A/N: I think I took long enough with this one, but I had the second part redone twice till I was finally satisfied. LOL!
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
The Housemate Agreement
Chapter 7
Quinn would like to perceive herself as a young woman of great independence and adaptability. After she had single-handedly hauled her ass out into the city, she thought she deserved more credit. Yet, words couldn't even begin to describe how uncomfortable the situation was.
Squeezed up to a man with a terrible case of body odor and extremely bad breath—one even the booze and smoke couldn't conceal—she painstakingly inched her way towards the haven of the bar.
That's it; she needed a drink.
Pronto.
If there were one thing that could help her through the impending night, it would be on the state of an inebriated mind. Dodgy, shady establishments like this one functioned better as a homeless shack catered for the alcoholic and the unambitious. An abandoned subway right smack in the middle of grimy Brooklyn was so not her idea of a good time.
Who the fuck even owns this place?
The bartender skidded over the instant she perched down on the stool—something rather uncommon considering the ones in the Upper East Side tended to act like such snobs—and flashed her a charming, flirtatious grin. It had to be the skimpy piece of cloth Brittany deemed as a dress; so bloody short, Quinn was able to feel the breeze up her butt crack.
"What would you like, sweet thing?"
Oh, God, he's doing that creepy eyebrow thing.
"A shot of vodka."
He could've been less obvious with his temporal shock, though she couldn't say that she was insulted. She was sure he hadn't expected that at all, because Quinn Fabray always settled for a quaint and dainty fruit margarita.
Well, not tonight.
She downed her drink in a single gulp, cringing at the burning sensation as the liquid ran down her throat. Damn, where was the buzz she was aiming for? Slamming the shot glass down on the chipped countertop, she demanded in her bossiest tone, "hit me."
Amused, the bartender poured another round. The second one barely touched her lips when an utterly enthusiastic figure of Rachel Berry sidled up to her side in all theatrical glory, effectively tipping the alcohol all over the back of Quinn's hand.
Great. Just great.
"Quinn!" she squealed in the blonde's ear, like a ten-year-old high on prosaic in Disneyland. "You made it!"
It was just like senior year all over again, and for the life of her, she couldn't forget Little Miss Glitter Drunk. Just as well, Rachel was kind of a closet hippie, and Quinn had spent the majority of their wild party days as the brunette's designated driver—especially when Finn would flounder off with the jocks to go terrorize some lone and gullible freshmen. Why was she friends with these people, again? High school seemed like a long time now, but her first taste of weed was still lingering bitterly on her tongue.
Crazy shit.
"You look hot!" Rachel commented with a giggle. "Come and meet Finn. He's dying to see you again." And then her face turned stone serious before she added, "but he's off limits."
Quinn reckoned it didn't hurt to humor her some. "Got it," she replied with a nod.
Being dragged across to the other end of the room, nudging past the sea of tipsy bodies, they passed by Mike and Brittany on the way. It wasn't difficult to isolate the duo—the cypher circle at the center of the dance floor was apparent enough—but Rachel's tight grip on her fingers meant that Quinn couldn't stop to let them know where she would be.
Oh, well. She'd kill them later.
"Quinn!"
What was it with her friends shrieking in her face?
Before she knew it, Finn Hudson was having her trapped in a suffocating bear hug, wrapping his thick arms around her petite form as he squished her cheek into his broad—and rather damp—chest. Recoiling at the grossed-out feeling, Quinn made sure to have as little closed contact as possible.
"Hi, Finn," she attempted to sound chirpy while prying herself from his frame. "It's good to see you again."
"Ditto, Fabray," he burbled, holding her at arms length to non-discreetly appreciate her appearance, raking his eyes from top to bottom, his cheeks flushed from the intoxication. "Damn, you're on fire!"
Drunk before a performance.
Right, exactly like high school.
Rachel interrupted his blatant ogling with the clearing of her throat, and all Quinn wanted to do was hide inside a potato sack. Instead, she moved to shield herself behind her good friend's equally tiny being—away from his semi-incestuous drooling—not wanting to deal with Finn at his most perverted. Seriously, though, the dude ought to be banned from any forms of alcohol; it was always disturbing.
"So, Rachel told me you were playing with your band, tonight?"
"Not the way I want it," he said with a suggestive wink.
Good Lord.
This time, his unnecessarily lewd remark landed him with a sharp slap to the back of his head from his irritated fiancé, sparking an entire round of a lover's banter. Perhaps if Quinn quietly slinked away, nobody would notice. She didn't know why she allowed Brittany and Mike to talk her into doing this, but it was definitely the last time.
Motherfucker, she was a prude.
"Where's Sam?"
Upon hearing an unfamiliar name, Quinn pulled herself back into the conversation to find Finn craning his neck as he surveyed the crowd—not that he needed to, really; the guy was a tower on his own—for someone in particular. Unless the subject was an extremely tall person, Quinn doubted he'd have much success. The dim lighting and annoying-as-heck strobe lights—it was a bar, for goodness sakes—made for an impossible visual reference.
"Who's Sam?"
"Wait, didn't I tell you?" Rachel asked.
"Tell me what?"
A huge smile spread across the brunette's face, a hint of pride in her gleefully glimmering eyes. "I've found the perfect roommate for you!" she announced.
Perplexed, Quinn furrowed her brows. "Sam had better be short for Samantha, Rachel."
"He's in the band with Finn," Rachel went on to explain in her bubbly fashion, completely ignoring the subtle warning. "Sam Evans, he plays the guitar, and he just got unofficially kicked out of his apartment because Santana moved in with Puck."
Who were all these people she was speaking of?
"A 'he'? You expect me to live with a guy?"
"Don't worry, Sam's harmless," Finn chirped in, draping his meaty arm over Rachel's tiny shoulders. "A little high-strung for his own good, but he's cool."
Whatever he'd just uttered, she heard none of it. "Couldn't you have fixed me up with a girl?"
"Just give him a chance, Quinn, I promise—"
"I think I see him," Finn interrupted, nodding towards a certain direction. In a rendition of a movie character, he excused himself. "I'll be back."
With him out of earshot, Quinn turned to glare at her friend. "Rachel…"
Eyes wide with faux innocence, Rachel reached for a stray glass of beer on one of the tables and wordlessly chugged it down, hiding her sheepish self behind her drink. Sighing, Quinn spun around to return to the bar.
She needed another shot.
"Sam! Just the person I was looking for!"
Fucking great. Why couldn't Finn have waited till he was done taking a piss? Weirdness overload, Sam definitely preferred doing his business in private without the means of his band mate hovering about behind him. He knew he should've used the cubicles instead. Groaning, because it wasn't going to do, he muttered a rather colorful profanity and started to zip up.
"Your timing is screwed up, Finn."
"Quinn's here."
Sam paused in mid-wash, his hands encompassed in foam—hygiene was kind of a crucial thing for him, no matter how much of a slob he could be at times—and glanced at the dude through the reflection in the mirror. Smirking in that cocky all-knowing way—which Finn totally stole from him—the drummer folded his arms across his chest and clumsily leaned against the bathroom tiles. Alcohol always did rubbish to his equilibrium.
"Okay."
How else was he supposed to respond to that?
"Ready to meet her?"
Sam shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance. "I don't know, man. What if she's not as smoking hot as you said?"
"You're so fucking shallow," Finn scoffed. "I'll see you outside."
Except, he was nowhere to be found. Officially peeved, Sam slinked back to the dance floor in hopes to locate a familiar face. The nimrod had probably wandered off—being how Finn had such a short attention span and constantly resembled a child when somewhat plastered—to entertain his fiancé or another.
Taking a quick detour to the bar, Sam reckoned he could use another doze of booze before their performance. They were going up in a few, and a mug of beer usually helped calm his nerves. Perhaps it was a good thing that they weren't actually on tour or anything, because he'd probably end up as a raging alcoholic. He also didn't have the tolerance level of Noah Puckerman, and therefore, the risk of creating a complete fool of himself on stage was something he wanted to avoid.
Heineken it was, then.
Sliding some cash across the countertop, Sam grabbed his drink and headed towards the stage, trusting himself with the task to courier his cargo safely through the mass of awkwardly-moving bodies—save for those two pros at the heart of it all. Beer was already starting to trail down his wrist and his journey entailed dodging a group of wasted college students who were trying to do the electric slide.
"Hey, watch where you're—"
"Whoa…"
"Damn it!"
Just like that, his brand new shirt, white as snow—and not his cheapest purchase either—had a nasty stain glaring back at him in an ugly shade and pattern. He couldn't believe it; was he a walking curse magnet of some sort? Shit happened, but it had a specific preference to his person.
"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry—you!"
At the sound of her voice—a constant haunting in his ears, ringing like hell's bells—Sam abandoned all attempts at salvaging his top and jerked his head upwards to meet her stunning hazel eyes. How was it even possible that of all the chances and places, the odds would choose to bring them back together? Someone up in the heavens was probably looking down at them, laughing at the big, fat joke. Why else would he be facing the she-demon for the fourth time that week?
"The fuck—"
"Stop following me, you creep!" she snapped, and all of a sudden, Sam found her temper intriguing.
Or maybe it was that dress. It gave everything away.
Had she always been that fucking gorgeous?
Blaming the momentary lapse on temporary insanity—or bad lighting—Sam shook out of his daze to once again remind himself what a royal pain-in-the-ass that blonde fox really was. She stood, annoyed and unimpressed, with one hand planted on her hip, visually shooting daggers through his skull.
"Look, if you're one of the groupies, just say so, alright," he told her, the amusement coated in every word. "I'm fine with it. In fact, I'm flattered that a—"
"You're such a self-absorbed bastard," she spat out. "Ever since I met you, nothing has ever worked out right, so why don't you just leave me alone?"
Oh, no, he wasn't going to let her weasel out of this one.
"Hey, this is an expensive shirt," he lashed out, jabbing a finger to his chest. "And this stain ain't going to clean itself. I demand a compensation."
She took one uninterested look at it and snorted in a shockingly un-lady-like manner. "I hate to break it to you, but that beer is yours. Ergo, it's not my fault."
Did she just say 'ergo'?
"You bumped into me."
"Not on purpose," she shot back. "I was minding my own business. Couldn't you have walked another route?"
This chick was relentless, but Sam wasn't going to back down—not just yet. "I'm sorry, I thought this is a free country."
"Well then, I suppose it's in my free rights when I do this."
Snatching the half-empty mug of Heineken from his hand, she doused what was left of the remains over the obvious splash-spot. Mortified and unable to react, he watched with his mouth hung open as the liquid spread to conquer an even bigger area. Satisfied with her work, the female terrorist—he was going to resort to that now—admired the damage and grinned in triumph. Her biggest mistake, though, was opting to return the glass back to him.
She was so tiny, and with a sharp tug, he easily had her wrapped in one arm, bringing her flushed up against his hard front. Beautiful golden orbs stared in bewilderment back at him, the sound of her startled gasp drowned out by the loud music, but no matter how perfectly her body molded, Sam couldn't ignore the way he absolutely loathed this breath-taking being. Fuck it; he was going to finish what he'd started in the grocery store.
Yet to protest, Sam presented her with one last smirk. "You're going to pay for that," he husked, languidly bridging the gap between their noses.
Vodka, huh? Big girl.
"Oh, there you are!"
And then there's Rachel.
"Rachel!"
"Wait, you know her?" he addressed the question to the blonde demon.
"You know him?" she directed her own query to the tipsy brunette.
"You two know each other?" Rachel completed the three-way interrogating session.
Swell.
"How do you know him?"
"How do you know her?"
"How do you two know each other?"
The pregnant pause that followed turned awkward real fast. Exchanging silent glances, they each took a moment to process the situation, though the final explanation was still kept within the aspiring Broadway actress, who seemed to immediately sober up, and was flashing them a mega-watt smile that stretched all the way to China.
"Well, Quinn, meet Sam Evans. Sam, this is Quinn Fabray."
"You're kidding me, right?" the other girl deadpanned.
Cheerfully—oblivious to the tension radiating between the two sworn enemies—Rachel shook her head. "You told me you needed a housemate, and he just got kicked out by his, so it's all a win/win thing."
A win/win thing?
"No, this is not—"
"Sam!" Puckerman barged into the triangle, slapping Sam square on his back. "Dude, where have you been? We're up in five. Let's go!" To Rachel, he said, "Finn is grinding up the mike stand. Can you give him some milk to sedate him? We've already had an episode with him drunk on stage, and it wasn't pretty."
And then the Mohawk guitarist noticed Quinn.
"Hey, P.Y.T," he leered, because seriously, the dude could never help himself. "I'm Puck."
His charm barely fazed her. Quirking an eyebrow, Quinn said, "the roommate with the girlfriend?"
"Erm…yes?"
This night couldn't get any better—or worse—than this.
"Well, you can tell her to suck it because I'm not letting this conceited ass live with me," she snarled scornfully, as though the idea repulsed her to no end, and Sam couldn't have been more insulted in his entire life.
Through personal appeal, she'd judged him so shortly, but what made her think she was so superior, anyway? "Oh, please," Sam rolled his eyeballs. "Like I want to live with an uptight bitch. I wouldn't last an hour in the same room as you."
"I wouldn't last a minute within a mile radius of your egotistical head," Quinn countered, like a back-and-forth of a tennis match. "I'll bet you're one of those guys who leave their underwear lying around in the kitchen."
"Actually, that's me," Puck interjected guiltily.
"I'll bet you're one of those girls who label their silverware."
It was Rachel who spoke up this time. "That's me."
"I'll bet you're one of those guys who keeps leftover pizza in the fridge for a week and still eats it."
Kids, they were simply a couple of kids.
Just shoot me with a gun right now.
With every burning wisecrack, the flaring of his temper became a bit more difficult to contain. Ignoring his infuriation was futile, and unbeknownst to him, the distance between their seething selves had gotten increasingly slim, as Sam unyieldingly worked to break the Blondie's resistant walls. She had to crack some time, and he was testified to be rather resolute.
They were a ticking time bomb.
"I'll bet you haven't gotten a roommate because you're just painfully unbearable."
"I'll bet yours kicked you out because you're a whiny piece of shit!"
She did not just go there.
"Bitch!"
"Dick!"
"I'll bet you two wouldn't last a month living together in one apartment even if your lives depended on it," Rachel blurted out, having enough of the childish bickering.
It was a dangerous proposition, more so because Sam Evans had never once ever cowered down from a dare, and he'd be damned if this was his first.
"You're on."
"So let me get this straight; Sam's the guy you've been talking about?" Leaning forward, Brittany squinted across the table into the miserable face of her co-instructor. "The one who spilled coffee on you, and who's the future father of your child?"
"What?" Mike sputtered out, coughing on his draught.
A mean glare was directly aimed at the taller blonde missy as Quinn reached over to give her Asian friend a few good thumps on his back. Totally unnecessary—and also because she didn't want to revisit the past—Quinn pointedly remarked, "that still doesn't make sense, Brit."
"Makes perfect sense to me," the other female dancer replied with a shrug.
Of course it did.
When it came to Brittany S. Pierce, even the Sandman's supposed nightly visits sounded normal. She was the epitome of an overgrown child, with one heck of a wild imagination; not crazy by any means, just special.
"So you said yes?" Mike asked, having recovered from the animated spit-take.
The screeching sound of feedback emanating from the speakers brought the trio out of their conversation to focus on the happenings on stage. Armed with their respective musical instruments, four men took position in front of the buzzing crowd. Quinn felt her frown deepen—if it was even marginally possible—and sought to chug the rest of her beer.
With an acoustic guitar slung over his broad shoulder, Quinn watched—like a predator on prowl—as his eyes scanned the many faces till they eventually landed on hers. He was mocking her, that slant in his gaze framing his ever-existent lopsided smirk, and thought she was scowling back in return, she came to notice how his smart-casual top was not completely unbuttoned, providing her with a clear view of his chiseled plane of muscles.
Oh, damn.
Tapping on the microphone for attention, Puck proceeded to introduce every one of them. "And together, we're Four Peas in a Pod."
Can't get any cheesier than that.
"His abs look familiar," Brittany mused. "I feel like I've seen them before."
That awkward moment when Quinn couldn't find for the appropriate response; and thus she flagged down the nearest waiter for another round from the tap—anything to block out that image of Sam Evans and where it was leading her wandering thoughts.
"Remind me again why you're so opposed to living with him?"
"Because he's a conceited motherfucker."
"Really?" Brittany looked skeptical. "Even with that outdated hairdo? I mean, I can fry an omelet on his abs but his Beiber cut has got to go."
"He seems a bit of a douche to me."
"Thank you, Mike," Quinn chimed in, glad that at least one of her friends are on her side. "He's cynical and sarcastic, and he has no respect for women whatsoever. I'll probably have to impose the rule of feminism in his backcountry Southern mind."
"Now that makes no sense," Brittany pondered over, wrinkling her nose.
"Look, why don't you just withdraw yourself from this?" Mike suggested. "Just tell him you're not interested and you can go back to hunting for another roommate."
"And look like a wuss?" Quinn arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Besides, the stakes are too high now, and I think he's adamant on proving me wrong. If I back down now, he'll think that he's won."
"This is not a game, Quinn," Mike reminded her in that sensible, hidden-genius tone.
"It is to me," she insisted, more determined than ever. "He can't win this."
A snort escaped Brittany's nose. "You're way too invested in this."
"If I come out of this alive, I get a month of free rent."
Perhaps she should've started with that, because it seemed to get her two co-founders on board with Rachel's crazy idea—not that there were much resistance on Brittany to begin with, and Mike was ultimately more doubtful than disapproving—and Quinn could already see the wheels spinning in their heads.
Her beer was taking way too long to arrive, and it occurred to her all of a sudden that he was singing—a deep, silky voice in perfect harmony with the music—the alluring pull of a rather upbeat serenade causing some unwanted butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Taking a calculated risk, Quinn stole a glimpse over at the band, where she paused, mesmerized by how immersed he was in the song, expertly strumming his guitar and smiling out at the partygoers as though it was the most natural thing on the planet.
Involuntarily, a small grin crept into her lips, and she had to convince herself because it was relatable. She was, after all, a performer too.
"I have an idea."
Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't have taken much of Brittany's words into consideration, but this called for something extreme. "For what, exactly?"
"For you to get an upper hand in this."
"I'm listening."
"You need to set the bar higher, be one step ahead to win. You need an ultimatum."
"Such as…?"
"You need a housemate agreement."
A/N: Okay! So got that out of the way, now I'm jumping back into Whisper in my Ear because it deserves some love and attention right now. LOL! With this chapter, though, I guess we can set things in motion and get the party started! Yay! 4 Peas in a Pod…oh God, that was lame. If anybody would like to contribute on name suggestions, please let me know.
GleekFreak13: Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! To answer your question, Quinn and Mike are just really good friends—at the moment—so there's nothing weird going on. He was helping her stretch, so I wouldn't read much into that. It's a Fabrevans story after all. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!
FabrevansOTP: Hi there! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Yes, Quinn's phone is ancient, and she really needs a new one, so I hope I'm doing her a favor, haha! I love a strong main heroine who knows what she wants and is smart and sassy, so I would think Quinn is the sort of girl who's able to stand up for herself. I guess this chapter answers your speculations on Sam and Quinn finally being introduced, so hopefully it's up to expectation. I was a little nervous with this, which is why the update took some time to put up. Hehe! What do you think about the chapter?
Mandorac: Hello! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked the scene where Quinn kneed Sam in the junk. You're right; he was asking for it. I was thinking who would be the best candidate to play the café owner, and I just had to cast Burt Hummel because it'll be so comical! This is, of course, the chapter where they finally get properly introduced to one another, and I hope it's up to expectations—fingers crossed—because I was a little nervous when I got to writing that bit. Let me know what you think, yeah? Your opinions are always appreciated :D
Msdiannaagron: Thank you for reading and reviewing. Noted on the comments.
Chordilove: Hi! LOL! You have nothing to apologize for; it's not an obligation to review, but I'd like to thank you for reading and leaving a comment! I'm glad you like where the story is heading so far! Sam and Quinn are totally different here than they are in the show, which I suppose makes imagining their characteristics a bit easier. No holes bar. I'm glad you like the Fabrevans scenes. They're always so much fun to write! Do drop by and let me know what you feel about this chapter :D Cheers!
RJRRAA: Helloooooooooooo! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Totally appreciate it!
xXalienatedXx: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter, with Sam and Quinn fighting and what not. There's probably going to be more bickering and sorts from here on, so that would be fun :D Hope you've enjoyed this update!
Quams: Hi! Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! Sam and Quinn bickering is always a pleasure to write :D
Hrselovr101: Hello there! LOL! You don't need to apologize for anything. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter! That's always good to know :D Awwww…your comments are so sweet! For pointers, well, I read a lot, and then I make mental notes of how different authors write certain situations. Fanfics are really awesome, but it's always good to read a good book and take note of grammar, sentence structure and vocabulary because you know it's gone through subediting. Most importantly, though, I suppose, is practice. The more you write, the more natural your words will flow, so hopefully that helps! It's actually easier to re-build Sam and Quinn as characters because then I won't have to worry about inconsistencies in the show. With this update, I hope I've done that scene justice, where Sam and Quinn officially gets introduced. Do let me know what you think :D Cheers!
DeGleesi: Hi there! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter. Thank you for reading and reviewing! To answer your question, Mike and Quinn are really good friends—at the moment—so there's nothing going on between them. He was just helping her stretch, so I hope I didn't confuse you. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter with Sam and Quinn being formerly introduced to one another! Let me know what you think :D Cheers!
Alli2345: Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing :D
