Chapter Seven: I always needed time on my own, I never thought I'd need you there when I cry.

They arrive at the motel just as night is falling, enveloping them in a sense of relief. The night takes away the harsh reality of day, the bright vision of themselves and everyone else. Night often provides an escape – that is, if their dreams comply with their wishes to forget their troubles. Sam risks a glance towards his company, finding her already looking at him. Her expression is thoughtful and only a moment later, she is taking a step towards him.

Quinn's hair falls over her face when she lowers her head, the dim light of the reception casting a shadow over her features. Automatically, he lowers himself so that he's level with his eyes, "Are you coming to check in? You can wait here if you want." He doesn't really care if she comes or stays, but this suspense is irritating him – if she has something to say to him, she might as well go ahead and say it. Part of him resentfully – perhaps a little wrongly – deems this as her being dramatic, especially when she just sighs and turns away to sit on her suitcase.

Sam doesn't bother with saying anything else to her and walks towards the desk. It's not the same motel that once was supposed to be his home, and for that he's grateful, but it nonetheless reminded him of some other times in his life that were less than pleasant. It seems as if a motel must feature in all the worst memories he carries with him. The man behind the counter is Sam's definition of old; his lack of hair was highlighted by the same light that hid Quinn, while his rough and bony looking hands reflected a life of work. Eyes that possessed a warm quality appraised him, "Can I help you?"

It takes longer than it should to respond. After all, can he help him? No. This man can provide as much help as an apple can. People toss around this phrase much more than they should – like 'How are you?' which has come to grate on his nerves, too. The man commands his attention again with a nudge, "Kid, snap out of it. I'm sure there's not that much thinking to a room! So, is it just yourself?"

Sam glances behind to Quinn, who is sitting forlornly on her suitcase still, "Her, too. Two singles if possible – is there some sort of breakfast service?"

"Two singles? Are you mad lad, with a girl like that you'll be taking a double." He laughs, as if he's made a great joke. Sam's pity for the man overrides his desire to punch him, so he says nothing. "Wouldn't recommend any breakfast here to be honest, you might want to try the café across the road. Great place, that is. Makes the best coffee!" He bangs his fist on the desk with the last comment, making sure this vital information is imprinted in Sam's mind.

"Okay, thanks. Can I have that room?"

"Sure can. How many nights? It's fifty a pop, best I can give you."

"Two nights will do, and that's perfect." He takes out his credit card, realising that he's bearing the full financial brunt of this trip. He doesn't know whether to care or not about it; Sam no longer struggles financially, given his job, but part of him insists Quinn must contribute. Fairness, equality and all that.

The man hands him the key after some delay, which Sam takes quickly and makes a swift exit. His thank you is as hurried as his leave, but he hopes the man heard him. He heads straight towards the lift, tipping Quinn's elbow as he does so. She snaps out of her daydream and follows his lead. He holds the doors open for her as she drags her case in, feeling angry that she's brought such an unnecessary amount. Sam brought a sports bag.

She catches his look and colours a little, "What? I'm not sure how I'll be feeling tomorrow. My outfit will depend on that."

Sam raises an eyebrow, "It can vary that much? I thought you only had two feelings; mild contentment and indifference."

A hurt look passes for a moment; so fleeting, that he's not sure if it really happened. It's replaced by a cold resolve with her chin raised and eyes diverted, "I thought you knew me better than that. Obviously not."

The doors open at that incredibly convenient moment (for her) and she storms out, pulling her case with great vigour. She gets about two steps away from him before realising that she has no idea of their room number, nor does she have a key to get in. Sam is about to grin at this – he's stopped by the slump in her shoulders and the hand she rubs wearily across her face. Guilt floods him as the cruelty of his comment hits him; he doesn't like hurting her, he certainly knows she doesn't need any more pain (like him). Swallowing the feeling, he overtakes her and leads the way to the room. There's a heavy sensation in his chest as he anticipates apologising.

She immediately claims the bed furthest from the door, which he remembers her always doing. Quinn hates sleeping near the door, for many reasons that he no longer cares to recall or debate. It's not like he minds either way, so he takes the other bed wordlessly. Neither of them unpack their bags. He simply throws his in the corner beside his locker and flops down on to the bed. She lays hers against the wall closest to her before unzipping it and leaving it ready to be used. After that, Quinn gazes around the room, seeming a bit lost. What are they supposed to do now?

Staring at the ceiling, Sam finally speaks, "I—I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't mean it, you know. And you do know that."

She turns back to look at him. Their eyes connect for the briefest of moments, then she's moving onto her bed and assuming the same position as him. Neither of them exchange glances now as the ceiling becomes their preferred view – after all, it doesn't evoke any unwanted sentiments. He can see her shrug a shoulder out of the corner of his eye though. "It doesn't matter."

"It was unnecessary." He concedes.

"It was. We're going to get frustrated with each other now and again though, and afterwards, we'll just have to get on with things. But the apology is appreciated," She adds. There's a conversational way to how she's talking which has been absent lately.

"Okay." Sam's not sure how else he's supposed to reply. For some reason that he'll never be quite capable of explaining, the next words topple out of his mouth before he can restrain them with all his might. "I never expected my next trip to Lima to be like this."

The second they leave his mouth, he regrets them. Talking about this is not something either of him have ever alluded to, or expressed a desire to partake in. In fact, talking about this has been somewhat of a taboo topic avoided with the greatest resolve. It is for these reasons that he actually jumps out of surprise when she replies softly, "I don't think anyone does." He turns on his side to look at her, perfectly fine with the fact that she does not return this gesture. Quinn's eyes remain fixed above her. "Then again, who would ever plan on returning here? It's a dead town."

"It's home." He whispers, afraid that his words are going to eventually demolish the peace that has been lingering between them. They had fallen into this truce, because they had to be together in this, and the past must be forgotten. History has to be erased for them – their history, their time together; them. Sam and Quinn, together, has to be like a chapter in the story that the editor rips out. It doesn't flow with how the plot is going; it's unnecessary to the progression.

"Is it?" She questions, and Sam takes a second to consider what she's proposing. Has this town ever been his home? The answer comes to him immediately – as so little answers do – and he says it without a beat of hesitance.

"Yes. It not bring the most favourable of … of well, anything, at the moment.. but this place is where all the people I love the most come from. It's where my life really started and I'm not going to forget it. We belonged here for a while."

"For a while." Quinn repeats. The blonde turns to face him then, once again mirroring his position. Her eyes are haunted while she relays her thoughts to him, "How are we supposed to do this? To.." she need not finish the sentence, because he knows exactly what she's talking about. Brooke's not going to be easy, but they have to do this. Her eyes meet his, and he can't help the instant rush of affection that overwhelms him – Quinn understands. She may be the only one that understands truly.

"I don't know," His answer his honest. There's no reason for him to be untruthful or sugar-coat; they're both big and bold enough. He raises from the bed and retrieves two glasses from the press, not forgetting a bottle of whiskey from the mini-fridge, and nudges Quinn over on her bed. Her pours a generous amount for both of them and waits for her as she sits up to lean against the headboard. He plants himself next to her. Handing her the glass, Sam manages to raise the corner of his mouth, "We have to do this. To me, that deserves one last night of getting pissed."

(His brain screams at him for lying – this isn't going to be the last night, and he knows it.)

She accepts the glass gratefully. They watch each other gulp it down, and another round is poured. Several rounds go by without a sound until the bottle is empty, and they're looking at each other in slight bewilderment. She laughs in astonishment, "Did we just drink the whole bottle?"

"It wasn't very much." He moves to get comfortable and feels the alcohol hit him strongly, making him wary. "Woah." A laugh escapes him, "That was such a stupid idea. We're so stupid."

She giggles, "It was your idea, genius."

"Quinn Fabray can no longer say no?"

Quinn nudges him harshly in the ribs in response, causing him to fall off of the bed. She lets out an uproarious laugh at this (it releases some of the tightness in his chest ) and he grumbles, though he's not really hurt or upset about it. "There's your answer."

He pokes her when he sits down again, feeling happier than he has in weeks. Normally, he drinks so much that he can't see straight and can't feel anything, but this level of intoxication suits him better. The worries of the world melt away as the burden on his shoulders crumble to the floor. It's great. He smiles widely at her, "We should go to Mango's."

Quinn laughs again, this time shaking her head, too, "There is no way in hell I'm going there! That's where we went when we were nineteen, Sam… We'll be the oldest people there!"

"It'll be fun," he insists, dragging her off of the bed. Being stubborn, Quinn pulls him back onto the bed. He stumbles and lands beside her, flat on his face, breathing into the pillow. She hovers over him, telling him of how she's beaten him.

He turns around and looks up at her, inwardly spinning a plan to get her to the club. He wants to make a glorious mess of himself and dance clumsily to the music – why doesn't she? There's a small grin on her face, but Quinn's not looking at him. In fact, her eyes are on nothing in particular, and seem to be in a world of their own. He's let into this world when she speaks next, "Those summers were some of the best. Having to come home from college didn't feel like such a chore."

He nods eagerly, "And we always had such a blast. I hadn't thought that cheap shithole could ever offer such amusement and absolute laughs." It was a club that was fairly easy-going on the underage radar, often letting people in once there was a convincing enough ID. Their group of friends had been no exception, and if someone did have trouble getting in, Santana never had a problem talking their way in. It was usually Sam, Quinn, Santana, Blaine, Finn, Rachel and Puck. The others of the glee club made appearances, too, but not as frequent as those seven as they didn't return home for the whole summer.

Quinn turns to him, "Do you remember the time Santana lost her shoes and some random guy posted a picture of them on facebook looking for the owner?" There's a hearty snicker after that, which he joins in.

"God yeah! She wouldn't stop cursing in Spanish on the way home – then some guy posts a picture on the clubs page. Priceless!"

"Of course, Santana just had to sleep with him to repay him.." They're both thoroughly engrossed in the story, remembering it fondly and laughing till their sides hurt. It isn't long till their regaling the great stories of their nights out together in college; there had been a surprising amount.

"The time Blaine told a guy Puck was gay, and he wouldn't leave Puck for the night – that has to be one of the best!"

Quinn's doubled over as she recalls the memory, "I thought Puck was going to throw a punch he was getting so frustrated! Especially when the guy was grinding against him on the dancefloor from behind; Puck thought it was one of us until he felt him!"

Sam stands and does an elaborate impression of how that scene played out, which causes great amusement for his companion whose breathing is becoming more and more difficult with her great hoots. She slaps him, "Stop, stop! I can't take anymore."

"Or when Finn found the closed bar upstairs and raided it? He came back down absolutely locked, passing out bottles of beer to everyone –"

"Only to get kicked out because of it –"

"And going to get a bag of chips, coming back ten minutes later, and getting in again." What happens next is something neither of them will ever forget, because their reactions to this story are exactly the same as the rest – they're laughing. Laughing so hard they again are left gasping for air. As seconds saunter by, their cackles turn hysterical and when Sam's eyes return to Quinn's - there's tears in them.

Suddenly, the laughter dies and tears are creeping up the corner of her eyes, waiting for the opportune moment to stealthily sneak out. His eyes glisten in return and he squeezes them shut in an effort to shut out the possibility of anything leaking out. They open again, finding Quinn still looking at him, her expression now heartbroken. Her lips now trembling. Her eyebrows now fallen.

"Sam –" Her breath is shaky, "Sam, wh-where are they?" Quinn sounds like a lost child. He feels like a lost child.

Sam barely registers raising his shoulders ever so painstakingly slow in a useless shrug, deathly afraid of speaking. His voice doesn't warrant any trust right now. The next few seconds tick by in the same painfully slow manner that his shoulders moved. Their eyes are locked; Quinn and Sam are unable to glance away, not desiring to break the moment. His fists clench tighter as she bites her lip as the trembling intensifies. Her chin raises as he presses his lips into a thin line.

Her shoulders shake as her tears escape. His eyes release the water begging at his lids as he closes them.

They fall together into a lying position on the bed, their limbs tangled their bodies shaking involuntarily. Sobs come harsh and unrelenting for her, while tears rush from his eyes mercilessly.

They cry till they can no more, then pass into a dreamless sleep.

(It's the best either of them have slept in six weeks.)


(past.)

The night had progressed exactly as he had hoped so far; drinks, dances, banter and maybe later, a kiss would make it complete. It was a normal night out in Mango's, where Sam Evans was standing intoxicated at the bar. He was looking out at the dancefloor, searching for his friends before he jumped into the sea of people.

Finn startled him by thumping roughly on the back, "What you doing here, dude? Go get that chick who has been making sex eyes all night."

Sam looked back at him, eyes dazed with drink, "What? What girl?"

Finn pointed her out, and Sam followed his finger to a woman who was indeed watching him. She was sitting with her friends but paying them little attention as she smiled coyly at him, flicking her glorious red hair behind her and crossed her legs daintily. Sam turned to him, "Nah."

"Q again? Man, man up and get with her. Before someone else does. Wait – is that? Rachel! Rachel, get down!" He ran off to his drunken girlfriend then, who was being pulled onto a table by Santana. Safe to say, Santana wasn't the steadiest person to be helping her up and Finn was rushing to stop the inevitable crash.

"Would you chill out, I'm a cheerleader, I got this," He heard Santana tell him, her words a little slurred.

He turned to look beside them, where Quinn was dancing animatedly to the pumping music with Puck and Blaine. Her smile was lighting up the room (that may have been just his opinion though) and her eyes still enraptured him in the bad light of a shady club. Without much more deliberation, Sam made a beeline for her. He reached her in minutes an wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the side of her neck. She shivered and turned instantly to him, kissing him softly. He didn't think he'd ever get sick of her kisses.

Pulling back, Quinn smiled, "Let's go sit down?" He nodded and led them to a more secluded booth. They kissed occasionally, both softly and passionately, and they laughed occasionally, both hysterically and quietly. Hours were spent in her company, without either of them even realising the time racing by. His fingers played with hers as she told him a story about her friend from college, whom he had met once when she came to visit. She was a live wire, and extremely different from his Quinn.

His Quinn. Except, technically, she wasn't his at all. She was free to kissed who she liked and they had made it that way. He had agreed to keep everything open and without commitment – a guys dream. It was a dream for about two nights, and then it became a regret. Guys constantly flirted with her and it always had to try and deflect them… making up flaws about Quinn got easier with each night though. He got more creative, too – telling males that she had herpes, that she was in prison, that she'll only have sex with the lights and clothes on (minus boxers&knickers), that she has a few kids at home… Strangely enough, he never regretted those.

Quinn should be his – but with returning to college in the fall, it was risky. Long-distance wasn't worth it. This was easier, he told himself.

For the next few years, Sam will continue to tell himself it was easier apart.


Sorry for the long wait folks, but I hope this suffices! I have to say, I enjoyed writing this chapter and think it's one of the better ones. Next chapter will feature the adorable Brooke, no worries. Btw, the stories they were exchanging actually happened to me and my friends haha... Some of the funnier times indeed!
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or "When You're Gone" by Avril Lavigne.
Thanks for reading, please leave a review.. it really encourages me! Btw, please tell me: Would you rather see Sam or Quinn struggle more with Brooke? In answer to one response, I thnk I need to clarify - I don't mean how do you think Brooke should be, I mean which of the adults would you like to see have more angst and difficulty in seeing their friends child? Thanks,
CN