Title: Beers and Strippers
Chapter: 13/?
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)
Rating: T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).
Summary: Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything
Disclaimer: Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.
A/N: I took free liberty with some facts in this story-including Quinn (and other members of the verse's) birthday.
It's the first Thanksgiving that Quinn doesn't mind attending.
There's no corporate dinner party or (worse) dinner with Grams who glares at everyone and asks too many questions. There's no passive aggressive requests to pass the salt or that always-awkward what are you really thankful for speeches (like that one time Uncle Jared quite plainly stated he wasn't thankful for his wife by saying he was so thankful for his secretary; they still aren't divorced). There's no asking where her sister is or distasteful looks when she politely asks for another piece of turkey, her aunt muttering, are you sure you need that, dear?
It's a dinner for five at the Berry residence.
The Berry's, ever courteous and warming, dutifully insist upon the presence of the Fabray clan at their Thanksgiving celebration. Judy (surprisingly) seems excited at the invitation and before Quinn knows it, they're at the Berry's door holding a pan of homemade apple pie (vegan-friendly, of course) with two turkey oven mitts, an overly-wide smile, and a ridiculous nervousness crawling up from her stomach to her spine and down again.
It takes her mother politely refusing any alcohol beverage and clandestinely—with a loaded and secure look to her daughter—requesting some ginger ale, a hearty laugh from Leroy at her oven mitts, a football game on in the background, and a gentle touch to her back from one friend-extraordinaire Rachel Berry for her to relax and breathe in. Tofurkey, surprisingly, isn't horrible and neither is Hiram's cooking (his kiss the chef apron is generic but nevertheless endearing) though half of the items on the table are admittedly store-bought.
The most extraordinary part of the evening, however, is how well everyone apparently manages to get along. Judy and Hiram have the same taste in television and Leroy (though he is actually apparently a huge football fan, Quinn never would have guessed, and manages to get distracted by the game quite a bit) holds up his own between them. Well, if you ignore the random screaming at the television every five seconds, he does.
Rachel still doesn't care about football, much to Leroy's dismay, but tugs Quinn out to the couch near half-time to sit next to her and watch the half-time show even though it's really not that interesting. The smaller girl pulls up a long arm and tucks herself into it, adjusting a little, sighing in contentment when she becomes settled, and Quinn spares herself a moment to look down and smile, losing herself somewhere along the first moment she spared and the rest of moments that she couldn't help but give.
Leroy, Rachel, and her mother are now on the couch, enthralled in the game, and she can't help but laugh and shake her head when her mother accidentally cheers for the wrong team and gets a withering glare from the small man. She reluctantly pulls away from Rachel's protesting arms and slinks into the kitchen to help Hiram clean up, good manners too well-bred within her to not (and kind of not wanting to listen to Leroy rant about his football team for the next twenty minutes).
Hiram's hands instantly flick out in dismissal but Quinn grabs a dish and starts cleaning, anyways, ignoring him with a soft smile on her face. "You made me like tofurkey—I feel obligated." He shakes his head but lets her stay in his kitchen, anyways.
They're quiet, for a couple of moments, surprisingly content to stay in each other's company in silence, cleaning, the sound of a football game and laughter in their ears. Hiram's voice eventually interrupts, gaze casting to the side and piercing her with a small smile. "I took a picture of you two."
Quinn blinks, shifting a little. "Excuse me?" It's obviously, really, what he means, but she's not really sure what to say to that. "Me and Rachel?"
"No, you and the tofurkey." He deadpans. "Of course you and Rachel."
"I really like that tofurkey. You should take a picture with me and it, too." She shirks, tone playful. Hey, if Hiram's going to go and take pictures of her with things she likes, the tofurkey isn't a bad route to go.
"Smart Alec." He pulls off his overly-large rubber gloves and moves around the island to grab his phone before doubling back and flicking it, leaning over Quinn's shoulder, phone in front of both of them. He gives it to her with no reservation after the picture's open and walks back around to her other side.
It's the first picture Quinn can remember being in that she looks content—genuinely happy. They're both obviously unaware the picture's being taken, gazes locked on each other. Rachel is tucked against her side, fingers playing with Quinn's as a long arm drapes over her shoulder, nose barely an inch from her own. They're laughing and, even still so fresh on her memory, she can't remember the context of the situation, only the feeling of being entirely complacent, Rachel by her side. They look oblivious and perfectly okay with that.
It's a great picture.
"Can you send me this?" She mindlessly asks because, for some odd reason (even though Quinn's never really been the sentimental type) the picture is too much of a heart-warming sight to not reach out towards. Her eyes are soft—gentle—alive—and when she looks back up to the eyes of the father of her best friend, he looks stunned and a little baffled. Captured, almost, like he's just solved a really hard math problem but doesn't agree with the answer. "You have an iphone...you have to have a data plan. Can you just not send it?" His gaze unsettles her, a little. It's not malicious just...odd. It feels threatening in a way she can't place. She worries, for a moment, that he knows and isn't quite alright with it, though she's not sure how he couldn't know, anyways. "Was that...too much to ask, or something?"
He just stares, for a moment, before he shakes his head, "No...it's not." He places his hand in a puddle of water but doesn't seem to notice, fingers sliding against his counter. "Do you have a cousin?"
This question, of course, entirely throws Quinn off-balance. "Yeah." She tries to piece his logic together. "Did you want me to...bring them, or something? Expected more of a turn-out?" She doesn't know why since Rachel just invited her and her mother.
"Are they your age?" His eyes are still searching hers, enthralled, and Quinn awkwardly shuffles on her feet, looking away.
"No. I have three: two boys and a girl. Steve, Mark, and Lily. She's..." She sort of feels like a jerk for not knowing this, "Seven? I think?" She shrugs. "I'm not close with my dad's side of the family." It's true. "The guys are," Bitches, honestly, but she doesn't say that part, "In their mid-twenties." She thinks for a moment. "Well, okay, I'm not really close with my mom's side of the family, either." At this she looks over her shoulder, expecting Judy to scowl at her, and lets out a sigh of relief when she's not there. "But don't tell her that..."
"Oh." Is all Hiram says, still staring at her.
There's a long awkward moment of silence.
"Okay, Mr. Berry, you're kind of starting to freak me out." She meekly admits, not comfortable with admitting much of anything to adults, but she likes Hiram, so she tries.
He instantly blinks and pulls back, rubbing his hand against his neck, "Oh, I'm sorry, Quinn." He looks back into her eyes and lingers, for a moment, "It's just that your eyes..." He mumbles, like he's trying to place something.
"My...eyes?" She reflexively lifts her hand up to them. "I'm wearing my contacts—did one slip?"
"No you just..." He sighs, long-windedly, pulling away entirely and focusing on the few dishes left in the sink. "They just looked...You reminded me of—"
"Uh-oh," Leroy cuts in from the archway, "I think you've enchanted my husband with your gorgeous eyes, Quinn." He slips inside and grabs a piece of turkey, throwing it into his mouth with little aplomb, leaning against the counter with a tired smile. "They are very pretty, by the way." He notes and Quinn can't help but blush.
"Yep. Striking eyes." Hiram chuckles, seeming a bit more his old self, though he looks a little distracted for a moment before shaking his head and turning fully, smiling widely at his husband. "Game over?"
"Yes," Leroy huffs, morose, "They lost. And your daughter," He points, scolding, at Hiram, "And your mother," Once more accusingly at Quinn, "Are out in the living room high-fiving." This is apparently the worst thing on the face of the planet, the way Leroy says it, and Quinn can't help but lean around the side to see her mother and her best friend doing just that.
Only they're both kind of victory dancing on top of it. It's probably the most endearing sight she's ever seen.
"Yeah, they're soul-mates." She laughs good-naturedly, picking back up the last dish to dry and doing it without looking down. Waitressing is a good skill-set for some things.
"Yeah, well, with the way you wash dishes, Quinn, you can be my new soul-mate." Hiram grumbles, back to his old self, smile kind and in place. It eases the tension that had spread throughout the blonde's spine. She smiles back.
"Hey, no return policy." Leroy pouts and Quinn puts up the last dish, looking proudly around the kitchen before high-fiving Hiram. "Oh my God, people are high-fiving everywhere. Stop it. By the way, Ryan called and he wished everyone a happy, happy Thanksgiving."
"He's probably eating a real turkey." Hiram murmurs and Leroy flicks his ear.
"Heard that."
Five seconds later Quinn steps out into the living room only to be super-hugged by a small bundle of energy and high-fived (seriously, high-fived) by her happy and sober mother whose eyes are brighter than she's ever seen them. The rest of the night is one of the best Quinn can remember, all of them laughing and eating even more and joking.
Rachel gets whipped cream on her nose from the apple pie and everyone at the dinner table makes a silent pact not to tell her so, naturally, right when the Fabray's leave, Quinn gets to see her screech about whipped cream being on her nose for the past hour.
"Seriously, why didn't any of you tell me?" It doesn't help that they're all shamelessly laughing until there's tears in their eyes. The scandalized finger thrown Judy's face is probably the best because the claim of, "I thought we were soul-mates!" just makes all of them laugh harder, even Rachel, who tries so hard not to.
Right before Quinn goes to bed she gets three picture messages—one from each of the Berry's. One is a picture of Rachel and Judy high-fiving from Leroy; the second is a picture of Quinn with a piece of tofurkey in her mouth from Rachel; and the third is the same picture she asked Hiram about earlier in the night, from, of course, Hiram, the text reading only a smilie face. She saves all of them and even makes the background of her phone the one of Rachel and her mother...and makes her facebook profile the one with the tofurkey...but the last one she saves as Rachel's profile picture.
She feels like a bit of a dork for leaving the picture open, smiling at it, for the next ten minutes and even debates sending Rachel the picture, herself, but decides to keep it for just a little while longer.
It's the best Thanksgiving Quinn's ever had, even if it's the least eventful and quietest...but it's also the happiest.
She smiles for the rest of the night and all of the next day and the best part is that Rachel doesn't even ask why.
–
"So..." Ms. Pillsbury still hasn't gotten better at bridging the gap between them, despite the fact that Quinn has been seeing her, twice a week, for, like, almost five months, now. She hasn't gotten better at starting conversations, either.
Quinn tries harder, now, to act better because she thinks it'll make these end faster and she's not really sure how she feels about the idea of spending all of next year with bi-weekly (ineffective) sessions with this soft-as-dough Pillsbury.
(Quinn actually spends a large majority of these sessions thinking of new mental nicknames for her not-therapist. She might not be so outwardly scathing towards people, anymore, but inside she can't help but be a nickname-genius/opportunist...she's also just a little bitter).
"You punched Finn Hudson." Her tone is almost...knowing.
Quinn blinks, having expected the counselor to start with the weather, like she had every other session. Not like she knew what the weather was like, Quinn assumes, because she's never once seen the lady leave the school building, even though she's pretty sure she doesn't live here. Regardless, Finn Hudson is old news in Quinn Fabray's mind for several different reasons—punching him feels like it must have been a lifetime ago. Maybe Emma Pillsbury's grapevine isn't nearly as quick as the student body's.
Maybe she's using one of those old-school dial-up phones—probably heard they were less susceptible to germs, or something.
"I...did." Quinn sounds it out like she's not sure what her answer is and Ms. Pillsbury's eyes are wide but there's still this hint of...intuition behind them that makes the ex-cheerleader wary. This seriously happened a long time ago. They've had more sessions since the event than Quinn wishes.
"Why did you do that?"
Perfect posture—perfect practice—perfect poise—and the answer comes out like it's been rehearsed even though her stomach is twisting into knots. "I was on my period."
She wonders if people actually buy that excuse because, despite Rachel, once she said that pretty much everyone at least stopped asking questions. Even though Santana kind of made a Facebook fanpage devoted to "Fabray kicking Hudson's Ass". Quinn's not sure how it ended up with 5,013 fans (seriously).
She's also a little unnerved that there's video of it because Coach installed video cameras in front of every trophy case to make sure no one tried to steal them (they also have automatic tazer guns installed in two of the dud trophies; Quinn knows this because she was the one that installed them).
She tried not to smile when Rachel was the first fan.
(She also might have slunk away one game night to show Hiram and Leroy the video...and they both totally high-fived her. Adults apparently like Finn Hudson as much as she does).
"Quinn..." The pseudo-therapist actually sounds strained. "You do realize that I can't help you with your problems if you don't let me help, right?" Quinn's smile actually falters and she silently curses herself.
She's not sure what help Emma Pillsbury will be; she's not even sure what help she needs. She's been fine, so far. Life is quiet and long and hard, but it's still life—she's still living—and she thinks maybe it's at least easier without her father. It's easier being in an apartment she has to pay for than being in a car. It's easier eating lunch for one with Rachel than it is lunch for two alone. She's not sure what Ms. Pillsbury can even do. There's nothing to fix.
All she has for her time are a stack of pamphlets, a lecture on how needles were unclean and the use of them could procure several STDs (cocaine is apparently done through needle, now...Quinn had internally laughed at that one) and other diseases, and wasted time that she could have been spent working at Lesley's or rehearsing for Regionals or even just watching movies with Rachel.
"What if I don't have problems?" She asks before she can think and blinks at herself. Ms. Pillsbury blinks right back, like she thought that earlier tactic wouldn't work—Quinn didn't think it had. Either way, she's said it, so she might as well continue and explain. "I appreciate you..." She hesitates, "Caring." It doesn't sound right to her ears. "Or whatever, but I'm fine. I don't understand why I have to keep coming here—"
"Because you're a sixteen year old girl whose father just died after she gave birth to a little girl that she gave up for adoption, just punched her ex-boyfriend, and is apparently under the influence of drugs." Emma Pillsbury actually sounds...authoritative...and Quinn's voice catches, soundless for a moment. "I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with you, Quinn, but no one goes through all of that and doesn't need to talk."
She's floored—baffled—and then she's inexplicably angry.
"What, so you think you're the expert on what I should be feeling? Maybe I don't feel like talking. Maybe I don't feel—" She freezes for a moment, thoughts and mind and heart clenching and twirling and coming to a stop. She lowers her voice, eyes turning away from those doe—dough—eyes and settling on the wall of pamphlets to her right. "Maybe I don't feel like talking." She rectifies.
She doesn't dare look up; doesn't dare display the small unsettled part of her that her fingers rub up her shoulders. She's cold and she's tired and she has to go to work, right after this. Her mother will be home, tonight, and she promised that she'd make it back by eleven so that they could have dinner, together. Judy had joked that they'd be a Brazilian family but the fact still stood that she called them a family and Quinn just wants to get out of here.
"Quinn," Pillsbury's hesitance when dealing with anything is showing, and Quinn, ever the opportunist, stands up.
"I don't need therapy." She states with a surety that everything in her life actually lacks.
"Well, you do need me to sign your clearance before you can graduate." Ms. Pillsbury sounds sort of scared while she says this, like she doesn't feel like she should threaten students and Quinn's jaw slips. Maybe not-having-sex isn't the only thing Emma Pillsbury and William Schuester discuss over lunch, because the counselor would never use this tactic on her own volition.
Quinn looks back down at the seat and then back at Ms. Pillsbury.
If she doesn't graduate she can't go to college; If she doesn't leave for college, she can't leave Lima; If she doesn't leave Lima she'll be stuck being a waitress for the rest of her life.
That's something Quinn doesn't let herself think of, nowadays (not that she was too keen of the topic, before): the future.
Her heart blooms for a moment and, just for a second—a brief, brief second—she imagines watching Rachel blow away Broadway like she's destined to.
It's something Quinn's resigned herself to never having.
Without another word, she turns around and leaves a flustered Emma Pillsbury's office, slamming the door as she leaves. Her back makes a similar sound as it slaps against the closed door, her hand raising to hide her face from the empty hallway, fingers pinching at her temple.
"Quinn?" Rachel, of course, has a habit for showing up every moment the blonde swears she doesn't need her.
"What?" Quinn snaps, reflexively, and then softens when she opens her eyes to see Rachel walking towards her from around the corner. "Hey."
"Are you done early?" The brunette—still ever the friend-extraordinaire—kind of creepily (and freakishly endearingly) knows Quinn's schedule...more than her own mother does. She's halfway down the hallway, a tentative smile on her face, when another voice rudely interrupts and makes the blonde's whole body stiffen like a pole.
"Fabray! My office! Now!"
When Coach Sylvester calls someone into their office, they don't just go, they scramble, and Quinn sighs and sends Rachel an apologetic look before silently shuffling into her ex-mentor's office. When the door slams, she feels like it might be a little eerily symbolic, somehow.
–
"It's a simple choice: be a loser or be a winner. It's not much of a choice, but if there's anything my excellent years of teaching has provided as fruits from its supple and lean loins, it is that squabbling teenagers like having the feeling of non-existent choices." Sue Sylvester's characteristically caring (not) voice is lost somewhere before meeting Quinn's ears because all she can think is...
"I...you want me to..." Something has seriously short-circuited in Quinn's brain. Speech—gone. Thought processing—gone. "You're asking me to be Head Cheerleader?"
It must be the twilight zone. Coach Sylvester doesn't ask anyone anything, she demands it. She told the police force, last year, they were going to be their backup dancers in their second number for Nationals and they were. Quinn's even pretty sure Sue Sylvester demanded to be materialized from God (probably because she was sent, as she claimed once, to make all of 'you blubbering idiot hormone-driven teenagers shut up and win').
Sue Sylvester, for her part, looks bored and ferocious. "I was watching practice effectively masquerade as the world's most mundane and ineffective routine, yesterday, and I thought to myself—Sue, you've got a predicament, here. We need to win 's the thrill—where's the purpose—where's the fire? This pathetic excuse for jugglers throwing pinatas around this football field will not win Nationals. So I took my energized beverage back to my office and wondered what this team lacked." Coach leans forward, eyes slitting and emotionless, but a frightening twinkle itching the right side of her lip upwards. "It lacks drive, motivation, and good structure and leadership."
Quinn clears her throat, back still straight, voice cautious but harder than it would be when dealing with other teachers. Sue Sylvester has always thought a cool voice meant a cool head. "You're an excellent leader, Coach." She is. Sue Sylvester is many things—bat-shit insane, daughter of a Nazi hunter, tough-as-nails, and a fantastic salsa dancer (Quinn kind of wishes she doesn't know that one)—but excellent leader makes the top of that list.
That incident with the tiger notwithstanding.
"Of course I am." The older woman instantly dismisses. "But, like a pack of hyenas, teenage girls will devour their leader if they are not effective and will all become slovenly janitors who mop up the ground that the winning team's trophy stands on." Quinn watched a documentary on hyenas on Animal Planet last year in the hospital and she doesn't really remember that part. "My squad lacks perfection, Quinn."
"You've heard the rumors." Hell, Quinn wouldn't be surprised if Sylvester started some of them. "I'm far from perfection. I'm not perfect, anymore."
"There was a rumor last week that I was part bear. Despite some rumors, like the one I just mentioned, being entirely true, the majority of the tales idiotic children spin in between classrooms are ridiculous and entirely unfounded." The woman-part-bear leans back in her chair, taking a swig of her Sue-Sylvester (patented) concoction, eyes roaming Quinn's face. "Besides, I've always wanted to punch Franken-teen right in his face, too. That just solidified my decision."
"Santana won Nationals, last year." She instantly protests, fingers clenching on top of her knees.
"By the skin of her teeth and don't think I haven't noticed her...augmentations...and inappropriate use of fat cells that should be going into her facial structure in order to limit the display of human characteristics." Quinn, torn between realizing just how little sense her ex-coach makes in conversation, and feeling somewhat scandalized for her friend, isn't sure what to say. Sue leans across the desk, arms crossed and fingers tenting. "Arms heal." Quinn stiffens in her chair and the older woman nods towards her. "But you can't learn your drive. You're a winner. You're more than this, Fabray. Act like it."
So she sits and thinks about it, for a moment; she thinks about what it was like—what it would mean.
She thinks of being Head Cheerleader, again. She thinks of what it meant, walking down the hallways and feeling noticed and revered and feared. She thinks, for a moment, how proud her mom might look and about a father's day picture on a bedside table. She thinks about cheerleading which is actually something she's good at and something she really, really enjoys. She thinks that, even with a broken arm in a sling and sweat down her brow, every single member of her team looked proud and accomplished and honored to have her as captain.
She thinks about quitting her job and being a kid, again, being a regular teenager who doesn't have to think, anymore. She thinks about the scholarships that being a cheerleader could provide—thinks about having options—and knows, for a moment, that she might have a future if she takes it. If she just accepts.
She can quit Lesley's (managing Glee with a practically-full-time job is nearly impossible enough). Her mom can just get a better job and this will pay for college. She can still have lunches with Rachel and maybe even get sleep now that she doesn't work through it. She can make it so that no one ever slushies Rachel ever again.
And then she thinks about Santana.
She would have to push Santana off of the top of the pyramid to gain this power that isn't rightfully hers.
She thinks about that word—power—and realizes something she hasn't until this very moment. It isn't about power. It isn't power. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want any of it. She can't.
She doesn't want Santana to have to fall for her to succeed. She's not kidding herself—she would never be able to have lunch with Rachel ever again if she was a Cheerio, simply because she'd be practicing most lunches. They'd never make rent, and what then? What would they do, then?
The shelter, again? Maybe this time they'd move out to Washington with Lauren, but Judy Fabray has too much pride, for that, still, and Lauren doesn't even remember she has family.
Maybe if she quits Glee, then she could work and cheer. Maybe then she'd have options—a future—maybe then she'd have a purpose, again.
She thinks of Rachel, hand outstretched, singing to her. She thinks of Ricky and Cindy. She thinks of her mom, falling asleep at the table and their Brazilian dinner, tonight.
She thinks of Santana and how she looked when she said she was proud of her.
"What?" Sue Sylvester actually sounds surprised—it's the first emotion Quinn's heard from her all year.
"No." Quinn repeats, surer, eyes set and on fire. "Santana is a fantastic Head Cheerio and I don't want it."
No one turns down Sue Sylvester so it's kind of a shock when, instead of throwing a fit, Coach does something Quinn's never seen her do without malicious intent: She smiles.
Sue Sylvester just smiles at Quinn Fabray like that's what she wanted, maybe, all along.
And then she just barks for blondie to get out before she has to throw her out.
Quinn leaves the office feeling like maybe the door didn't slam, it just creaked a little along the way to opening.
And she feels...she feels...
Proud.