of the arts."
Quinn marvels as Rachel speaks. There's not a hint of irony or mockery in her tone. She truly means what she says. It's like she's made for this.
"And being compared to the great Barbra and Meryl is flattering, but a little premature, I mean, at least, let me get that Oscar first." She winks and Paul giggles delightfully. "As for the stage, well," her smile falters slightly and Quinn frowns. "We all need a little break from the things we love."
Paul nods sagely. "Of course." He beams at her until Quinn says,
"Hey, Rach, you have to try the chicken spring rolls, they're amazing!"
"But Quinn, I'm-"
"Paul, do know if there are any more?"
Paul's face lights up. "For Ms Berry, I will find some." He grins at her one last time. "Be right back."
"Quinn!" Rachel says, lightly swatting her arm once Paul had disappeared into the crowd, "That was mean!"
Quinn smirks and pulls Rachel aside, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the rest of the room, who suddenly find Ms Rachel Berry more interesting than the artwork on the walls.
"How come you weren't this popular when we went out last week?" Quinn asks once they've reached a semi secluded area next to the stairwell.
Rachel rolls her eyes. "The grand entrance. I'm sorry. They followed me from the set. Last week I managed to evade the paps. If no-one expects a celebrity to be around, they don't recognise one, but the minute those flashes go off, it's like…" she makes jazz hands which makes Quinn laugh.
"That bad huh?"
"It's not always bad, but," she shrugs. "I, um. I tried to call, to tell you I got off early, but you didn't pick up."
"Oh," Quinn looks apologetic. "I left my phone in my office." She looks down," And I don't really have any pockets." She offers Rachel a wry smile and the brunette bites down on her lower lip.
"You look very pretty tonight, Quinn," she says it almost reverently and Quinn feels a rush of heat run through her.
"Thanks," she replies, trying to keep her voice neutral. "You look okay, I guess."
Rachel's brow furrows for a second before she realises that Quinn's messing with her. "Yes, I've come a long way from animal sweaters and Mary-Janes."
"I liked your animal sweaters," Quinn admits softly, feeling a blush creep up her neck.
"No you didn't," Rachel says, her voice laced with scepticism.
"I did though," Quinn counters. "Like, remember when Brittany brought in the whole carousal-horse look?"
"Don't remind me." Rachel sheepish. "I tried so hard, didn't I?"
Quinn shrugs a shoulder. "We all tried hard, Rachel. You succeeded," she says softly.
Rachel brings her warm, brown gaze up to Quinn's and says, "So did you. Look around. I'd say you did alright for yourself."
"Listen to us being all self-congratulatory," Quinn laughs softly before sobering up. Rachel's watching her with those eyes, those big doe eyes that make her feel like she's melting and shattering all at the same time. "Come on," she says, impulsively reaching for Rachel's hand. "I want to show you something."
They make a bee-line past Paul who is animatedly caught up in a conversation with one of their older patrons, no doubt telling her of his fateful encounter. And Quinn leads Rachel out of the main hall into a dark corridor, where the rest of the artwork is kept, that which is not on display tonight.
"Where are we?" Rachel whispers, her grip tightening around Quinn's fingers.
"You'll see," Quinn replies and flicks on a light switch. The room lights up yet Rachel's hand remains tightly clasped in hers.
They're in a narrow passage, lined with paintings, not yet framed. Some are still on the ground, stacked against each other. "I call it the Tunnel of the Unknown," Quinn says. "All local artists who have submitted their work for display but were rejected by the bigwigs for whatever reason. And they're stored here, hoping that one day, they'll see the light."
Rachel stares in wonder at the work in the tiny corridor. "This is amazing. Do-do all galleries do this?"
"No," Quinn laughs softly. "No, but Hector has a soft spot for the underdogs. I think he's keeping them because he plans to start his own gallery some day and these are the ones he'll use, or at least, the ones the artist have given him permission to use."
Rachel moves to the corner of the room, where a large canvas hangs in the middle of an empty space. "This one's lonely," she says softly. "But so beautiful."
Quinn watches with a lump in her throat as Rachel's fingers trace over the dark green and black serrations in the canvas. "I wonder what the words mean," she whispers, looking up and the painting as a whole. The artist had scribbled what looked like lyrics onto newspaper with a sharpie and varnished it over the image before painting light greens and greys over it.
"It's a poem," Quinn murmurs, unable to help herself. She comes up behind Rachel and…it's ginger, she thinks suddenly. Rachel smells like honeysuckle and a drop of ginger and it's intoxicating.
"Hmm?" she turns ever so slightly and their proximity is made obvious. Quinn thinks about moving back, but that would be even more obvious, so instead she points towards the painting.
"The text is a poem. It's by Neruda."
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved," Rachel begins to read, "in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
"I love you as the plant that never blooms," Quinn continues, her heart pounding against her ribcage like a bird yearning for flight. "but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers," Rachel turns to her and inhales lightly when she realises that Quinn's eyes are not on the painting, but on her face. "thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."
"It's beautiful," Rachel murmurs, her eyes flickering between Quinn's lips which were just mouthing the poem, to her eyes which are a deep shade of honey-gold. "How do you know it?"
"I painted it," Quinn says simply. Then bites her lip almost shyly. "I wasn't going to tell you that."
"I'm glad you did," Rachel says and moves closer and alarm bells start ringing in Quinn's head also, she's pretty sure that bird escaped, because she can no longer feel her heart beating. Instead, everything has gone sort of numb.
"Rachel," Quinn's voice carries a warning but also an edge of yearning that she can't quite disguise.
"Quinn," Rachel licks her lips and drags her gaze up Quinn's face. Damn those full-blown pupils, she thinks. "I, um" Rachel stammers as if she really has no idea what she wants to say. "I was wondering…"
"Yes?" Okay. She can practically feel Rachel's breath on her cheek, she can smell her skin, she can count her eyelashes, were they any closer, they'd be wearing each other's skins. This is the point where she steps back. This is the point where she remembers everything she said on the phone, everything Puck said to her, and step back. Except that whole self-control thing she used to be so good at, well years of neglect has made it lazy and right now it's refusing to perform and Quinn finds herself woefully low on willpower.
So, when Rachel leans up just a fraction, she barely hesitates before –
"Quinn! Thank god! There you are!"
"Motherfucker!" She says it under her breath, but by the look on Rachel's face she's pretty sure the brunette heard her.
Hector's rushing towards them, holding out her cellphone. "It's Noah on the line," the older man says hastily.
Quinn casts Rachel a look as if to say, "sorry my boss just interrupted our almost make-out session, but maybe it was for the best anyway."
"Puck?" she allows herself to sound annoyed, because he's probably calling to ask where she left the remote or something.
"Quinn," his voice is strained and she immediately frowns.
"What's wrong?"
"It's Max. He's burning up. I don't know what to do, Quinn. I think the little dude's really sick."
Her entire world suddenly closes in and her focal point becomes getting home as soon as possible. "I'll be right there," she says.
