Sorry about the ridiculously long gap between the last update and this one. I lost inspiration and the writing just would not flow no matter what I did, it seems. Thank you pierce22 for encouraging the continuation of this story. You may need to read the whole story again to jog your memory. After so long I don't want this to suck, but if it does sorry.
With just two days remaining of her three week suspension, Rachel Berry was more than cognizant of one last pressing task that she needed to complete. She was also well aware that the realization of this task's completion would require mustering the testicular fortitude to turn up at the Fabray residence, unannounced, where she would put on the performance of a lifetime if need be.
In the last few hours, half of which she'd spent concocting her plan, she'd come to really appreciate her suspension, or rather the fact that she knew that Quinn Fabray was at school whilst she, herself, wasn't.
With her classic song lyric book hidden securely beneath the left rib of her long woolly maroon coat, Rachel hoovered up an abundance of breath in through her nostrils, before releasing it out past her plump lips.
"You can do this," she quietly affirmed, over and over again. "If you expect to one day conquer New York - or the world even - you have got to learn to control your pre-show nerves - to use them for greatness. There's nothing to fear, because you are a gold star, and not even the sky is the limit."
In the face of the aspiring singer's little pep talk, the brown door, marked thirty-nine in shiny gold-plated numerals, simply stared back at her, silent.
"Be quiet," she scolded it, bowing her head for a few brief seconds of self-consciousness, which led to her needlessly smoothing her coat and hair down.
However, her meddling hand instantly halted at a sudden metallic clicking, which appeared to be originating from the other side of the brown door. Said metallic clicking fast grew into the frantic chime of jangling keys, the entire symphony culminating in the dull crunch of the door handle being cranked down.
As the brown door wildly swung open to reveal a cooking-apron-clad Judy Fabray, Rachel gulped, her big brown doe eyes immediately finding the two empty bottles of whiskey which hung, clutched at the neck, within each of Judy's pale wrinkling hands.
Batting a fly-away blonde strand out of her face - with some difficulty, due to the large hindering bottle in her grasp - Judy Fabray squinted down at the petite Jewish girl that was stood on her doorstep, and brought the inside knife of her hand up to her own forehead, as if to block out the sun. "Rachel?" the older woman asked, nodding her head back slightly.
Rachel had watched enough movies to know when she was looking at a drunk person. That clumsy stumble, that disoriented sparkle to plague the dilated pupil, that slight slur of words, that rim of flustered exhaustion that circled the eyes; most of which Quinn's mother was currently guilty of.
As if to validate Rachel's assumptions, Judy then somehow lost her grip on one of the bottles, her reaction time much too sluggish to prevent the mess of broken shards that now adorned her doorstep.
Rubbing her now free palm back and forth her frowning forehead, the older woman huffed, almost child-like, as she stared down at the broken glass. She then dragged her eyes back up to Rachel, and shook the one bottle she had left. "Damn bottles are always so..." She paused with a slothful blink and released a heavy nasal sigh, as if already bored with having to keep up the pretense of sobriety. "So damn slippery."
Simply stunned by the undignified presentation of intoxication that stood before her, Rachel could only kick shards of glass from the toes of her Penny Loafers, and blink at the woman who she had spent a good portion of her childhood baking with.
"It's been a long time Rachel. Have you come to talk about," - Distractedly, Judy flicked another pesky stand out of her face, batting at it multiple times before she finally got it - "how you busted my child's lip open?"
After a few moments of nothing but rapidly fluttering eyelids, Rachel's lips parted, closed, and then parted again, but before anything could leave them, the older woman ambushed her with: "Here, put this in the trash for me, would you?"
With that, Judy as good pushed the remaining whiskey bottle to Rachel's chest and retreated, with slurring feet, back into the house, forcing the aspiring singer to clutch the heavy cylinder of glass, as well as the book that was concealed beneath her coat.
"Sure," Rachel uttered to no one in particular, before starting towards the trashcan.
"Did you lock the front door back?" Judy slurred, dropping into the arm chair with a weighty thud.
Rachel took tentative steps towards the large luxurious living area's three-seater sofa, though she refrained from sitting down once she'd reached it. Instead she gave a nod to sate the older woman's inquiry, and then pressed her lips together in a tight line...
"So, you're here for..?" Judy trailed off, lifting an eyebrow that did nothing but serve to remind the younger girl of Quinn.
"Oh!" Rachel practically yelled, just happy to be rid of the painful silence. "I was in fact here a little while ago, and whilst Quinn and I were up in her room attempting to dissolve our differences, I placed my book down, and I seem to have forgotten it up there. Would it be possible for me to go and have a quick look?"
A wide lazy smile lifted Judy's booze-blushed cheekbones. "You and Quinn worked things out?"
"We talked, yes," Rachel answered, feeling somehow pressured to grant the older woman a smile just as wide, if not wider.
"And she forgave you?"
Rachel's show smile slowly waned. She couldn't imagine that Quinn had told her mother that the reason for their on-going bad blood was pimple face Jamie. She couldn't imagine that Judy had told her daughter that her ongoing grudge was justified either, as it had taken place at the petty age of fourteen.
"Forgive me for what exactly?" Rachel asked, needing to be certain.
Judy rolled her eyes and her smile reduced itself to a knowing smirk. "Come on now, Rachel," she implored, her words running into each other, like an upside down still wet painting. "We used to paint one another's nails," she drawled childishly, "when you were younger; you don't have to pretend with me."
Rachel merely blinked, ceasing to know what was up or down, or left or right anymore.
"Forgive you for dating her ex-boyfriend!" Judy finally clarified.
Right there and then, Rachel mourned for the lines that she had practiced in her mirror prior to her arrival, because nothing could have prepared her for drunk Judy and this. Not even her trusted perfectly memorized lines.
Quinn didn't have a boyfriend, and as far as the aspiring singer was aware, she hadn't ever had one, consequently excluding the possibility that the former cheerleader could have an ex.
"Oh, well..." Rachel began, now set on improvising until the moment that she walked out. "You see, it wasn't at all like that Judy. I had already started to date him, much before discovering that he had ever dated Quinn, and when I did eventually uncover the truth, I was already deeply infatuated with the young man. Too infatuated to just end things. I explained this to Quinn during our attempt at a cease-fire a little while ago, and we agreed to at least be civil to one another."
It was almost like Judy had heard nothing at all, the way that she slung one leg over the other, flicked her wrist dismissively, and proclaimed, "she still has feelings for him you know? That's why she's so upset with you. It's always Sam Evans this, Sam Evans that." Judy sighed morosely, pity for her daughter perhaps?
Rachel's eyes widened considerably, because through Jacob Ben Israel's blog she'd heard, more times than she cared to remember, about how Quinn had swatted Sam's romantic advances dead, and most often in cruel humiliating fashion.
"I know my daughter!" Judy suddenly claimed rather loudly, whilst waggling an unstable finger in the air. "She's relentless when she feels she's been wronged, so I under... under... understand," she nodded, her frown evening out, "how your disagreement reached the point of physicality. I mean, it was Russell who wanted you to write that letter of apology, not me. I know you're not violent, Rach."
At least that's something, Rachel thought, just wanting to flee the dysfunctionality of the entire situation at this point. But nothing was going to prevent her from retrieving the Dictaphone that she'd left beneath Quinn's bed. Nothing.
She threw a longing glance towards the plush staircase, and thought to try her luck again. So she put on a grateful smile. "Well thank you for the vote of confidence, Judy. It is much appreciated, as even my own fathers failed to express such faith in me after learning about the incident." Rachel then poked a hesitant finger towards the staircase, asking, "would it be possible for me to just quickly go and retrieve my book? It has all of my song lyri -"
"Sure," Judy sluggishly waved her off. "Sure, sure, ssshh." The older woman abruptly shrunk into her shoulders with a fizzle of laughter that went on to bring tears to the corners of her eyes.
Rachel's Penny Loafers could not assist her up each step quickly enough.
When she reemerged from upstairs, some two minutes later, she emerged with a satisfied smile, her green lyric book, and a buttoned up coat pocket that fell heavier around her thigh, due to the Dictaphone inside of it.
At best, Rachel was hoping to hear a conversation which pertained to her on the recording that she'd planted within Quinn's bedroom. She hoped to hear a conversation, most likely between Quinn and Santana, or perhaps Quinn and Brittany - or maybe all three - that would reveal the missing component as to why her former best friend was always so hostile, and frantic, and borderline psychotic when it came to her.
So, holding a mug which was steadily wisping steam up at her bedroom ceiling, Rachel carefully scooted backwards on her bed, until she was sat comfortably against the big fluffy pillows that were splayed against her headboard. She peered down at the Dictaphone in her other hand, considering the possibility that the recording would reveal nothing but countless boring hours of Quinn snoring, or that the device would subject her to hours upon hours of an inebriated Judy Fabray dusting her daughter's bookcase, and desk, and shelves, whilst fizzling into random bouts of laughter as she stumbled over her own two feet. She also considered that she may hear a Fabray family argument.
But as the rewind button finally clicked back up to signal that the tape was now at its beginning, Rachel's last belief was that she was finally going to get some answers.
With one last sip of her herbal tea, she inhaled a sustaining breath, blew it steady from her lips, and pushed play...
"Sure Britt. Bye."
A faint knocking sound, which Rachel immediately identified as Quinn placing her phone down on her computer desk, followed...
"What?"
"So this is it? You're not even going to at least try to accept my sincerest apologies for unintentionally making you feel neglected, so that we can move forward?"
"I don't want to be your friend, Berry. I can think of nothing more torturous."
A slight shuffling noise crackled out of the Dictaphone's speaker just then, a noise which Rachel's memory easily attributed to the moment that she'd stood up from Quinn's bed that day.
"Very well... The recording will remain just that, as long as the two of us remain civil."
"I think it's time for you to follow that treasure trail all the way out of my house."
What followed was the sound of Quinn's bedroom door opening, before gently clicking shut again.
"Jesus fucking Christ," the recording then muttered, in the form of Quinn's smooth silk-coated if not slightly stressed out voice. The blonde's bed croaked, accompanied by a few deep breaths.
With that, the familiar sound of the Quinn's bedroom door opening and closing played out, and then... nothing.
Rachel waited, patiently, for any other sounds that the recording may have to offer, but much to her frustration, silence persisted to prevail. Figuring that Quinn had left her bedroom - or her house even - the short brunette span the device around in her hand, and pressed the forward button, pressing play in intervals that were governed purely by when her intuition encouraged it.
After close to fifty seconds of forwarding, Rachel pushed play.
"God," a voice rasped, almost wheezing.
Hearing that, the aspiring singer instantly bristled, every cell in her body knowing that the rasped voice wasn't calling upon God's name out of worship and praise. Rachel knew exactly what it was that she was listening to, even before she could consciously process it.
"Yes - God...ugh!" the uncharacteristically not so suave voice quietly grunted.
"Oh my," Rachel muttered wide-eyed, as she cupped a silent gasp in her palm.
The possibility that she would play back the recording, and hear her former best friend masturbating - or engaging in anything sexual, for that matter - had never occurred to her, which seemed peculiar to her now, since she too was often guilty of touching herself within the privacy of her own room.
Letting her petite fingers slide from her agape mouth, down her neck, and to her sternum, which she proceeded to rub easing into, Rachel felt truly invasive, and thought to press stop, but something kept her finger from the button with the little red square impressed upon it.
The bed in the recording could be heard subtly dipping and croaking in a fixed rhythm now, a rhythm that caused Rachel's mind to flush with images of Quinn jerkily thrusting her defined pale hips up into her own slender fingers. Her mind quickly conjured up scenarios to go along with all of the sounds that were currently pervading her room; a scenario where Quinn's eyes were squeezed so tight that lines pleated at their corners, a scenario where a thin film of sweat glimmered across her former best friend's forehead. A scenario where Quinn was so warm and slippery, down there, that Rachel could almost feel that pleasant but painful burn between her own thighs.
"Yes!" the labored breath hissed, the croak of the bed becoming much more frequent and urgent.
Then...
Silence...
Rachel unconsciously leaned her head down towards the device that was cradled in her hand, her big round mahogany eyes a-squint, as she pondered a possible fault with the cassette tape.
She had just been about to hit the forward button, or the rewind - she wasn't quite sure - when a loud weighty thud, which resembled an insane person nodding their head back, hard, into a wall, ricocheted out of the Dictaphone. "Rachel!" the device gasped, almost pitifully quiet. "Rache - I'm gonna cu - " the Quinn in the recording whined shudderingly.
Rachel jumped, almost dropping the thing.
A series of short, teetering on gruff, pants then played out, gradually evening with each second that passed. "Fuck," Quinn whispered, sounding spent, sated, and perhaps a tad ashamed?
At that point, Rachel pushed the stop button, and just sat there like a zombie for a moment, before a quiet and incredulous, "you're attracted to me," spilled from her plump lips. Her sight skipped across the patterns of her duvet, as if the action would somehow assist her in making sense of the situation.
Truth be told, the aspiring singer had no idea what to make of the discovery. Certain aspects of her past with the former cheerleader indeed came into focus though, revealing themselves fully, like Jamie for one. At the age of fourteen, Quinn had often lost her suave aloof with Rachel over learning that Jamie had been around, and she'd actually audibly grinded her teeth, one time, when Hiram had made the mistake of mentioning just how much he liked the pimple faced young man in passing conversation. But they'd been just fourteen. That fact caused Rachel to question just how long Quinn had been harboring this attraction towards her.
Then, secondly, there was Quinn's unwavering hostility towards her. Rachel's father, Leroy, had regaled his daughter with many tales, over the years, detailing just what a delinquent he'd been when he was young and battling his own sexuality. Having attended the same high school as his now husband, Leroy, Hiram could only offer sad verifying nods whenever Rachel's incredulous prompted her to look to him in the hopes that he would refute Leroy's description of his past antics.
"I look back on it now, and refer to it as the 'Gay rage,' stage of my life," Leroy would often say through a nostalgic smile. "I don't know why I ever fought it. The male form is one of the most beautiful forms ever to grace the earth."
And in a rare flipping of positions, Rachel would always chastise: "well, father, your self-loathing due to the fact that you were finding it difficult to deal with your sexuality, should not have been an excuse for you to carry out, dare I say it, cruel and nasty acts against others. You behavior shouldn't be excused. You acted deplorably."
Thirdly, there was the incident that had taken place in Leaker's Cabin. There was some, but very little, satisfaction to be had, because Rachel now knew that she'd read Quinn's desperate, lustful, actions correctly that night. Quinn had kissed her with starving lips, touched her with hands that had felt possessed, and it had had nothing to do with the spiteful bite of the cold. It had happened because Quinn was attracted to her, and very much so if the blonde's urgency had been anything to go by.
At the sudden dull thud, which seemed to originate from downstairs, Rachel threw a somewhat concerned frown towards her bedroom door, the Dictaphone cast aside, momentarily lost to her mind.
Another thud clasped her attention, followed by another, and another, each one gaining in volume - and proximity, she assumed. "Dad? Daddy?" she tentatively called out, still shaken by her recent discovery, and to the point that she was a tad jumpy.
Met with nothing but the hastening thuds of whoever's footsteps, Rachel quickly brushed the Dictaphone underneath one of her pillows, and slowly rose from her bed. Gaze fixed on her bedroom door, she tucked the few pesky strands that had fallen from her bun behind her ear, and waited - for what? She wasn't entirely certain.
"Dad?" she called out once more, in a tone that was a toe testing the bath water.
Her plea was suddenly met with her bedroom door exploding open, with such force that it slammed against the inside wall, and bounced wildly back into the shoulder of the tall and slender figure that had barged in to begin with.
If Quinn had experienced any pain at the hands of the collision, her taught mouth and dark narrowed glare conveyed nothing of it. Her hand shot out, palm upturned in demanding expectance. "Whatever you took from my room, give it back. Now!"
The urgency with which Quinn had bounded up the stairs and into Rachel's room had failed to translate into her demand, and that had been entirely intentional. Her voice conducted a low, firm, finality, which was essentially a threat, Rachel deduced, of things to come if her demand met with with either defiance, feigned innocence, or feigned confusion.
Rachel swallowed, a lack of moisture causing her throat to momentarily stick together. "Quinn, I can assure you that I did not take any of your belongings -"
"What on earth..." Hiram suddenly appeared behind Quinn in the doorway, the chest of his floral shirt expanding and shrinking at an expeditious rate. He slipped authoritative fingers around Quinn's bicep, only to be wildly shrugged off.
"Don't touch me, Hiram. Your sneaky little daughter here-" Quinn jabbed a malicious finger towards her former best friend, and Rachel almost moved her hand to massage the phantom pain in her chest, "- went to my house whilst I was at school today, and my inept mother let her roam free around my room. I'm here to collect whatever it was that she took," she explained, never averting the glare that she was using to pin Rachel to her spot. "As soon as she returns whatever she took from my room, I'll leave, and then when Leroy gets home, you can all commence to bitching about me at dinner."
Confused and uncertain, at this point, Hiram Berry looked towards his teenage daughter, and when he received zero clarification on the matter, he slowly turned his gaze back towards Quinn, adopting some steel in his tone. "Quinn, you can't just barge into our home like this!" he chided, considering whether or not it was safe to attempt to drag the former cheerleader back downstairs. The girl was strong, he'd just discovered - ridiculously so. Leroy had always been more equipped to handle this particular brand of predicament.
"It's ok, daddy," Rachel finally spoke up, soft and melodic, as if to placate the tension that was curling off of Quinn like thick black smoke. She stared at her former best friend, searching for the girl that she'd just heard shuddering whilst groaning her name on that recording.
She couldn't see her, and in that moment Rachel wondered, with a pensive squint to the carpet and her hands on her hips, whether or not she'd just imagined the last forty minutes of her life.
"What do you mean, it's ok?" Hiram pressed somewhat anxiously. "I'm not leaving when emotions are running this high." He pointedly fixed eyes with Quinn, folding his arms, before looking back to his daughter for direction.
Warm mahogany eyes slowly drifted up to meet his own. "Quinn and I have a few things to discuss, so if you could just kindly pull the door in on your way out please?"
Hiram gulped, glancing between the two teenage girls, who were focused solely on each other, before he reluctantly relented. "I'll be just next door."
Once alone, Rachel and Quinn merely stared at one another.
The seconds crawled by, before...
"I know," Rachel whispered. "Quinn, I know you're attracted to me."
The former cheerleader's eyes seemed to drain of all color, as did her face, for she never thought that she would ever hear Rachel utter those words.