Chapter11. You'll Be Alright
"You've been crying."
Her voice is surprisingly soft, gentle, and lacks the usual sarcastic undertone to it. Her hands still, the soft white towel she was running through her damp locks ceases to move. Quinn's eyes are red-rimmed, swollen. Her nose is red, cheeks slightly flushed, and she looks just like a child, or a kicked puppy. But beneath those swollen lids and pain filled eyes, burns a fire. Fran can see it clearly, bright as day.
Quinn looks down at her older sister with an unreadable expression. Fran gently runs her hands through her sister's damp hair, smoothing golden blonde curls away from her face. Fran offered to help Quinn take a shower; she'd been unable to do it alone with her injured shoulder. Quinn got over her initial embarrassment and was extremely grateful to be out of her sweaty basketball gear. She's currently dressed in a pair of thin camouflage sweats and a black t-shirt with the word 'Nope' written in bold white letters across her abdomen.
"You know you'll be alright, right?" Fran says, using her finger to lift Quinn's chin. Quinn doesn't say anything, but continues to stare at her intently. It vaguely reminds Frannie of the devastated look a child would give if you told them Santa Clause doesn't really exist. "You're Quinn Fabray, future WNBA Superstar. You're going to get scholarships from every school in the nation, and they'll retire your jersey even after the first game. Little kids will write your number on their faces and when you ask them who their favorite player is, they'll scream 'Quinn Fabray!' You'll be the number one draft pick and we'll move to a big city where your face will be on every billboard! You'll make mom so proud, all of us. Dylan's going to be so proud of you."
Quinn finally smiles. It's one of those face-splitting, ear to ear, megawatt smiles that makes her eyes light up and her nose crease. It's infectious and Frannie finds herself smiling as well. She smiles impossibly harder when Quinn gives her a strong, one-armed hug and pulls her into her taller frame.
Quinn's sitting on the couch flipping through channels when the doorbell rings, but before she can even get up, a half-naked Santana literally jumps down the stairs and jogs toward the door. She's only wearing a black bra and red boy-shorts, and Quinn doesn't think that's the appropriate attire to answer anything unless it's a phone. "This better be my pizza." Santana says.
"Who orders pizza at-" Quinn peaks at the clock, "-8:49 in the morning?"
"I do bitch, keep on talking shit and you ain't getting none." Santana snaps, opening the large wooden door. She clicks her tongue in disappointment when she sees it's Rachel and not a scrawny, teenage boy holding boxes of delicious, Niecey's Pizza. She contemplates closing the door, but Dylan's cradled into the little brunette's chest and she decides against it. She walks away, leaving the door open for Rachel and struts back up the stairs grumbling to herself.
"Hi Quinn, how are you feeling?" Rachel says, setting her Louis Vuitton bag on the table and sitting on the far end of the couch. Quinn smiles, reaching over and ruffling her kid's curly blonde hair. "Fine, thanks."
She chuckles as Dylan swats her hand away, voicing her annoyance with a soft chirp and continues to glare at Quinn with bright hazel eyes.
Dylan's a weird baby.
Both Quinn and Rachel and all of their friends and family who've met her know that. She's uncharacteristically quiet for a child her age, and her eyes seem to be filled to the brim with intelligence, such intelligence one so young should not possess so early on in her life. She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she could easily maneuver herself into positions where mobility is easier. Neither one of them could really explain it, but Dylan was clever.
"Quinnie's hurt, so don't thrash around too much, okay?" Rachel tells their child, who stares at her for a moment before bringing her hazel gaze back to Quinn. Quinn internally shrugs; she finds she doesn't even care at this point what Rachel calls her. Dylan somehow manages to escape her mother's clutches and crawls/stumbles into Quinn's lap, carefully situating herself into a comfortably position and snuggles into her chest like a newborn kitten. Quinn kisses the top of her kid's head and strokes her pudgy cheek. "I like her dress."
Dylan's wearing a beautiful red dress with white roses decorating it. A white ribbon is tied around the waist, matching her sparkling white Airforce 1s. She's got a real white rose tucked behind her ear. Their kid is absolutely beautiful. "I do too; her grandpa picked it out while he was out shopping yesterday."
"Leroy or Hiram?"
"Hiram. If we'd have let daddy pick out an outfit for her, she'd be wearing cargo shorts and a Dodger's cap."
"What's wrong with the Dodgers?"
"Quinn."
Quinn chuckles and flexes her fingers on her injured arm. It's pretty stiff and throbs a bit, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did the night before. Rachel knows Quinn's probably bored. It's a Saturday morning and usually Quinn would be at the park playing pickup games with Spencer and the locals or lifting weights in the backyard, both options not available in her current state.
"Quinn."
"Yes?"
"Why aren't you wearing your sling?"
"What sling?"
"The sling the doctor told you to wear."
"Oh, that sling."
"Yes, that sling."
"…"
"Well?"
"It makes my arm stiff. Its fine, I don't move it much."
Rachel glares at Quinn, and Quinn can't help but notice how similar Rachel and Dylan's glares are. Wait, can babies even glare? She thought to herself. Well, if they can, Dylan does it. Rachel and Quinn share a relatively comfortable silence, watching Tim Duncan's finals interview on ESPN. Dylan starts to get bored, fidgeting in Quinn's lap and inadvertently kicks her. "Ouch!"
Rachel chuckles, slipping her hands underneath her arms and lifting her from the older blonde's lap, settling her on the soft carpet near her feet where a few of her toys lay. "Getting kicked right there isn't funny." Quinn says, raising an eyebrow at the little brunette.
"She kicks me all the time." Rachel replies.
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" Rachel mocks, playfully raising her own brow, mirroring Quinn's expression.
They somehow manage to fall into a somewhat intense staring contest and that's when Quinn finally notices.
Is she flirting with me?
Before Quinn can question Rachel's motives the doorbell rings and before either of them can actually move, Santana runs down the stairs yet again, clad in the same attire as earlier. She's got twenty bucks folded between her fingers and a smile playing on her lips. "About time, I'm fucking starving."
She opens the door and stomps her foot in frustration. "Please tell me you applied to a ghetto pizza place and have a box of greasy, yet delicious pizza in that bag."
Spencer gives a dopey, Finn-like grin, but somehow manages to pull it off better. Her eyes linger on Santana's chest, and she clears her throat. "You know Niecey's likes to take their time. But nah, I'm here to see Quinn."
Santana leaves the door open and runs back up the stairs. Spencer takes off her hood and closes the door behind her. She smiles at Rachel and her bestfriend, ruffles Dylan's hair slightly, and seating herself on the couch across from them. She's clad in a burgundy and yellow Cleveland Cavaliers hoodie, yellow basketball shorts, and a pair of worn Kobe's. Quinn knows she's on her way to the park to play for a few hours. "Sup?"
"So, how bad is it?" Spencer asks quietly.
"I'm done for the season and it might need surgery…" Quinn says just as quietly.
Spencer sighs in disappointment, feeling angry about the whole situation all over again. She tries to lighten up the mood. "I've always wanted to play the Point."
"If you're playing Point, we're doomed." Quinn points out, smirking slightly.
"You're just mad because you're required to pass and I'm not." Spencer shoots back, briefly eyeing a slightly confused Rachel. "Point Guards are the best dribblers and are required to set up their teammates for easy or easier shots. A Shooting Guard, like me, does exactly what the title says, which is to shoot that ball whenever you deem ideal."
"Spencer doesn't know how to pass. When she plays 2k, the controller automatically disables the pass button." Quinn says.
"You're just mad because you're too short to dunk and you're jump shot is nasty."
"My jump shot looks better than half the girls you've dated."
"Your jump shot makes me emotional."
"You have no handles."
"You can't rebound."
"Do you know what an assist is?"
"Yes, I can assist you at finding a nonhazardous jump shot."
"That's why the Cavs suck."
"The Lakers are the worst team in the WNBA."
"You look like Gabrielle Christian with a nose job."
"You look like a pregnant Dianna Agron."
Rachel looks on confused because they went from sentimental ballers to spewing insults that made absolutely no sense at all. It goes on for about ten minutes before Spencer finally throws up her arms and discretely gives Quinn the finger when she's sure Dylan isn't looking.
"Anyway, Onyx got kicked out after you left. Coach is pushing for a season suspension."
Quinn simply shrugs. She honestly doesn't care what happens to Onyx. That's not to say she isn't angry about what happened, but she's not that player who would wish misfortune or injury on another. Spencer eyes her captain intently, gauging for a reaction but could find only a disturbing indifference. "She's just a hater. She's probably a Heat fan." Spencer decided.
"Or a Brazil fan."
After a few jibes about the Carmel Guard, Spencer rises from the couch and gives her captain a farewell handshake. She tells Rachel to 'stay short,' and gives Dylan a big, sloppy kiss on her pudgy cheek before making her way out of the house.
It's almost an hour later when Santana's pizza arrives, currently in the clutches of a heavy-set African American girl with dark, kinky curls and thin eyebrows set in an intimidating scowl.
"Watchu mean you ain't order no pizza? I was told to deliver it to this address." She sasses at Frannie, who's looking at her like she's lost her damn mind.
"I just told you no one ordered it! Who orders pizza this early?" Frannie questions, rubbing her temples tiredly. It's way too early for this.
"Man, I don't know what goes through white people's minds! Quit playing, and take the damn pizza. People got shit to do." She snaps.
Before Frannie can make a comment, Santana shoves her out of the way. "Where the fuck have you been? I ordered this bitch an hour ago!"
"If you were so concerned with timing, maybe you should've came and picked it up, or went to Little Caesar's." Tiffany, according to her name tag, replies.
"The fuck? Why I gotta pay for it AND come and get it?" Santana shakes her head, practically tossing the twenty at the girl and snatching her pizza. "Keep the change, fucker."
"I was going to keep it anyway, fake ass Naya Rivera." The girl concludes, swaggering back to her car muttering something about rude people.
Santana slams the door. "She's lucky I didn't go all Lima Heights on her ass.
"Isn't Lima Heights a gated community?" Fran says, glaring daggers at the Latina as she sets one box down on the coffee table and tucks the other against her hip.
"Why are you so concerned?"
Fran makes a beeline for her room in an effort to stop her homicidal intentions.
"Y'all can have that box. It was two for twenty. Deuces." Santana concludes as she exits the living room.
Quinn fist pumps internally. Free food was the best kind. She opens the box and grabs a napkin, placing a cheesy slice on it. Rachel internally gags at the amount of cheese and grease that coats the Italian delicacy. "Wait, I thought you were forbidden to eat anything that high in fat and calories?"
Quinn shrugs, taking a bite and chewing before replying. "I'm hungry though."
She's ready to take another bite, but before she can even get it to her lips, Rachel grabs her wrist. Quinn raises an eyebrow. "You want some?"
"No, but I suggest eating something that won't give you diabetes."
"…like…?"
Rachel gently grabs the slice of death from Quinn's grasp, and to her surprise Quinn lets her. She tucks it back into the box before taking the whole box and setting it on the kitchen table. She washes her hands and ties a cream colored apron around her waist.
Is she going to make me something…? Quinn can't help but wonder as she eases herself onto the soft, carpeted floor with her kid and idly watches her fiddle with a rubix cube Fran left on the table the night before. As Rachel prepares breakfast in the kitchen, Quinn scrolls through the channels aimlessly, becoming bored all over again.
What the…? Quinn's eyes widen considerably. She briefly glanced away from the TV to make sure her daughter wasn't trying to shove the cube down her throat and she was met with quite the surprise.
"Rachel…come look at this!" She gestures with her non injured arm. Rachel furrows her brows and sets the carton of eggs on the sink and practically skips over. When she's near the table she crouches to Dylan and Quinn's level, and when she studies the cards she gasps. She looks at Quinn for an explanation. "I didn't do it…she did. I couldn't do these things to save my life."
In between Dylan's tiny fingers, is a completely finished Rubix cube. And it wasn't finished before.
Shoutout to my new 'friend,' Indicaa for literally barging into my life and forcing me to sit down and write! Check out her shit, she's got skill. Haven't wrote in awhile, but damn, I think I've still got it.