( A/N This story is wrapping up :( Thanks for sticking with me! I just literally sat here for an hour crying over your reviews, so thank you for that, too. And please keep in mind: Expect the unexpected. And another big, huge thank you to the fastest beta in da universe: Brooke! )
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"Words, how little they mean, when you're a little too late
I stood right by the tracks, your face in a locket
Good girls, hopeful they'll be and long they will wait,"
- Sad beautiful tragic by Taylor Swift
…
Saturday September 29th, 1973, 04:02 PM
The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States
…
She tries on four different dresses but eventually goes with a nice pink floral sundress she wore to her cousin's wedding a few months ago. Puck was coming over to see Santana and although she had carelessly mentioned it barely once during a cake tasting— the thought of a wedding cake made her sick now— almost as if she had hoped Quinn wouldn't, or not care or plainly ignore it. She did hear though, and she did care and she couldn't ignore it. She couldn't.
She had tried convincing herself she was over him— as in long over, gone, done with, moved on, getting married to another man— but she couldn't shake him off. He had been her first love, really, and it was common knowledge no one really ever forgot their first love. It wasn't like she was longing for their romance to restart— she wasn't, she didn't love him like that anymore, she had Jeffrey now— but she missed him. Sweet, flawed, rough, gentle Puck. Her best friend.
Just knowing he was alive... She could barely handle it. She had spent months trying to forget him— ban him out of her thoughts, out of her mind, out of every fiber of her being— while he was still there, breathing, touchable. Alive.
She couldn't just ignore that and pretend like he wasn't coming to her house. She had to see him, touch him, at least to make sure this all wasn't just a dream— reality screwing up her head once again.
So there she was, sitting at the dinner table with a cup of tea in a sundress that proved to be great at keeping her hands busy with fumbling. She waited until she heard Santana open the door, their voices low but she recognized both of them. Santana, her friend, her help, her companion in all of this. And Puck.
"... look good, San."
"You don't."
Quinn hears the smile in her voice as she slowly exits the room, the front door just around the corner now. Her heart is pounding in her chest and her hands get sweaty. She remembers Santana's story. His camp got attacked and he was left for dead somewhere in the woods by the Vietnamese, he was found a few days later and after a week of recovery he was reassigned to a new camp.
"Are you going to keep me out here all day or what?"
She hears the door slam shut and a few footsteps. She walks down the hallway, around the corner, stopping in her tracks as she sees him. He's wearing his uniform and there's little hair on his head, somehow he even looks more buff as before. He doesn't notice her right away as he laughs at something Santana says and it feels so unfamiliar, and it shouldn't feel like that.
He looks up, though, and freezes when he does notice her. Santana turns around and looks at Quinn, too. It's not the same because whereas Santana looks like she'd seen it all coming maybe even a little annoyed with the predictability of it all— Puck couldn't look more surprised (and out of place in the big white house).
Santana excuses herself, squeezes Puck shoulder and brushes against hers as she passes her.
"Your hair is shorter."
Like an idiot she reaches up to touch her hair, to make sure that it is in fact shorter. She cut it a while ago. It barely reaches her shoulders but it takes less time in the morning and it makes her look older.
"I loved your long hair," he told her as he took a step closer. He reaches out to touch her face but she takes a step back.
"I know," she answered him— and maybe she sounds a little bit bitter (and maybe she doesn't know why).
"Well— it looks pretty anyway."
She nods her head in response, biting down on her lip. "Let's go to the living room." She doesn't wait for him to follow her, instead takes the charge and starts walking. She doesn't know why she feels this sudden hatred, this sudden pain when she looks at him. It's like every time he smiles she's reminded of the pain hecaused her. One simple letter or telegram would have been enough. To her, or Santana, or anyone. Just a few simple words like 'I'm not dead' or 'This is Puck' or 'I can't write for a while'.
She sits down on the couch across from him, smoothes out her dress before looking at him.
"How've you been?" She wants to ask him, but she doesn't. She can, because he's here and he's alive, but maybe that's the problem. He's alive, and he didn't bother to let her know. He didn't bother to take her out of her misery and sorrow and sadness— and instead just left her here to bleed.
He asks her the question instead and she shrugs. She wants to tell him the truth; that maybe a small part of her hates him but her mouth doesn't move, instead just feels dry.
"Fine," she mumbles before meeting his eyes again, "What about you?"
"Fine," he responds and she knows he feels it, too. The distance and the unfamiliarity. It's like they're strangers now. Two completely different people.
She should ask him. She should ask him why he didn't write, she should ask him if he hates her a little bit too, she should ask him if he wants to run away with her (still).
He wants to ask her things too. Or maybe tell her, but she knows he won't unless she asks for it. He was never a talker and that surely hasn't changed, might just have gotten worse.
"I like your dress," he smiles and she wants so badly to kiss him again, to feel that smile on her lips as he runs his fingers over her sides. She wants so badly to feel his skin on hers, so badly to pretend the last two years didn't happen.
She manages to smile back at him though and she sees something flash in front of his eyes. He reaches over to grab her hand. His thumb runs over her fingers slowly and they both stare at their fingers as he intertwines them. His skin is hot, like she remembers. She wonders if he remembers stupid stuff like that. Like she remembers the curve of his eyebrows when he's annoyed, or the way he purses his lips when he's jealous or his slightly different smirk when he wants her, or how the muscle in his arms feel under her fingertips.
Santana clears her throat and Quinn quickly pulls her hand away, "President Fabray has invited you over to dinner. To thank you for your service."
Puck nods and it's like something clicks in her head. The last two years did happen.
…
Saturday September 29th, 1973, 06:07 PM
The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States
…
"Ms. Lopez happened to mention you were here to visit her so I thought why not thank you for your services. After all, you were a dear friend of my beloved daughter back before…"
Quinn swallowed her soup without blowing on it, the liquid burning her mouth. It kept her quiet.
She sits next to Jeffrey at the table, a seat over and across from Puck. Her father tells some stupid joke about the war and about them being superior— something about those damn dinksand their eyesight— and she swears she could see Puck tighten his jaw but all he does is thank her father politely for his gratitude and hospitality.
"This is really good," Quinn breaks the silence after a few minutes as she puts another piece of meat in her mouth. Her mother nods and her father begins to talk about the quality of the meat these days or something.
Jeffrey smiles at her and leans over to grab her hand. She blatantly stares at it before looking over at Puck, whose eyes only turn hard before turning away.
She catches him after dinner quietly talking with Santana out on the porch.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Her voice is low and she doesn't look at either of them as she walks down to the garden and follows the small, stone path, hoping he'd follow her. He does, and they walk for a minute or two before he talks.
"I'm happy you found someone, Q."
She frowns and doesn't respond as she hugs herself with her arms. The sun is starting to disappear and the pink skies are slowly turning dark.
"There's less security," he points out as he stops walking and looks around, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. She stops too and faces him as she responds coldly, "We have security camera's now."
"Fancy," he responds with a smirk but she doesn't budge.
A cold wind passes her and she would have shivered if she wasn't so furious. "Why didn't you write?"
"Quinn..." He starts but she stops him.
"No. Tell me. Please. Enlighten me on why you couldn't bother to let one single person know you weren't rotting away somewhere in goddamn Vietnam!"
"We were so young back then Quinn. We didn't even know what love was. So much can happen in only two years, can't it? Our lives are so different now. You're engaged and I'm—" he smiles but in his eyes she sees the truth. He's hurt, but she can't listen to him any longer.
"Don't you dare," she puts up her finger, her entire body shaking. "Don't you dare!"
She pushes him, "I thought you were dead. Dead. You didn't write me, not once. Not me, not Santana, not anyone. We all thought you were dead! I cried for months, I stared at walls, I—I refused to eat—" She shakes her head to herself, "And now you come here, you come back, and you dare to tell me I didn't love you? That what we had wasn't real?"
His fingers dig into her wrist, his eyes pleading, and she hates him, hates him so much. "You don't get to come back and ruin me again," she whispers and his grip loosens.
"I was trying to protect you guys. I could've died there; the odds weren't in my favor. I couldn't keep holding all of you back, living in fear and—" She slaps him and he lets go of her, instead holding in his cheek. Her hand stings and so do her eyes.
"Bullshit. You're just a scared little boy who is afraid by the thought that someone could actually care about him enough, actually love him enough to do it for the rest of their life. You got scared and I got hurt because of it. We hurt because of you," she points her finger at him again and she sees it in his eyes, that he's sorry and that he regrets it— but if anything, it makes her even more angry.
"I spent months wondering, how do you lose something you never really had? Because we never really got to be together, not really, not completely. But I didn't lose you, did I? Because you were still there, I just didn't know. But you lost me," she pushes him again. He hadn't been lost, maybe that's what hurt so much. "I hope you know that."
"I didn't, I refuse to believe that," he tells her so certain, so almost arrogantly it makes her want to slap him again.
But he's right. She's shaking, she's on the verge of crying, she's upset to say the least— she's so many things and sadly one of them is still in love with him. So in love it hurts to feel this pained at the thought of him.
She shakes her head, because she won't give in. She closed herself off to him months ago, she couldn't let him in and let him tear apart her heart in tiny, unfixable pieces again. "Let me rephrase that. I did lose you in that war, Noah. You're not the same anymore, but neither am I. I am no longer the naive, scared little girl who wants to get swept off her feet by you so maybe you're right. Maybe we were young, maybe it wasn't love. But what I felt was real, and goddammit it still is. But I changed and now I can't change back for the life of me."
He kisses her and when she tastes the salt on his lips she realizes she's been crying. She pushes him off though, because it feels too good and if she continues any longer he might break her all over again. You can find someone that's lost, but you can't fix someone that's been broken more than once.
Before she rushes off back inside, she tells him, "I can't. I'm engaged, now and maybe if you had just sent a damn letter and hadn't been such a complete inconsiderate asshole— maybe I wouldn't be."
…
Friday January 30th, 1974, 10:29 AM
The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States
...
"Daddy, bodyguards will only draw more attention to us. Santana will protect me. As a matter of fact, I'm almost eighteen, I think I can protect myself."
"You'll always be my little girl, Quinn."
She tries smiling, "It'll be good practice for next year, daddy. When I'll be living with Jeffrey."
"Fine, but promise me you'll be careful and you'll pick out the dress you want the most, okay? No matter what price," he smiles at her and she would've thought that was sweet, if the thought of a wedding dress (or a wedding even) didn't make her feel so stuck.
She nods her head and kisses her father's cheek before leaving his office and buttoning up her coat with steady hands.
"Where you're going?" Santana asks her and Quinn doesn't bother looking up. "Out."
"By yourself?" She can basically hear Santana's eyebrows cock upwards.
"I'm just going on a walk, Santana. I'll be back before you know it."
"Miss Fabray—" Santana tries but she's already out the door.
…
Friday January 30th, 1974, 03:27 PM
Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States
...
She ends up at his door. She hadn't planned on it, not really. Not after months of cutting him out of her life. She had just wanted to walk past the bar to see if he was there, to see how he was doing. But she ends up in front of the door of his apartment.
She wasn't going to knock. She wasn't going to let herself get into this mess again. She was about to turn around. She was.
He opens the door though, one arm through the sleeve of his jacket, the other one struggling to find the hole of the other sleeve. He stops when he sees her (like the time he stopped kissing her and told her she could touch him or the time she stopped when they first kissed and told him they barely even knew each other), "Quinn?"
"Don't ask why," she chews on the inside of her lip as she passes him and walks inside his apartment. She doesn't quite know why she's here either.
He takes off his jacket and follows her, wherever he was going probably wasn't that important.
She's about to sit down on the couch when she changes her mind and turns around to face him, "I'm engaged."
"I know," he responds, unsure where this was leading.
"He's sweet. Jeffrey. He's really nice to me, he would never hurt me."
"That's good," he nods his head, slightly frowning. What was she doing?
"At least not like you hurt me," she adds and it's like he isn't even in the room, like she's talking to herself. He doesn't say anything, and she continues, "You hurt me, Puck."
"I know," he repeats, and she notices he seems tired and slightly aggravated. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you want me to say, Quinn. I'm so sorry but I know I can't take it back."
"I love you," she breathes, "I love you and I guess I was so afraid to say it out loud all this time because then it means it's real. It means it's real and when it's real, when it's really love, when I really love you and you love me, too— it hurts so much more when it all just proves to be doomed. When it ends."
He doesn't say anything but she steps closer to him, "I don't want it to end, but somehow I always end up alone and hurt and I honestly can't handle any more pain."
"But you deserve to know at least that," she pauses, reaches up to touch his cheek, "I do. I do, I love you."
"I love you," he echoes, putting his hand on her cheek before leaning down to kiss her. She kisses him back, both of her hands on his shoulder, gripping tightly.
They stumble towards his room and he lays her down on his bed, gently before taking off his shirt. She bites her lip, and he's so handsome and he's so sweet to her and she almost can't believe he's the same guy who was hurting her only a few days ago. He crawls back on top of her, his calloused finger running over her sides. It's not enough; she wants to feel his fingers on her bare skin.
He stops kissing her though, distances his body from hers and she purses her lip and frowns because doesn't he want her? She wants him so desperately.
"Quinn..." His eyes are so serious, she smiles.
She leans up, supporting her weight with her elbow as she reaches up with her other hand, putting it behind his neck, placing a kiss on his lips before whispering, "Please?"
He hesitates but finally nods as he swiftly pulls her towards him, his hands reaching behind her back to unzip her white dress. She slowly takes off the dress and he mumbles something along the lines of 'fuck, baby, hurry up' against her skin as he kisses neck.
She finally manages to take off the entire dress and he pulls away to look at her. She reminds herself of the time they went swimming or the time in his apartment when they almost had done it, that this was no different from that— but it was. Everything was different.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers before leaning down to kiss her. She forgets to kiss him back; there are so many other things on her mind.
With shaky hand she reaches for his belt, unclasps it with great difficulty before opening the button of his jeans and pushing them down. He reaches down to grab her hands with one of his, steadying himself with the other. He lets go of one of her hands, kissing the other before moving his way up her arm, landing at her neck again.
His hand move towards her back again, slowly unclasping her bra (and she doesn't think about all the other times he's done that before or the times he had a girl over or the times he had another girl besides her moan his name), his hands slowly moving to her sides. She takes her bra off, and feels her cheek color. She reaches up and presses her chest against his, feeling exposed.
"The first time always hurts," he whispers against her hair like he's some expert and she nods against his shoulder as his thumbs hook under the hem of her panties, pushing the pink nylon down her thighs. He kisses her mouth and she feels her hands trembling as she reaches for his boxers.
"Are you sure, baby?" He looks into her eyes and she licks her dry lips before kissing him.
She pulls away, "I am so sure."
His hand moves downward and after a moment he slips into her and she bites onto her lip so hard she draws blood as he mumbles to her again, "I love you."
…
Saturday March 30st, 1974, 2:23 PM
Trevor's Bar, Washtington, D.C., the United States
...
She knocks on his door, but there's no answer. She tries again, and this time someone does open. But it's not Puck. A perky, petite blond with wild hair and a barely there outfit does.
"Get out," Quinn bites.
"Excuse me?"
"Get out. Do I need to spell it out for you or are you still learning the alphabet? Get. Out."
The blond seems confused but starts collecting her clothes anyway as Puck enters the room, shirtless as he rubs his eyes. "What the fuck, Quinn?"
"Seriously?" She asks him nodding over at the blond before blindly reaching for a vase and throwing it at his head. She misses but she won't miss next time.
"Quinn! You're being insane!"
The blond passes her, throwing a quick 'call me' over her shoulder. She's about to turn around and yank on the locks of the bimbo but Puck stops her.
"You basically ignore me for two months, and now you're mad because? Why? Why exactly are you mad?"
"Does that turn you?" Quinn huffs, a small smirk playing on her lips but her eyes are giving her away (she hates him, she hates him, she hates him). She takes a step closer to him at each sentence, "Is it just all about the game?" She runs her fingers over his chest, "All about the thrill of getting the good, naive, innocent girl and taking her virginity—making her feel loved, making her want you, like you've done so many times before?" She reaches up to rest her hand on the back of his neck as she whispers into his ear, "Do you pretend she's me? Do you moan out my name when you do her? Do you?"
He grabs her hand, his eyes hard, "You're such a bitch, Quinn."
"So you do? Pretend she's me? You do love me? Or you don't and this was all a game? I don't know which one appeals to me more right now," she yanks her hand lose from his grip.
"What are you doing here, Quinn? If you hate me that much, why are you here? You were doing a great job at pretending I didn't exist, so why not just continue?" His voice is cold and harsh but she had expected it. She had expected all of this to break, crash, burn— end.
"I came here to tell you I'm late," her voice softens slightly, "I'm late and I don't know what to do." She swallows hard, her watery eyes afraid to meet his.
"Shit," he mutters, "Shit, is it— is it mine?"
She slaps him again— and if she's not careful she might make a habit out of it.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he mumbles against her forehead after placing a kiss on it, pulling her into his arms. "Did you – have you seen a doctor?"
She shakes her head against his chest, "I can't be seen going to the hospital. People will talk. My father owns people. They can't know." Slowly tears trail down her cheeks, leaving stains of mascara.
"We'll go. We'll go see my mom, okay? No one will know you there, not as well as they do here and we can see a doctor, okay?" Her face is in his hands, but so is her hope, her trust, her heart and he could crush all of it so easily.
She nods her head and he kisses her forehead again before mumbling, "I'll take care of you, Q."
…
Saturday March 30st, 1974, 9:58 PM
Route 75, OH, the United States
...
The trip in the car is silent, so silent it's almost painful. She's tired for no reason, though, so she sleeps almost the entire ride there. Lima, Ohio. He grew up there, he became who he was there, he had lived and loved there— it was so weird to think she'd be there in less than an hour.
"Do you think your mom will like me? I didn't have time to change, I had to get out of there as fast as I could before anyone could catch me," she says quietly as she smoothes out the fabric of her old dress. Definitely not her prettiest or most expensive one. Not very impressing.
"It's just a dress, Q," he smiles a little though, because it's one of the first things she's said to him since they entered the car. They had stopped somewhere along the road and she had called home, telling them not to worry— she was okay and she'd be back in a few days.
"First impressions are important. You only get one and – and I want your mom to like me," she dares to look up at him and his smiles widens just the tiniest bit, just enough for her to notice and he reaches over to squeeze her hand.
"You really are perfect, you know that? Your whole life might be about to be turned upside down and you're worrying about meeting my mom," his eyes sparkle like they used to, like they did when he told her he loved her the first time and the second time, when they made love.
She shrugs, but intertwines their fingers silently.
"What happened between you and Santana?" She finally spits it out.
"What do you mean?" He frowns slightly as he momentarily takes his eyes off the road to look at her.
"There's always this tension between you two and you told me once, you hated it when people lied and I, just…"
"It's not important," he retorts, the knuckles on his hand on the steering wheel turning white.
"It is to me."
"Later, okay?" he places a kiss on the back of her hand and she nods because she knows he won't tell her anyway, not now at least. It's frustrating, but soon she falls into a slumber again— a blissful, peaceful distraction from everything.
…
"We had a beautiful magic love there
What a sad beautiful tragic love affair."
…
( Please review! It'd mean a lot :) )
