A/N: Sorry this update is so late! I'm applying for several masters programmes right now and I just handed in my thesis for my undergrad so the month of March has been very hectic!
Additionally, this chapter was just too long (it was reaching 15,000 words) so I split it into two. So, there are going to be two more updates of this story.
Enjoy!
This isn't how you foresaw your career going. You were supposed to work your way up to the top, slowly and surely, with minimal hurdles along the way. You were going to steadily climb up the company and by the age of forty, take over from Sue as Managing Director of Hummel Life Assurance. That was your plan. You were so sure it was going to turn out like that.
What you didn't expect was a large, adult woman-shaped speed bump blocking you from getting any further.
You had never felt this scared to go to work in your whole six years there, and that includes your first day. It's currently 7:21am, and you're standing outside the office, both of your arms slack in front of you, your hands gripping your bag tightly. You can feel your heart galloping in your chest, getting faster each second you remain rooted to the ground, staring anxiously at the whole length of the building.
The thought of seeing Quinn again plagued your thoughts all through Saturday and Sunday. The humiliation you felt after your encounter with her in the office only amplified the more you thought about it, and suddenly you were creating endless scenarios (some realistic, some bordering on the impossible) of what could happen when you inevitably see each other on Monday.
And now Monday is here, and you keep digging for it but you can't for the life of you find the courage to face her.
"Ah, judgement day." You turn your head to see Santana stroll up to your side, a smug grin on her face. "I'd been looking forward to this all weekend."
You turn back towards the front of the building. "I thought your friends aren't supposed to want to see you suffer," you mutter, finally mustering up the courage with Santana beside you to walk up to the revolving doors.
Santana's heels click on the pavement as she rushes to catch up to you. "It's alright if you brought it on yourself, which you did." You see her shrug in your peripheral. "Plus, I'm from Detroit. It's the way we show love."
"I don't understand how you're so okay with this. Someone from another branch just waltzes in and snatches a job out of the hands of those who are more deserving, and you just shrug it off?"
"It's really not that deep," Santana says, jabbing the elevator button. "There will be other promotions. Besides, what's the point in throwing a tantrum over something you can't change? The only thing it achieved is that you not only looked like a child, but also an absolute nightmare to work with. I'm sure Fabray isn't exactly jumping for joy that she's going to be your supervisor, either."
Your stomach twists painfully. You hadn't even considered that. "God, I'm an idiot," you groan, smacking a palm to your forehead.
"I know, it's hilarious." You give her an evil look as you both step into the elevator, and Santana presses the button for your floor. "Look, it probably won't be as bad as you think. Who knows, she might actually be afraid of you and avoid you at all costs. From what you described went down, I know I wouldn't want to be on your bad side if I was her."
You shake your head adamantly. "Definitely not. I was practically screaming in her face on Friday and she completely kept her composure. It was almost robotic. I can't imagine her being afraid of anyone."
"Then strap yourself in for a day chock-full of fun, hobbit," she says with faux cheeriness. The elevator dings as you reach your floor, and you both leave and walk towards your respective offices, but not without one last comment from Santana. "I wouldn't sweat it, Berry. Just keep your nose clean and don't throw any more hissy fits in her presence, yeah?"
You flip Santana off from the door of your office and hear her booming laughter travel down the corridor. You immediately shut your door, pressing your back up against it and contemplating locking it. You realise hiding in your office out of hope that you can avoid Quinn for the day is pathetically immature, but you can't bring yourself to care.
You reason that if you manage to get through the whole day without seeing Quinn, or worse: embarrassing yourself in front of her again, that today would be a success.
You busy yourself with your work, so engrossed that you forget to go down to the canteen to get yourself your habitual morning coffee and meet Santana at 10:45 for a break. It's not until 11am that Santana comes knocking on your door, opening it and giving you an expectant look. "You going to keep me waiting all day, Berry? There's a blueberry muffin downstairs that I have my eye on and if Puckerman gets to it before me, I will blame you."
"Sorry San," you gasp, peaking at the time in the corner of your computer screen. "Got lost in these spreadsheets. Just give me two seconds and I'm all yours."
Santana opens her mouth, presumably to try hurry you up and insult you in the same breath, but Emma Pillsbury arriving at your doorway interrupts her. "Oh good Santana, you're here too. This kills two birds with one stone, then."
"Good morning, Emma," you greet warmly, standing up from your seat. Despite the fact that she's the regional manager, Emma treats everyone in the company as an equal and insists on being on first name basis with each employee. She's without a doubt your favourite boss. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Santana doesn't say anything, but her face speaks volumes. Her eyes are following something to the right of Emma that's not in your eye-line, and her entire expression lights up in very obvious delight. She looks like she just realised she won the lottery.
Your stomach jumps. You know what's coming.
"I just want you guys to meet the new Director of Operations, she starts today so I'm doing the rounds with her." She turns to the right and waves her arm up. "Quinn, over here."
You wait nervously for Quinn to join Emma in the doorway, and when she does you find yourself freezing. You had about twenty seconds to prepare to see her, but watching her step beside Emma and look at you with a completely neutral facial expression irks you. It's as if seeing the woman who spent ten minutes yelling at her a few days ago has zero effect on her, and you for the life of you can't figure out how.
Still, her eyes linger on you and if you're not mistaken, you think you can make out a hint of mirth behind them.
"Quinn, this is Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez," Emma explains, oblivious to both the tension between you and Quinn and Santana's amusement. "They'll be working in your department, so you'll be seeing their faces a lot."
Santana steps forward before anyone else can say a word and holds out a hand. Quinn firmly grips it with a smile. "Quinn Fabray. I look forward to working with you." She said those exact same words to you the other day, but they sound a lot less taunting directed towards someone else.
"Pleasure," Santana smirks, her eyes flicking in your direction immediately.
You realise the ball is in your court here and you step out from behind your desk, walking slowly towards everyone standing in the doorway and swallowing thickly. "We've actually already met," you say, internally patting yourself on the back for how little your voice wavers. You stretch your arm out towards her. "It's nice to see you again, Quinn."
If she's surprised or impressed by your juxtaposed demeanour from the other day, she doesn't show it. She returns the handshake and gives you the same polite smile she graced Santana with. "Likewise, Rachel." Her eyes do a scrutinising sweep of your body and once again, you feel yourself transported back to Friday in Will's office. "In proper work attire this time, I see."
You clench your jaw, grinding your teeth roughly in an effort to distract yourself from the sudden spike of irritation that courses through you. "I think you would find that following the office dress-code isn't required when you're on sick leave."
It would come across as a light-hearted comment to anyone not in the know, but Quinn lifts an eyebrow at you at the same time Santana's smirk grows into a shit-eating grin. Emma, however, continues to suspect nothing. "Oh right, how are you feeling now, Rachel?" She turns to Quinn was a smile, motioning towards you with her finger. "This one never misses work, I'd say she's probably called in sick once or twice in six years. She spent last week out with the flu, so you're in luck, she's probably not due another illness for three or four years now."
"I'm going to hold you to that, Rachel," Quinn laughs. Her words are normal and friendly but her eyes are teasing. It's driving you crazy.
"Please, feel free to," you shoot back, looking her right in the eye.
Santana pipes up for the first time in a while with an evil smirk in place. "Oh, yeah. Rach is like superwoman, she's always here. You guys are going to be seeing a lot of each other."
You fight the urge to glare at Santana, and instead force a probably very fake-looking smile. You're beginning to feel awkward, because the longer you're in Quinn's presence, the more opportunity there is for things to go wrong and for you to embarrass yourself.
Thankfully, she puts a hand on Emma's shoulder, getting her attention. "I have to shoot off, I have a meeting with Sue now." She looks to both you and Santana, for once smiling with her teeth.
Of course her teeth are fucking perfect. All straight and shiny.
"I'll see you ladies again soon," she continues, her eyes landing on you for a solid second before turning away and walking down the corridor, out of sight.
"Later," Santana drawls loudly, her eyes still on you, twinkling with mischief.
You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding while simultaneously glaring at Santana. You should have known she would have gotten a kick out of your discomfort and would act as a catalyst in making it worse for you.
Emma remains just inside the door of your office, clasping her hands in front of her excitedly. "We're so lucky to have Quinn," she gushes, ignorant to your hardening expression. "She's a rockstar within HLA."
"Oh, is she?" Santana grins.
You want to hit her. Hard.
"Absolutely. She's really going to turn this whole department around."
You try your best to smile at her, ignoring Santana beside her. "I can't wait to see what she can do."
Emma excuses herself politely and you immediately whip your head towards Santana, who broke the second the two of you were left alone and is now almost doubled over in laughter at your doorway. "Oh my god," she wheezes, wiping away a fake tear. "That was just gold."
"Would you shut up?" you scowl, folding your arms defensively across your chest and leaning your lower back against your desk. "Nothing even happened."
"It's all in the subtext, Berry. This is going to be so much fun."
You take your seat and fix her with the most ferocious glare you can manage. "Didn't you have a muffin you wanted to buy?"
"Yeah, but this was waaaaaay better."
You realise whatever you say next is going to be something you'd end up regretting, so you decide to ignore her, favouring looking at your computer. You hear her clear her throat, and you sigh and look up to see she has finally gained her composure and is looking at you expectantly, as if she hadn't been laughing hysterically at your expense for the past five minutes. "Hello? It's after 11, I still needs my coffee afores I kills a bitch."
You throw your eyes up to heaven, already moving towards your coatrack to get your blazer. "I thought you grew out of talking like that once you hit your early twenties."
"You can take the bitch out of Detroit, but you can't take Detroit out of the bitch."
The hours tick by without anything of interest happening, and soon you find yourself slipping your arms into your jacket, ready to leave the office for the day. Although you saw Quinn earlier and it was unbearably awkward, nothing too embarrassing happened, and you managed to avoid her for the rest of the afternoon, so you consider the day successful.
You exit your office and close the door behind you, looking forward to going home and complaining to Kurt all night, when you spin around and collide into someone, your foreheads mashing up together. You stumble backwards and groan, bringing a hand up to your temple and rubbing it. "Ow, sorry," you hiss, before focussing your eyes on the person before you.
You curse your luck immediately. Of course it had to be her.
"My apologies, Rachel," Quinn says, a cordial smile in place. "I didn't realise there was anyone still here."
You shake your head. "Santana and I are always the last employees to leave the building. That includes managers."
"Not anymore," she shoots back.
You give her a thin-lipped smile. "I see." You shift your weight from foot to foot, unable to make a decision on what to do or say.
This is so awkward.
Luckily, Quinn seems to have more to add. "I was going to wait until tomorrow morning but now that I have you here, I actually wanted to run something by you."
"Oh?"
She nods. "I understand you all submit your weekly reports on Mondays here, but I'm going to ask that you have them to me on Fridays from next week onwards."
Your mouth drops open. "That's… You c—I mean, why?" you stutter. You can't believe this. "We won't even have all the Friday figures by that afternoon."
"They come in at 4," she says with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, but they take at least two hours to complete. People will have to stay back an extra hour."
Her expression hasn't changed once since the conversation started. "Since you usually stay in until 7, I don't see the issue."
"You don't know what I busy myself with until 7," you come back with. "I have other important work to carry out too, you know."
"Do you like to complete the weekly report before you go home on Fridays?"
You pause, realising she's caught you out. "Yes, but—"
"So, this change really doesn't affect you at all then." It's more of a statement rather than a question. "In that case, what's the problem here?"
You remain silent. Quinn has you cornered and you feel shame seep into your bones.
She continues. "I mean, I understand other people being annoyed about this, but it seems like you're just looking to have an issue with me."
Her ability to keep her voice emotionless and neutral astounds you. "That's not true," you deny, your voice wavering ever so slightly. "I was just taken by surprise, that's all."
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Hmmm. Okay." She clearly doesn't buy it, and you prepare to defend yourself, but, to your relief, she's already walking past you towards the elevator. She keeps talking as she goes, her back to you the entire time. "It's the way things were done in Seattle, and it works well. You'll see that for yourself soon." She steps into the lift, and you watch dumbfounded as she turns to you, the doors slowly shutting. "Have a nice night, Rachel."
You don't have a chance to respond before the doors close, leaving you completely alone in the corridor.
You immediately snap out of your daze and storm in the direction of Santana's office, your annoyance building the entire journey. You fling open her door once you arrive, and she doesn't have to look up from her computer to know it's you. "Just give me a second," she says, sounding bored.
Your lack of response gets her attention, and she looks up at you, baffled by your outraged expression. "What?"
"You won't believe what that woman wants to do," you start, stalking inside the office and pacing up and down.
"Aw, fuck," Santana sighs, lightly slamming her fist into her desk. "I missed a showdown between you and Blondie. Was it good?"
You ignore her. "She wants the entire sector to start submitting our weekly reports on Fridays now. Fridays, Santana."
She blinks at you. "So?"
"Can you believe her? What will she want us to do next; contact our brokers on Mondays instead of Tuesdays?" You cough out a humourless laugh, pointing your index finger at Santana dramatically. "That would be utter insanity and totally something she'd try to pull."
Santana continues staring at you for a moment, unmoving with an unreadable expression on her face, before opening her desk drawer, reaching inside and picking up something light before flinging it haphazardly at you. It hits you lightly in the middle of your chest before falling to the floor, and you frown and bend down to pick it up. "What's this?" you ask dumbly, inspecting the packet.
"Xanax," she replies shortly. "You need it more than I do."
You curl your fist up in anger, dropping the packet of pills to her desk. "Be serious sometimes, Santana."
"I am being serious," she responds, leaning back in her desk chair and stretching her arms up, sighing as her back cracks. "Jesus, I wish I could get to you the way Blondie can. It must be so much fun to be able to say something so insignificant and get this much of a reaction out of you."
Your mouth drops. "This is not insignificant. She wants everyone in the office to give up a whole hour of their Fridays because it would be more convenient for her."
"Why should you care? We both have our weekly reports done and submitted before we leave on Fridays, anyway."
"That's not the point," you stress, placing your hands on the desk and leaning into Santana to try highlight how serious you are. "It's the injustice of—"
Santana cuts you off with a swift roll of her eyes. "Oh, shut up, Berry. You just want a reason to be angry with Barbie, so you're honing in on the first decision she makes. And it's not even a bad one; we've both been saying for years that everyone should submit these reports on Fridays the way we do."
"But it's th—"
"You can't expect a new boss to come in and not make changes," she says, interrupting you again. "You should just be thankful that this new change doesn't inconvenience you." She stands up and grabs her handbag, pointing towards the door. "C'mon."
You feel yourself get pulled along out into the corridor. "Where are we going?" you ask dumbly.
"We're going back to your place and getting shit-faced with Kurt. Lord knows you need it and lord knows I need it even more. It's going to take several vodkas to get the ringing of your whining out of my ears."
You pretend to be affronted, but internally you're relieved. You'd be lying if you said you didn't make an expensive trip to the liquor store over the weekend to prepare for the aftermath of this day.
"Tell me all about it," Kurt squeals, giddily jumping up and down in his seat when you and Santana arrive through the door.
You slump over immediately, sighing. "You don't even want to know."
"Oh, but I do." He stands up and gives you a tight hug, peeling your jacket off your back for you. "Come here, sweetheart."
You hear Santana behind you. "Uh, hello? Am I invisible?"
Kurt laughs, removing himself from you and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "I saw you last Friday, Santana."
"And you saw her this morning, why does she deserve all the love?"
"I've had an exceptionally hard day," you remind her.
She waves you off, already moving in the direction of the kitchen. "Please, it could have been so much worse than it was." You see her open your fridge, scouring for the Sprite. She finds it and swipes it out, before turning towards you and Kurt. "This one right here," she starts, pointing towards you, "actually managed to keep her giant beak closed, for once in her life. Mostly, anyway."
"What happened?" Kurt gasps, before holding a hand up. "Wait, don't tell me yet! I need a drink in my hand for this."
Santana carelessly waves around the bottle of Absolut she found seconds prior in your crockery cupboard. "That's what this is for, Porcelain. Why wasn't it where it usually is, anyway?"
"I don't know." He leans into your ear. "We need to make a bigger effort thinking of places to hide our alcohol from her," he whispers dramatically, eliciting a giggle from you.
Santana mixes together three drinks (that contain a lot of vodka and very little Sprite) and you all gather in the living room, the TV on low for background noise as you relay the events of the day to Kurt.
"Okay, I don't understand the significance of this weekly report thing," he says when you stop talking.
Santana rolls her eyes, finishing off her second drink. "Because there is none. Berry here just thinks if she's dramatic enough now, it can make up for her failure in drama school."
"I don't even know myself," you admit with a sigh, pushing yourself back further into the couch cushions as your legs curl in under you. "It's just something about her, the way she talks, the way she carries herself… I can't explain it, it just infuriates me."
"Orrrrrr," Santana starts, and you can tell from her tone that she's beginning to get fed up. "And maybe this suggestion is crazy and completely incorrect, but perhaps you're just jealous because she got the job and now you just hate her by default?"
You look her, and then to Kurt, who's giving you a sympathetic smile. "That is what it sounds like, Rach," he says gently.
"No, no, no," you deny. "I mean, Santana, you were there this morning. She was actively trying to get a rise out of me, commenting on my choice of attire."
Santana nods and lifts her glass in agreement. "This is true." She turns to Kurt, motioning to you. "A completely missed opportunity by the way, she wasn't at all harsh enough. I say worse to Berry on a regular day." She glances towards you and her eyes flick around your face. "Your nose could be used as a sundial when you lie down."
You and Kurt both gasp in unison. "Santana!" he scolds.
"What?" she asks, looking completely unrepentant. "She's used to it by now. And that's not even an original, I've said that to her before."
"And I have asked you time and time again to refrain from mentioning my nose ever," you grumble, feeling the familiar self-consciousness you remember all too well from high school.
She shakes her head, and you remember that this is Santana; you'll never get an apology out of her unless she does something incredibly messed up. "You're missing my point, which was that I'm meaner to you on a daily basis than Blondie was earlier. She didn't say anything like that to you."
"You're my friend," you sigh. "And it's just the way you are, you insult everyone. Quinn is singling me out because of the less-than-ideal circumstance in which we first met."
"And by less-than-ideal, she means—"
You're not in the mood for any more slander from her. Sometimes Santana doesn't know when the right time to quit is. "He knows very well what I mean, thank you Santana."
"Can you blame her though, Rachel?" Kurt says wearily, seemingly afraid of your reaction. "You did go crazy at this woman the first time you met her, and today was only your second meeting with her. I mean, if I were in her position I wouldn't hold it against you, but I can't exactly blame her for treating you a little differently to everyone else, especially this early on into knowing you."
Your eyes cast downwards. You know he's right.
"I'm sure it'll all work out," he continues, leaning closer to you on the couch and wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders. "As time goes on, that'll slip away and this will be all forgotten about. I'm sure you'll even end up warming up to her."
Santana's face lights up with a grin. "Oh my god, could you imagine if they started mashing kitties? That would be hysterical."
"Do you have to be so crude?" Kurt hisses. "We're trying to comfort Rachel, here."
"I'm not," she replies shortly. "I came for the booze and the subpar, but tolerable-in-small-doses, company." She eventually gets tired of the incredulous looks being sent her way, and sighs, placing her glass on the coffee table. "Fine, you want me to dial the bitch down for just a second?"
"Please," you say. "If you're capable, that is."
Santana folds her arms across her chest. "This isn't someone you're going to spend every waking moment with. You only really have to see her for a few minutes every week. And Kurt's right, you might start to like her. There's no point in pre-empting the next few months based off what happened in one day."
"Wow." You're sort of stunned. You weren't expecting Santana's words to be at all encouraging, because past experience tells you that Santana prefers dishing out tough love rather than comfort. "You're right. Thank you, Santana."
She shrugs, moving over to the coffee table to refill everyone's drink. "Keeping it real isn't always synonymous with being a bitch. I can be nice, you know."
"And besides," Kurt adds, shuffling even closer to you so he can engulf you in a proper hug. "If the worst case scenario happens and she's a massive bitch to you for the duration of your working with her, you have your best gays here to make the day better."
You crack a smile, and bury yourself further into Kurt as you feel Santana shove your newly refilled drink in your hand. "Exactly, Berry," she says. "I've got your back. And you know I'd rather get fired than let her treat you like shit."
That's one thing you really can count on. Santana may insult you more than your bullies in high school did, but she's incredibly loyal and you know she loves you.
"Here, here," Kurt says with a raised glass.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Why do you have to be so lame about it?" She lifts her own drink all the same.
You copy them with a smile. It's nice knowing you have great people on your side.
The majority of the week is almost as uneventful as you'd hoped it would be.
Interactions with Quinn are kept minimal; she barely features in your day, besides some gathered meetings, a few awkward (on your part) hellos in the corridor and the odd lecherous comment from Noah about how 'smoking the new boss chick' is.
You hate to admit it, but you do have to agree with him, though you wouldn't quite phrase it like that. Quinn is conventionally attractive, but not in a boring way; you spent your teen years trying to become comfortable with the way you look, because you realise that while you're pretty, you aren't as traditionally pretty as some and you struggled with that for a long time. In an effort to appreciate your genetics, a lot of your youth was spent idolising people in the limelight who made it there without being noticeably attractive, while at the same time mentally putting down women who were, trying to make yourself feel like you should prefer to look the way you do rather than the way they do.
You realised only in your early twenties that it probably wasn't the healthiest way of becoming comfortable in your own skin, and you, for the most part, have grown out of it.
However, even now, you find yourself scrutinising Quinn's face the same way you used to scrutinise other girls' faces in high school. You recognise that while a lot of women are attractive, they almost seem too perfect. Like there's not a single part of their face that gives them character.
But Quinn isn't like that.
At points during that first week of working with her, when you catch her in the corridor or see her chat to someone close by your office, you take the opportunity to inspect her. There are no flaws in her face; it is perfectly symmetrical, with a perfectly sized and placed nose, mouth, eyes, forehead, cheekbones, everything. Everything is too flawless, there is nothing a plastic surgeon would even fathom changing. Realistically, she should fit into the criteria of having a boring face.
But she doesn't.
There's something so pretty about her that you can't quite put your finger on. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but she's probably the prettiest woman you have ever seen, celebrities included.
It's yet another thing you can add to the list of reasons why you're jealous of her. Just watching her walk to her office, her perfect posture, perfect clothes, perfect face. It stirs up so much resentment in you that you sometimes don't know what to do with yourself.
It also stirs up some other feeling within you, too, but you don't want to think about that.
You can't think about that.
You find yourself particularly envious (and the other thing) during a meeting that Thursday, once again in Conference Room E, watching Quinn sit at the top of the table, perfectly poised in her seat beside Will. You keep watching curiously, ignoring everything Will is saying, and wondering just how someone can be so perfect and yet so unbelievably infuriating.
It's not until a rough kick to your shin makes you snap out of your jealous trance, and you turn with a glower to find Santana frowning at you, mouthing 'stop', that you realise you've been staring at your new boss like a serial killer.
Will's voice becoming slightly louder gets your attention. "I believe Quinn wanted to say a few words before we part ways for today. Quinn?"
She nods, swivelling in her chair to face everyone before clasping her hands in front of her and resting them on the desk. "I just want to remind you all that the weekly reports are to be submitted by tomorrow at 6." If you're not mistaken, you see her eyes flicker to you for a split second, before landing elsewhere. "I know some of you aren't happy with this new change, but after a few weeks you'll begin to see the benefits. The workload on Monday will be a lot lighter." Her eyes are definitely on you this time, bold and trying. "If, for some good reason, you're unable to stay back the extra hour or so on Fridays, please let Will or I know. Otherwise, you'll be expected to have them completed and submitted by this time."
You try your best to hold her gaze with a mean glare, but you're beginning to feel unsettled. If this staring competition continues for much longer, people are going to start to notice, and the last thing you need is your feud with Quinn being talk of the office. Reluctantly, you break eye contact, feeling defeated and suddenly finding interest in the trash can in the corner of the room.
"Is that everything?" you hear Will ask, and you chance a look over towards the top of the table again to see Quinn still staring at you, with an unmistakable smirk on her face and a light quirk to her eyebrow, as if you say 'ha, beat you'.
You bite down hard enough on your tongue to draw blood.
Quinn speaks, her taunting eyes never leaving you. "Yes, that's all."
You gulp.
"Alright," Will sighs, already pushing his chair back and standing up. "See you all tomorrow, then."
You're about to continue watching Quinn as she stands and leaves the room, but Santana whizzes around the table over to you, grabbing your arm roughly when she gets to you. "Ow, what?" you ask, lightly shoving her off and rubbing where her hand had been.
"Blondie was definitely being passive-aggressive as fuck," she whispers. "I see what you mean."
You throw your head back in relief. "Thank you!" you declare. "Now you know what I mean when I say she's been targeting me. She didn't take her eyes off me the entire time she was talking about the reports. It was like the weirdest staring match of my life."
"I know, be more obvious, why don't you?" she scoffs. "Red laser beams were practically coming out of your eyes and aiming straight for her head."
You round on her, this time grabbing her wrist. "She was provoking me," you hiss.
"I literally just agreed with you, you lunatic." She sighs, wriggling her wrist free and walking towards the door. "So, what's the plan now? Ignore her or wait for her to take this further and do or say something that you could actually bring to HR?"
"I'm not going to report her to HR," you say, hot on her trail. "That'll let her know that she's winning."
"What do you mean winning?" Santana says incredulously. "Is your life really this boring that you have to drag out a little tension between you and your new boss to give yourself a reason to get up in the morning?"
You roll your eyes. "N—"
"Rhetorical question; the answer is, of course, yes."
You shake your head adamantly. "She's trying to get a rise out of me Santana, and I can't let her."
"Aren't you already?" She motions to you wildly. "Look at yourself. Of course she's getting to you. She's obviously trying to have a little fun with you, I'll admit it, but you're no better when you react this way. Be the bigger woman and let it be water off a duck's back. You can't indulge her. She wants you to flip out again the way you did that first day. She'll stop when she doesn't get the reaction she wants. I know the way people work better than you do, you have to trust me."
Deep down, you know that's true. You can't let Quinn get under your skin the way she's so obviously trying to. Plus, Santana is blessed with both book-smarts and street-smarts. Her advice, albeit most of the time coming in the form of insults directed towards you, is usually excellent and always ends up helping you. "Fine," you mutter begrudgingly. "As long as I can bitch about her to you once we're off the clock. I need some form of an outlet."
"Deal," Santana says. "I don't want her to get the satisfaction any more than you do, Berry. Just don't go all loopy on me." She stops walking and you realise that you've made it to her office. She angles her head in the door to glance at her clock, before looking back to you. "Two more hours, Berry, and then we can drink and you can talk about how much you want to hate-fuck Barbie."
You bristle straight away and open your mouth to respond, but the door shutting in your face and the distant sound of Santana's cackling is all you register before you realise you're completely alone. You saunter to your own office in a daze.
You know she was only joking, but sometimes you seriously wonder if Santana can read minds.
You wish you could say things get easier with Quinn over the next few weeks, but that would be a complete lie.
Your days are spent avoiding her as much as you possibly can, taking whatever she says to you on the chin and then ranting about it later to a bored Santana and a gossip-obsessed Kurt over a glass of wine.
You're unfortunately seeing more of her these days, because she's began hosting weekly meetings on Wednesday mornings, during which she almost always manages to make some sort of snide comment that only you, her and Santana would understand relates back to you.
Additionally, she was moved from her temporary office, which was on the opposite side of the floor to yours, to her new one, which is directly beside the elevator you use multiple times daily.
And of course, with your luck, you always manage to bump into her whenever you head down that way.
"Good afternoon, Rachel."
You squeeze your eyes shut, mentally cursing whatever higher power there is up there, before slapping a smile on your face and spinning around to face her. "Hi, Quinn."
She's leaning against the doorframe of her office, her arms folded across her chest and her mouth moulded into a smirk. You've never seen someone lean against something while still maintaining proper posture before you met Quinn. "We have to stop meeting like this."
"Trust me, I'm trying," you say, forcing a strained laugh.
She ignores your comment, her polite smile staying firmly in place, as usual. "Any plans for the weekend?"
"Not really," you shrug, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. "I usually go for a drink with Santana on Fridays but I might give it a miss tonight and have a night in with my roommate instead."
"Hmmm. Probably for the best."
You freeze, your eyes narrowing. "What does that mean?"
"You wouldn't want to go out dressed like that." Her smile grows more and more smug as the seconds pass.
You genuinely can't believe your ears. "Like what exactly?" you growl, your fingers twisting painfully around the strap of your bag.
"You know," is all she says, pushing off the doorframe and making her way back into her office, shutting the door in the process.
You're left standing there dumbly, your mouth hanging open and the grip on your handbag slackening. The events of thirty seconds ago slowly catch up on you, and when they do, you see red. You step up to the door of her office and raise your fist high to bang on it, when you suddenly stop yourself.
Calm down, take deep breaths.
Don't visibly react in front of her.
You spin on your heel and march in the opposite direction of the elevator. You desperately need to calm down in your own office by yourself before you spend another second outside Quinn's, otherwise you genuinely don't know what you'd do.
Once you get to your office, you strip yourself of your jacket and pace up and down the room, contemplating jumping out of the window. You've never met anyone who has learned how to press all your buttons quite the way Quinn has, in so little time too, and you would find it impressive if it wasn't for the overwhelming desire to punch her in her smug face whenever she says anything at all. The woman elicits anger in you that you never thought you were capable of feeling, and you grip the edge of your desk to stop yourself from going out there to give her a piece of your mind.
Thankfully, Santana distracts you by gliding into the room and looking ready to leave for the day. She opens her mouth to speak, but pauses at the sight of you. "What's wrong with you?"
"That tyrant of a woman has a vendetta against me," you snarl, pointing accusingly down the hallway towards Quinn's office. "I am actually reaching my boiling point."
Santana groans audibly. "Fuck me, not again. What happened to not letting her get to you during work hours?"
"It's not my fault she's so awful to me." Something occurs to you, and you turn to her in annoyance. "What happened to 'I'd rather get fired than let her treat you like shit, Rachel'?"
Santana lifts her finger in the air calmly. "Okay, first of all I would never call you by your first name. Secondly, we were talking in terms of the worst case scenario. Obviously I'd protect you if she started being an absolute bitch to you. But honestly Berry, a few comments about your outfits and raised eyebrows sent your way do not warrant the half Lopez-Bitch Experience."
"Half?" you ask, confused. "What's the full experience?"
"I turn the bitch up to maximum capacity, plus they get the option of hate-sex." She shrugs nonchalantly. "Blondie's hot and all but I can't imagine her ever taking a trip down south. She's probably as straight as a pin."
You sigh, slumping down on your armchair. "She's such a bitch," you mutter.
"I'm not doing this anymore, Berry," she says sternly, striding towards your coat rack and grabbing your jacket, draping it over your shoulders and pulling you out of the chair. "I can't take any more of your whining. Instead of another night of me playing therapist and listening to you whinge about how much you want to waterboard your boss, let's do something for you that's just as beneficial."
You eye her curiously and sling your bag over your shoulder. "Let me guess, get me a drink?"
"Ding ding ding!" Santana grins, dropping a hand to your back and gently nudging you out of your office. "And I'm not taking no for an answer."
"You realise you're turning me into a borderline alcoholic, right?"
Santana shakes her head, keeping her hand on your back as she guides you to the elevator. "No one's forcing a dozen gin and tonics down your throat when we go out. I accept zero responsibility."
"Of course you do." You sigh, watching the door of Quinn's office as you walk. "I hate that we even have to walk past her door to get to the elevator."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Berry. It's all Quinn-Quinn-Quinn with you and I'm fucking sick of it."
"I have been talking about it a bit much, haven't I?" you cringe.
Santana rolls her eyes, grabbing onto your arm and pulling you further down the corridor. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. You really need to get the fuck over this, or, better yet, sort this shit out with her. Talk to her about it or something, get her roses, propose to her, I don't care. Just fucking end this, because it's exhausting having to hear about your pathetic problems every second of the day."
"I don't owe her any apologies," you hiss. "She has been nothing but awful to me since the day she started."
Santana throws her hands up in exasperation. "You don't have to outright apologise, just stop being a Grade A pain in the ass. Try having a casual conversation with her in the canteen, ask her about her weekend, anything, because from this point onwards I'm going to start charging you whenever you bring it up."
"Santana, even when we are having a normal conversation, she twists it into a way of insulting my outfit or my work ethic. How is it possible to have a normal conversation with her when she won't cooperate?"
Santana pauses, clearly thinking it over, before looking you dead in the eye. "Like this." She marches forward towards Quinn's office and knocks on the door, twisting back to look at you and giving you an evil smile.
"Santana!" You lurch forward and grab onto her arm to pull her back, but it's too late. Quinn is already at the door within seconds and looking expectantly, and slightly amusedly, at yours and Santana's current position and facial expressions.
"Yes?"
Santana shakes your hand off her arm and hooks her thumb to gesture at the elevator. "Me and Berry are going to Peploe's for a drink if you'd like to join us. Thought it might be nice to get to know you outside of work hours."
You can't believe this. You stare relentlessly at Santana with a wild look in your eye, trying to telepathically scream at her and ask what she's doing, but she is completely ignoring you. Fucking bitch.
Plus, you had already told Quinn you weren't going for a drink with Santana tonight. This is just going to look so strange.
Quinn remains silent for a second, and you desperately hope she declines, for the sake of everyone here, but eventually she smiles politely. "I'd love to. Let me get my things and I'll meet you in the lobby."
"Cool, see you in a few."
You watch helplessly as Quinn gently shuts her door and Santana turns to you, shrugging nonchalantly as if the murderous look you're giving her isn't bothering her one bit. "Had to be done."
"No, it didn't," you say incredulously. "Why would you do something like that?"
Santana rolls her eyes, already walking towards the elevator. "Because you've only ever seen Fabray in work-mode. Maybe if you have a normal conversation outside of the office, you'll see the human side of her, too."
You hate to admit that it makes sense, but you doubt very much that Quinn even has a human side. You feel nauseous with anxiety at the thought of having to speak to her outside of a work-setting, where there are no boundaries and nothing to distract yourself with should things go south. You follow Santana into the elevator with a defeated sigh.
Quinn joins you at reception after a few minutes and the three of you walk silently to Peploe's. You usually can't stand awkward silences, but for once you don't mind it. You figure the rest of the night is going to be like this, so you may as well get used to it now.
"These are our regular seats," Santana declares, pointing towards a table once you get inside. "You sit down, I'll grab some drinks. What's your poison, Fabray?"
You keep trying to catch Santana's eyes and communicate with her silently that you don't want to be left alone with Quinn, but once again she pretends not to notice you. You have a sinking feeling this will be happening a lot tonight.
Quinn settles down in your regular seat (you decide to ignore it just this once) and looks up at Santana graciously. "Bombay Sapphire gin and a tonic, thanks Santana."
Your head turns instantly to look at her in surprise.
"I knew you'd be one of those fancy bitches," Santana grins. "That's Berry's drink, too."
You try to smile, but you realise it probably looks more like a grimace. "Make that two, San."
She winks at you both. "Try not to strangle each other while I'm gone."
You cringe at her words and watch her walk away, bracing yourself for what will probably be the most awkward part of the night. You decide to get this over with and slowly turn your head to look at Quinn, who is busy rubbing her hands on the satin-covered arms of her seat. "This is a nice place," she notes, watching her palms glide smoothly along the fabric. "Lots of atmosphere. Do you come here a lot?"
"Oh, yes," you nod. "Every week for the past six years."
Her eyes bulge a little. "God, I wouldn't know what that's like."
You raise an eyebrow. "Not a big drinker?"
"I wouldn't say that," she laughs, leaning back in her seat. It's the first time you've ever seen her posture relax at all. Usually, she's ramrod stiff. "I'm a bit of a nomad. I've never stayed in the one place for more than a couple of years."
Your eyebrows shoot up higher. "Even as a kid?"
"Especially as a kid," she says cryptically. She looks like she's going to add more but Santana arrives back at the table with a tray of drinks in her hand, and her mouth snaps shut.
"Nice to see you haven't torn chunks out of each other yet," she says, setting the tray down on the table. She places both yours and Quinn's drink in front of you. "G and T for you, G and T for you…" She lifts up her martini and takes the seat right next to you. "And nectar of the gods for me."
You turn to Quinn with an eye roll but a fond smile. "Santana could put away seven or eight of those in a night and she would be stone-cold sober."
"But get one shot of tequila in me and I start hysterically crying out of nowhere, I'm even worse than a sober Berry." She takes a sip of her drink and sets it down, before resting her chin on her fist and turning her attention to Quinn. "So, Quinn. What's your deal?"
Quinn eyes you both. "My deal?"
"Like, where you grew up," she clarifies. "Where you went to college, your first job, all that."
Quinn shrugs, sipping on her drink. "I didn't really grow up in one particular place. I was born in Georgia, but I moved around a lot as a kid because of my dad's job. The longest time I stayed in the one place was in college, but even then I would go back and forth between dorms and visiting my family."
"Jesus, that must have been tough," Santana says.
"I mean, I have a sister, and it was nice having her around. But it was definitely hard to make close friends when I knew that I'd be leaving them at the end of the semester, you know?"
You nod sympathetically. You can relate to not having many friends. You only had one in high school (and a Finn), and now you have two: that same friend from high school, and Santana. You normally reason that having Santana is worth having ten friends, but she's not exactly in your good books right now. "Where did you go to college?" you ask.
"Yale," she says with a small, sheepish smile.
Your jaw drops, as does Santana's. "Well, look at you Miss Ivy League," Santana smirks. "Admittedly, that's quite impressive."
"Quite?" you scoff, before focussing on the blonde. "What did you study, Quinn?"
Santana takes a large swig of her drink and makes a show of pretending to whisper to you but speaking loud enough for Quinn to hear. "Probably finance or something equally as boring."
"Journalism, actually," Quinn laughs.
You cough out a surprised laugh. "Journalism? And you ended up working in life assurance?"
"I know," Quinn sighs. You get the impression she's not thrilled with it, either. "It's not what I had planned, but it's the way it turned out."
Santana lifts her drink in the air. "Amen to that." She finishes the martini in one swift gulp, and puts her thumb up to Jason at the bar to signal she wants another. "And what about working in the company?"
"I was interning in the San Antonio branch during a summer in high school when we were living in Texas," she starts. "They were really impressed with me, but it wasn't what I wanted to do and I kept moving around, so I told them I wouldn't be back the next summer. But, I ended up moving back to San Antonio to live with my sister when I got my degree, because I just couldn't find a paper that wanted to hire me."
"Nowhere wanted to hire a Yale grad?" you ask incredulously.
"Nowhere good," Quinn nods. "Nowhere that would be taken seriously. I was a bit arrogant when I graduated college; I thought I was the best of the best and wouldn't tolerate working anywhere with a reputation less than that. I was in San Antonio for a few months and I was really at the end of my tether when I got a call from my old boss in HLA, asking if I was around and wanted to work, for pretty good pay this time. I needed money, and it was better than the offers I was getting from the tabloid places that would take me, so I said yes. And I've been a part of HLA ever since."
Santana takes her drink from her waiter, not once taking her eyes off Quinn. "And they moved you around a lot within the company?"
"Oh, yes," she breathes. "Spent a year in San Antonio, two in Austin, then they moved me up to Cincinnati for two, and then to Seattle for a year." She glances towards you with a slight smile. "And now I'm in New York."
You lift your glass. "Cheers." You all clink glasses, you and Quinn sipping at yours and Santana glugging the entirety of hers. "How many more of those do you plan on having, Santana?"
"None." She stands up and slips her arms into her jacket. "I have to head home. Tonight's the night I wash my hair."
You would have rolled your eyes at her purposely pathetic excuse if you weren't so nervous at the thought of being left alone with Quinn. You dig your nails into your thigh to stop yourself from outwardly protesting and look up at Santana with desperate eyes.
She glances at Quinn, sees her eyes are focussed elsewhere, and then mouths to you 'this is your chance', before smiling. "You gals stay and have a drink in my honour. See you Monday."
"Goodnight, Santana," Quinn says with a smile, and you echo her with a murmur. You watch Santana walk out of the bar over the rim of your glass, busying yourself with finishing your drink. You make sure you get every last drop out of it before setting it back down on the table, wondering what the hell you're going to say next.
Quinn, to your surprise, beats you to it. "How about another one? On me."
You consider this for a moment, before giving her a sly smile and testing the waters with a joke. "I suppose it's only fair, you did take my job, after all."
Quinn laughs heartily, and once again you found yourself surprised by how at ease she is out of work. "Touché." She waves her hand to get a waiters attention, and he nods at her. She turns back to you with a small sigh. "Listen, Rachel, I think it's time we address the elephant in the room, don't you?"
You gulp. It shouldn't shock you that Quinn Fabray wasn't one for beating around the bush; you've come to realise that she's full of surprises. "Sure. I'll start us off." You position yourself so you are facing her head on, so she knows she has your full attention. "I know I made a ridiculously awful first impression on you, and I know you hate me—"
"Hate you?" she asks, baffled. "I don't hate you, Rachel."
"Seriously?" You give a breathy laugh. "It never seemed like you liked me."
Quinn crosses her legs and slings her arm over the back of her chair, angling her body towards you. "Well, I won't argue with that," she says with a small smile, earning another laugh from you. "But in my defence, you didn't really give me a reason to like you."
You nod slowly, finding you have nothing in your rolodex of retorts to help you respond to that.
She continues. "Did I think you were going to be challenging to work with? Yes. But hate is such a strong word."
"I've used it a lot these past few weeks in relation to you," you admit, feeling guilty about the situation for the first time.
But her smile doesn't drop even a bit. "And to be honest? I can't really blame you. Sure, your initial reaction was extreme, but I understood from it that you're the type of person who reacts first and thinks second, and I used that information to play around with you for a little bit. That wasn't right of me, and I definitely owe you an apology for that."
You blink at her. "Apology accepted," you croak, not really knowing what else to say. Except: "And I apologise for the way we met."
"I knew it wasn't personal," she shrugs. "You would have reacted the same way if any other man or woman turned up one day the way I had."
You're ashamed to admit that you never even considered that. To you, Quinn symbolised the bitterness and disappointment you felt when you found out the job wasn't going to be yours. You latched onto disliking her in the beginning because it gave you something to target your resentment at. Then, all her little comments towards you just fuelled it even more, when in reality you suffered much worse treatment by your peers in high school, yet you never loathed them the way you loved to loath Quinn. "You're right," you sigh remorsefully. "I suppose I've been a little unfair to you since you started."
"And I have been unfair to you, too. I'm willing to forget about all this if you are. If I had a little white flag, I'd be waving it right now."
You laugh, finding yourself feeling at ease in her presence. Weird. "Truce, Quinn," you declare, holding your hand out to her.
"Truce." She slides her hand into yours and gives you a real, wide smile. "Besides," she continues, taking her hand away and resting it comfortingly on your shoulder. "I think I may have reacted the same way you did, in your position."
You scoff. "I find that incredibly hard to believe. You always seem so measured."
"Seem is the key word," she breathes, retracting her hand when she sees the waiter arrive with your drinks. "I'm sure you know just as well as I do that being a young woman in the professional world is difficult."
You pick up your glass with a knowing smile. "I'll drink to that."
Quinn laughs lightly and clinks her glass with yours. "It's hard to be taken seriously, being young and blonde and, dare I say it while trying not to sound conceited, attractive. Add openly emotional onto that list, and it's a recipe for disaster. No one would respect me if I blew up whenever I felt like it." She releases a long breath, breaking eye contact to playfully roll her eyes. "And boy, have I felt like it sometimes."
"Join the club," you smirk.
The blonde shrugs nonchalantly, gulping her gin down. "I've just been lucky. Hiding our feelings was kind of the hallmark of my family. Everything negative was shoved under the metaphorical rug, and we pretended everything was fine. Imagine my utter shock when my parents eventually separated," she says sarcastically.
"How is that lucky?" you ask with a raised eyebrow.
"I've long since learned how to adapt to the man's world that is the modern work environment. As painful as it was to grow up with, controlling how I express my emotions has been a powerful tool in my job." She looks up at you through her eyelashes and gives you a playful nudge with her elbow. "I think you could learn a thing or two from me."
You chuckle lowly. "I actually don't doubt that. I would hope the person handpicked by Sue to be my superior would actually be better than me."
"I think 'better' is the wrong word," she responds. "Better equipped maybe."
"That's just fancier way of saying 'better'," you shoot back wryly.
Quinn goes silent for a moment, and you begin to worry that you said the wrong thing, but she interrupts your thoughts with a smile. "I'm sure you would have done just as good a job, Rachel."
You give her a thin-lipped smile and sit back in your seat, your eyes flicking all over her face and choosing your next words very carefully. "You're not too bad, Quinn. Santana was right."
If you aren't mistaken, you think she looks slightly nervous. It seems like the mask is at last slipping away. "What did she say?"
"That I should get to know you outside work," you supply. "She reasoned that I had such a hard time relating to you after what happened because I've never had a normal, human-to-human conversation with you. Any time we interacted before this was within the confines of the work-space." You give a small shrug when you see Quinn's expression soften. "It's a lot easier to like you now that I know more about you."
She shoots you the brightest smile you've ever seen her give someone, seemingly pleased with your response. "Getting to know each other outside of work sounds nice." She downs the rest of her drink, and you copy her, also finishing yours in the process. She signals to Jason for two more gin and tonics, before folding her arms and smirking slightly at you. "So, Miss Berry."
"Rachel," you correct, matching her smirk. You're reminded of your first meeting with Quinn for the hundredth time since that day, but for the first time, it doesn't make you feel sick to your stomach.
"Rachel." Her smile turns soft. "You've heard all about me tonight." She briefly glances over to Jason at the bar, busying himself with preparing your drinks. She turns her attention back to you, and leans back in her seat, folding her arms comfortably across her chest. "Now tell me about you."
A/N: I know Quinn hasn't featured very much so far, and I'm aware this story seems like a Pezberry friendship fanfic at the moment, but things will change after this chapter. Trust the process!
But I'm kind of not even sorry about it because Santana is just the most fun character to write. While I'm writing her, I find myself coming up with things I would never imagine saying or even thinking of. I hope I do her justice, she's genuinely one of the best characters in TV history. It's awful how we'll never see more of what Naya had to offer, she was so insanely talented. I miss her terribly.