Author's Notes: Yes, I have survived the hell season of real life. Apparently, writing fluff is the natural counter for stress, which explains why this chapter is 70% fluff, 20% plot, and 10% smut. With credits to my writing buddy curionenene, who helped push this chapter to completion.
For M, who got me into fanfiction into the first place. One year on doesn't make it easier.
Part Ten: Somethin' in you put a hold on my heart
Santana, to her credit – and in spite of her violent protestations – is a good listener. She 'mmhmm's and 'okay's periodically throughout Marley's explanation, only butting in to ask good questions and confirm facts.
"You got this all thought out," she says carefully, when Marley finally finishes talking.
She's not sure if it's a compliment or a rebuke. "Yeah?"
"Chill. It's a good thing. This is a huge enterprise you're talking about." Santana snorts, loudly and abruptly. "Except, you know, for one small thing."
"What?"
"That it's not gonna work."
Dread trickles through her veins. "... What?"
Santana sighs. "Come on, don't sound like I just drop-kicked your puppy. Look, Rosie… I'm gonna be completely straight with you. Ironic as that is."
Marley chuckles weakly.
"Me and Q, we're both cynical bitches who can count on each other to be real. But you and Rachel, you two are the kinds of people who, well, see everything as being full of sunshine and magic and fucking rainbows." She sighs. "It's not a bad thing. I keep Rachel from getting herself into too much trouble, and she occasionally helps me see that sometimes the world isn't as fucking bleak as it is. Shit just works out."
"Your plan isn't gonna work 'cause it's way too much on the sunshine and magic side of life," continues Santana.
"... You're saying it's too idealistic."
"Give yourself a gold star if you haven't already got one! Yeah, that's exactly what I said."
Marley's grip on the phone tightens. "Why? I don't understand. I thought through every bit of this."
"Look, it's not really your fault the world is a horrible place that eats you for breakfast and then washes you down with a bunch of orphans and kittens. The truth is, real life doesn't work out as you want it to." When Marley doesn't immediately respond, Santana continues: "Okay, Rosie; your plan was for you to work with me on a couple more songs. Producing, lyrics, whatever mojo you've picked up as a legit record producer. You get my work noticed at Atlantic LA, they'll want to sign me to the label. I'm getting everything right so far?"
"Yeah."
"They'll want to fly me out to LA to start recording my album, but I won't want to uproot my life, which hey – they don't give a flying fuck, because they've got Atlantic Records right there in NY. So all they need to do is to get the East Coast branch to do it. What better person than the one who discovered Santana Lopez in the first place? And would you look at that? The chica wants to go back to New York too! You keep your awesome job, you get to go back to New York to be with Q, and I get the fame and fortune I deserve."
"What's so bad about that?" demands Marley.
"First of all, Rosie. Marley. You're assuming they love my work enough to sign me to the label."
"Why shouldn't they? You're talented, Santana."
"You also assume they'll agree to your demands to fly you back here. The whole reason why you're out there is because they didn't have a vacancy in the city, Rosie. What are the chances they'll make one because I'm so valuable they'll do anything I say?"
Marley chews on her bottom lip, and doesn't reply.
"Flying people back and forth costs money," continues Santana, relentless. "Even if they – by some holy miracle of flying bacon – sign me, why can't they just get one of their New York people to produce me? Why fly someone, who was employed only because some high-up executive got a boner for her, back where their office is already stuffed full of experienced, potentially competent producers?"
"Enough, okay? I got it." Marley slides low on the couch. "I get it. It's not gonna work."
"It's shitty, but real life is shitty." Santana sighs. "Hey, look on the bright side; you're better at accepting reality than Rachel is. I lost count of the number of times she made me sleep on the couch just because I try and tell her there's no way Broadway is gonna inhale the magic pollen overnight and fire the current Jasmine." She snickers suddenly. "But I might be convinced to plant magic pollen in her dressing room…"
"Santana!" exclaims Marley, scandalised.
"I'm kidding!"
"I hope so…" She heaves another long, drawn-out sigh. "Well… back to the drawing board."
"Hey. You alright, Rosie?"
"Yeah. I will be. Thanks, Santana, for the – uh – shot of reality." Marley rubs at the bridge of her nose.
"Anytime," says Santana with more warmth than most people think beyond her. "A word of advice? From someone older and thus way more awesome about the mysteries of life?"
She can't help the smile that creeps over her face. Santana is going out of her way to be nice – which is something the Santana in high school would never have done – and it reminds Marley that there's a reason she counts Santana as one of her closest friends. "Please share your wisdom."
"Life isn't magical," says Santana, "at least, not in that Disney sing-an-empowering-song-and-all-your-dreams-come-true sense. With fairy sprinkles on top. You have to adjust your ideas of what magic is, before you go out and make your own magic."
"... While that made sense, it also sounded like something the parent in a Disney movie would say."
"Yeah? I blame the hobbit for that." She doesn't sound particularly annoyed, though, so Marley shrugs and makes non-committal sounds in the phone.
"Well, as entertaining as this has been, I gots places to be. It's been real, Rosie," says Santana.
"Sure. Thanks for everything," she says, and Santana makes this disbelieving noise before hanging up.
It's never a good sign when your boss calls you into his office for no apparent reason. Marley can't help but fidget all the way through the offices, in the hallways, and finally into his office space. "You wanted me, Mr Jessup?"
"Yes, Rose. Have a seat."
She does.
"I have the numbers here for Trent Morgan's album sales," he says, holding up the paper. "They're looking good, so far. Great work for a rookie, especially one fresh out of college with zero experience."
"Thank you, sir."
"I took the liberty of listening to your work as well, and it sounds good. I was taking a big risk, flying you all the way here from the East Coast, but Andrew assured me it was worth my time. I'm glad I listened to him."
"Thank you, sir."
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Relax. I'm not gonna fire your ass back to New York, if that's what you're afraid of. In fact, I called you in to tell you what a good job you're doing, and then inform you you're going on tour."
"... Excuse me?"
"Not you, per se. The record store tour went well. We want to capitalise on that, make sure Trent's everywhere. While I don't think he's ready for an international tour yet, I think a small regional tour might be good publicity. No, a state tour, maybe Phoenix too, that sort of thing." He slides a piece of paper across his desk to her. "Go look for Tom. Get him to do the legwork, and he'll tell you what else you need to do to prep Trent."
She takes the paper. "Yes, sir."
While he isn't exactly freaking out, Trent doesn't take the news calmly either. "A tour?" he whisper-shouts, pacing the studio. "Me! Trent Morgan, touring?"
"Yep," replies Marley. "They love you, and we wanna capitalise on that."
"A tour!"
She chuckles. "It's not sold out stadiums and legions of screaming fans, just so you know. We're talking… mall performances. Album signings. Maybe renting out community centres to perform."
He turns gleaming eyes on her. "Still! This is everything I've dreamed of as a kid!"
Marley is entertained by his excitement. "And it's coming true."
"Oh yeah."
"So, back to the sound stage for rehearsals."
He grins, but she can tell his heart really isn't in it. But he salutes her as he shoulders his guitar, and slopes off.
Marley's phone pings with an email. It's from someone called 'snixxxy', and there's a MP3 file attached. She calls Santana.
"A MP3? Really?"
"What? You said you wanted to look over awesome demos for free." She can practically hear the smirk in Santana's voice.
"Yes, but… a lossy file isn't exactly the best demo. And I thought you shot down my plan."
"I'm so sorry I can't like, physically mail you a hard drive that has an uncompressed file. Or, as you do, import you into the studio to listen to me sing." Santana's voice loses its edge, as does her sarcasm. "Maybe I just want you to hear it. Maybe I like having your input on my music. Is that not okay?"
"I… I'm sorry, I didn't think…"
"Oh relax. I was joking." And she's back to sounding like her usual self. "I'm going for the solo artiste route anyway, so I was just looking for opinions. Even Rachel didn't get to hear that yet."
Marley sighs. "Santana, I really am sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that."
"Oh, I have to stop you there," she interrupts, "because it sounds like you're gonna have feelings over the phone at me, and that's something I do not suffer willingly. Rach! Babe! Do you have a minute?" The last is muffled, yelled away from the phone. There's more muffled words, then a wet smacking sound, before Rachel's voice filters over the line.
"Hello?"
"Marley! Hi!" Rachel sounds as bubbly as ever. "How's everything? I heard your artist's album is going well!"
"Good. Yeah, it is; we should be going on a small tour to promote it. Which sounds a lot more fun than it actually is, because I have a lot of stuff to prepare for it."
"Oh. Well, I have full confidence that you'll pull it off… Santana is being very unsubtle about… you have feelings? What on Earth are you talking about?" Rachel trails off uncertainly as she confers with her girlfriend out of Marley's earshot. Marley waits.
"Okay, back." Rachel pauses, and says: "According to Santana, you were almost mean, which she finds astonishing since people like you and I don't possess a mean bone in our entire bodies." She pauses again. "You more than me. Because apparently I have a cruel and unusual streak." The last part is said loudly, seemingly more for Santana than for her.
"...okay?"
Rachel's voice softens. "Marley? I got her to go away. She's gone. Now, what's really on your mind?"
"Not much. Work, everyday life, my friends. What to buy for dinner tonight."
Rachel hums thoughtfully. "Quinn's doing fine, in case you wanted to know. We had her over for dinner the other night."
"That's good." Marley already feels her cheeks flushing. "I, uh, this wasn't really about Quinn."
"I know," replies Rachel, all chipper. "That was just so you wouldn't have to ask later."
"Um, thanks, Rachel."
"Don't mention it."
"... How's your musical?" asks Marley, thoughts momentarily derailed.
"My musical? You…" She can almost hear Rachel struggling over the phone, thousands of miles away. "It's going swimmingly. Someday, they'll recognise my talent and install me as the permanent Jasmine. Or, better; when Jesse's new workshop finds funding and we get off the ground."
"I've heard about that, Quinn mentioned it in passing."
"Oh, wonderful! It's top secret, of course, but you're far away enough that it hardly matters. Jesse spent a year looking for a female lead, and he told me I was the only one suitable for the part. I have a really good feeling that this could be my breakthrough role."
"I really hope it is," Marley tells her sincerely.
"And now we're done prevaricating, let's talk about you. Why did you call Santana in the first place?"
Marley casts about for a nice way to explain it, and comes up short. "She, uh, she sent me a demo of a song she's working on."
"Oh. Yeah, she's been working on that for a while, all secretive with her laptop and headphones. I've respected her artistic need to create solo, though I've told her that she's always free to ask an experienced songwriter like myself for any assistance."
"Ohkay…" Marley falters briefly. "Uh, I didn't react as well as I should have. I just came out of a conversation with this artist whose album I produced, and the label wants to send him on tour."
"That's great!" says Rachel. "Wait, you're going on tour too?"
"No. My work officially ends when the album's out in the stores. But I need to help Trent adjust some of his songs for stripped-down, acoustic renditions; maybe rearrange some other songs for 'impromptu' covers."
"That sounds interesting! Is he the only one you're working with right now?"
"Yes, but that's actually not normal. But right now we're in a bit of a rut. All the other albums currently in the works are nearing the end, and my boss doesn't think I should be jumping on last minute and messing with the other engineers' flow. So essentially, I have a bit of a break."
"... Does this have anything to do with why you didn't react well to Santana's song?"
Marley sighs. "A little."
"I sense a story."
Marley sighs again, heavier this time. "Do you have five minutes?"
"Of course. I don't need to be at the theater for the matinee until three. I'm all yours," says Rachel, suddenly more bubbly than Marley thinks possible.
She relates her plan and Santana's reaction in detail. Rachel listens in complete silence.
"... and she said she just wanted my opinion on it," finishes Marley.
Rachel sighs. "As much as every fibre in my being wants to disagree with her… she's right. The world is blind and deaf – what other reason could there be for my not having received my Tony yet? This year is my deadline year, and I'm still an understudy!"
"Uh, okay?"
"But there's a lot to be said for putting yourself out there, you know," says Rachel, her strident tone softening. "We audition, we get shot down countless times. My nose is too big, I'm too ethnic, I'm too short. When I finally got a place standing in the background onstage, swaying and harmonising, I was thrilled." Rachel's voice gains fire. "Anyway – my point is; nothing ventured, nothing gained. Santana may think nothing will come out of sending her work to you, but what's important is that it's out there."
"I see," says Marley carefully. Despite Santana's cynicism, Rachel's words have revived some of her optimism.
"Besides, didn't you use to write songs yourself?"
Marley blinks in surprise; then remembers Rachel can't see her. "Uh – yes, I did."
"Weren't they good? I recall Mercedes saying that she was really impressed by them. Blaine, Sam, and Tina have all told me the same at one point or another."
"I, well, I haven't written anything for a while," Marley mutters. She deliberately fails to mention the one or two pieces she dabbled with in between studio sessions, and shelved."I submitted them to a few contests and never heard anything back. I supposed they weren't as good as I thought they were."
"Nonsense," scolds Rachel. "Songwriting contests are honestly not the best judge of talent. Do you think Taylor Swift would have become – well, Taylor Swift – if she'd given up when her demo tapes got rejected?"
"I'm not – you don't even know what they sound like," says Marley.
"How about a little quid pro quo? I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Do you know that the National Show Choir committee has a YouTube account? Go search the Midwestern Regionals 2011 tag," commands Rachel.
"Wait, wait." It takes a while for her to boot up her work laptop, but eventually she finds the video Rachel wants. Marley watches as Rachel sings her solo, and then New Directions' group performance. She can't take her eyes off Quinn (even though she's sure that's not what Rachel intended when she told Marley to watch the videos). She looks so young; all her friends look so young, it's disconcerting.
And even though it's a high school show choir performance, Marley finds the energy and enthusiasm radiating from New Directions remarkable. She understands now what binds Finn, Rachel, and the others together, what they meant when they talked about the group having something special.
"Are you done?"
Rachel's voice filters back into her ear. "Uh, yeah," says Marley.
"What do you think?"
"That was really good, although the glitter slushies were a little extra."
"Hey, we were seventeen," Rachel defends herself, "they were an ironic statement. Also, I wrote those two songs."
"You did?"
"Yep. Now…" Marley hears the clicking of computer keys over the line. "You wrote songs that were performed too, right? Regionals?"
"Yes," she says, a tad grumpily. "And neither of us are pursuing a career in songwriting, so the similarity continues."
"Grumpiness doesn't become you."
"So that's another career option off the list."
"Neither does sarcasm," says Rachel, but she sounds amused. "Now hush. I would like to watch these performances."
So Marley sits back in her chair and waits. She kind of wishes Santana hadn't passed the phone to Rachel, because it really feels like she's getting a lecture.
"That was amazing, Marley," says Rachel at last. "There's definitely a lot of potential there."
"Thanks."
"Since you don't really have any projects on your plate at the moment, I feel like this is a golden opportunity to explore that talent of yours." Rachel sounds so excited, Marley doesn't have the heart to continue trying to be sarcastic. "As good as I am in songwriting, I've never loved it as much as I love performing onstage, therefore it was the natural choice to leave Get It Right as the height of my brief career. However, you don't love the performing side of music as much as I do, correct?"
"Yeah," says Marley. She's talked about this recently, but before Quinn, this is a topic of conversation that rarely sees light of day.
"So what's stopping you?"
"I'm not paid to write songs."
"I hardly think your boss is gonna fire you for writing songs. On the contrary, it might help you in future projects. Composing music, writing lyrics, singing, creating a polished album track…. does a phrase like 'triple threat' exist for the music production side?"
"I think you can coin one when I actually can do all the stuff you listed," replies Marley dryly.
Rachel huffs. "I know you're not Quinn nor Santana, but I can't help but feel like you're not taking me seriously."
"Look, Rachel… it's a lot to take in one go," she says. "I'll think about it, okay?"
"Fair enough." There's some rustling in the background. "I'm about due for my afternoon coffee, anyway. It was good talking to you, Marley."
"Thanks, Rachel. It was good talking to you too, even if I don't sound like it."
Rachel giggles. "Trust me, you were fine. One puts up with more than one's fair share of attitude when one dates Santana Lopez."
She absolutely was not taken in by Rachel Berry's indefatigable optimism. Not a smidgen. That's why Marley is seated in front of her laptop, surrounded by paper, GarageBand open on the screen.
She sighs, dragging her hand down her face. This feels exactly like college, except she doesn't have to pay through the nose for this, and there won't be a professor chewing her out if she doesn't have a complete song at the end of the day.
Marley can't even remember what it was that she used to do, back in school, to get her inspiration. Was it Elvis? Listening to the radio? Reading her angsty teenage diaries? Wavering between two teenage boys?
Flopping backwards, she toys with one of the default looping beats on GarageBand, tweaking it until she can find something that holds her attention for more than a hot minute. Everytime she finds something that might have potential, Marley loses interest, and saves it for another time.
"This isn't working," she mutters to herself. Marley stands up, stretches, grabs her phone.
Quinn's phone rings to voicemail; Marley tries not to let herself be disappointed. It's the middle of the day, and Quinn must be busy in the office. Marley tucks her phone back into her pocket and heads out.
Unlike the distinct change of seasons in New York, Los Angeles always seems to be hot. Sunglasses are a staple of her wardrobe now, together with her hats.
Griffith Observatory is deserted at this time of day. She wanders around the grounds, and eventually winds up at the lookout point.
Standing side-by-side was too far away. Marley moves behind Quinn, so she can put her chin on Quinn's shoulder, head tilted to rest against Quinn's neck. She smiled wide when she felt Quinn relax into her.
They continued to watch, enraptured, as the sunset's orangey-purple glow slipped below the horizon. Darkness painted the city in increasingly broader strokes, just as city lights twinkled in counterpoint.
"Being here with you made it so much more awesome," said Marley, and turned her face to kiss Quinn's neck.
Quinn shifted. Marley's next kiss was intercepted by lips, and a warm hand holding her steady. It was an awkward angle, but she wasn't about to stop kissing Quinn because of something trivial like muscle cramps.
Quinn broke the kiss. "This is so awkward," she complained.
"No, it isn't," replied Marley. She tightened her hold on Quinn's waist, planting playful kisses all over Quinn's face, neck, jaw; wherever she could reach. Quinn attempted to squirm out of her grip, laughing helplessly.
"Stop!" she demanded in between laughter.
"Make me!"
Somehow, she did. Quinn slipped out of Marley's arms with a fluidity that stunned her; while Marley was still processing this turn of events, Quinn caught her face in both hands, and kissed her. Marley kissed back, incapable of doing anything else.
"How did you…?" She managed eventually.
"One of the perks of middle school gymnastics, and high school cheerleading." Quinn pecked her lips again, a devilish smirk spreading over her face. "Made you stop."
Marley rolled her eyes in her best imitation of Quinn, and looped her arms back around Quinn to continue where they left off.
The memory makes her smile. It also makes her ache in longing – and brings a thought to mind: that there's enough poetry in this to write a song.
Marley laughs to herself. She's certainly written more with less, thanks to teenage angst. Her hand goes into her messenger bag, withdrawing pen and notebook; booping up the brim of her hat, she starts to write.
With two weeks to go before the tour, she and Trent are in the studio nearly every hour of the day. Between the two of them, they've knocked out a setlist and encores – with instrumentation – with even a few covers of popular songs for fun.
"So, Marley, I was thinking…" As he talks, he places both hands on the body of the instrument, pillowing his head on his hands.
"Yeah?"
"Maybe you could, like, share one of your songs with me."
She almost falls out of her chair. "My what now?"
He grins at her. "Oh, yeah, pull one over the country boy, right? We're practically living in each other's pockets these days; ain't no way I won't notice if there's stuff I didn't write floating around."
"Um." She flushes pink. "I didn't mean for anyone to hear that… nothing's done, it's all bits and pieces."
"You kiddin' me? It's good! I'm glad I got to hear it. You've got talent oozing out of you."
She wrinkles her nose as he laughs. "That sounds… less than pleasant, though I appreciate the sentiment. Thanks, Trent."
"You can thank me by sharing your stuff proper. No more lurking in empty studios, having to stay late after work to look it over…"
She catches her lower lip between her teeth. She knows how talented Trent is – she's produced his album, she's worked with him through the entire creative process – and anyone with any music knowledge would be scrambling for the chance to work with him. "I don't want to distract you from your tour prep…"
Trent waves a dismissive hand. "Naw. We're all but done. I'd be happy to help out, especially after all the stuff you've done for me."
Marley snorts. "That's my job, Trent."
"Mixing the stuff that goes on my album is your job. Sitting up with me to get that melody right, reworking the lyrics where they got clunky, providing background vocals 'cause the studio and session people didn't have the right sound… Fetching black coffee 'cause dairy is bad for my voice." He raises an eyebrow.
"I get it," she says hastily. Trent grins at her. "Your first album is my first album too; I just wanted to make sure it was a hit."
"And it is," he says. "So whaddya say? We jam a little?" He holds out a hand. "And that means that notebook you're always scribbling your stuff in, too."
"You drive a hard bargain," says Marley, and they laugh.
If she has to be honest with herself, though, she's nervous. Her hands shake ever-so-slightly as she fishes the book out of the bag, hands it to him. Marley's only felt this exposed once before; in her darkened bedroom in Lima, with Quinn's hungry gaze washing over her unclothed body.
Trent smiles to himself as he scans the rough guitar tabs sketched on the paper. "I thought you were mostly a GarageBand kind of gal," he says.
"Hey, I know a bit of guitar, okay? Basic instrumentation is essential for any music producer." Marley's fingers trace the edges of the paper. "Besides, this felt like a guitar kind of song."
He props the notebook on a stand and takes up his guitar, picking out the melody. Trent turns the notes into arpeggios as he picks out harmonies; then chords, humming along the entire while. "This is nice."
"Thanks," she says, blushing hot. "There are… the next page has lyrics."
The musician nods in time to the music. "Sing," he commands.
And she only hesitates a moment before she complies.
Does anybody see beyond the trees
Does anybody get across the sea
I was traveling to where I can't recall
I can't get back to you now
"That's as far as I've gotten," says Marley, suddenly shy again.
Trent cocks his head to one side. With his fringe falling in his eyes, he resembles Sam, except with a touch more of golden retriever. "It's a good start," he says at last. "It's not a snippet, or a project, or anything. It will be a song. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah," replies Marley, slowly returning his smile. "I really think I do."
By the time they tear themselves out of the studio, Marley's bursting to the seams with excitement. She has a complete song, a honest-to-goodness song, that she hasn't been this excited about since high school. It feels phenomenal. It feels like falling in love, almost; the swooping of her stomach, her heart full to bursting with emotions.
She's too excited to keep it all inside. In the short space between getting into her car and starting the engine, Marley drops a quick text to Quinn. She rests her hands on the wheel, humming to herself.
The call comes through just a few minutes later. Marley hits the speaker button, and drops the phone on the passenger seat. "Hey!" she says brightly, stepping on the gas.
"Hi. You sound distant. What are you doing?"
"Going home?"
Quinn gives this little outraged gasp that would make Marley smile if she didn't already have the feeling she's in serious trouble. "Marley Rose, are you driving and talking on the phone?"
"No! I texted you just before I started the car, and then I put it on speaker before I started." Her voice drops the panicked note. "You know I would never do that."
There's a soft sigh, and then Quinn's saying, "I do know. I'm sorry, I was thinking the worst…"
"It's okay. I'm sorry, I should've realised what that would sound like…" She pauses to focus on taking the exit onto the main road. "I wasn't thinking. My head was full of everything that happened today, and the big news I wanted to share with you."
"Yeah, your big news," says Quinn, sounding more enthusiastic now. "What was it that had you so happy? I've never seen so many emojis used in a single text before today."
She can't help it. She starts singing, tapping her hand on the wheel to keep the beat. When she's done, silence fills the car.
"Wow," says Quinn eventually, "that was amazing. Trent wrote this?"
"Actually, I did. Trent helped me with the arrangement and guitar and some of the lyrics, but I wrote the rest." And it feels good to say that, so much that Marley wonders how she's gone this long without writing music. It feels like the first gulp of air after being underwater.
"You wrote that? I – that's amazing. I don't know what else to say; that was beautiful." Quinn sounds excited. "Are you gonna record that? Please tell me you'll record that."
"Of course I will. I'll even get Trent to play guitar and GarageBand to play – well, everything else." She loves that Quinn sounds just as excited as she feels. "I'll send you a proper MP3 and all."
"You know, I don't think I've ever heard you sing. I know you can, of course – " Marley laughs out loud, " – but I didn't know you could write songs, too. On top of the whole, you know, being a music producer thing, and being scouted to work at Atlantic Records." Quinn pauses, and when she next speaks, her voice is soft and fond and warm; it's something Marley's glad distance can't erase. "I had no idea just how talented you are. I love that I'm still only beginning to find out."
Marley blinks hard to stop the tears from welling. Before she gets too choked up, before how much she's missing Quinn starts to manifest as a physical pain, she brushes at her eyes and says: "Wait 'til you see me on the dancefloor. I have sick moves; sick in the sense that you'd want to put the animal down."
Quinn chuckles. "I'm sure that's not true. You're just as much a triple threat as Rachel is, although I'm not sure she can be trusted with the button and dial end of the recording studio."
"Try me."
"The next time you're home," answers Quinn brightly, and Marley's heart swells to hear the word from Quinn's lips. "Around Christmas, right?"
"And not any sooner, I'm afraid. I miss you already."
"I miss you, too." There's rustling on Quinn's end.
"What's that?"
"My dinner. Halley bought Chinese takeout for everyone. It's…" There's more rustling as Quinn opens the container. "Beef in black bean sauce. What a classic."
Right on cue, Marley's stomach growls. She winces. "Right. Food."
"You haven't had dinner?" asks Quinn, voice suddenly sharp.
"... I totally forgot, being in the studio with Trent, and we were in the zone." She sheepishly signals left, and exits her road. "I'm going to buy food now."
"Marley."
"Yes, I know. I normally have cereal bars in my bag for emergencies, but I've been so busy that I forgot to replenish my stock." Lead seeps through her veins, bringing the exuberant mood of the day low.
There's a pause, then: "I'm not mad at you, sweetheart," says Quinn gently. "We make mistakes, and I know you're beating yourself up way too hard about this one."
The corners of her mouth tick upward at the rarely-used endearment. "I just feel bad that I forgot." She pulls into the parking lot outside Ralph's and kills the engine, picking up the phone. "I'm going in. It's a good thing it's not that late."
"Pick up groceries for the next few days while you're at it," commands Quinn. "Send me a photo of everything you bought, and call me when you're done?"
"Of course." Marley ends the call, and turns her attention to the groceries. She buys plenty of fresh fruit so she won't feel guilty about not eating healthy, and the staples. She promises herself she'll cook this weekend, and buys ingredients for then. And just because she can, Marley buys a double scoop of strawberry cheesecake ripple from the ice cream place nearby.
She spreads everything out in the back seat of her car, and then angles herself so her groceries, her ice cream, and her grin fits into the photo.
Quinn video calls her barely a minute after she sends the photo. "Ice cream before dinner? Jumping ahead of yourself, aren't you?" she says, but her eyes crinkle at the sides and give her away.
Marley licks her ice cream with a flourish, and aims the phone at a large sandwich. "My stomach won't even know which came first. Chicken and egg scenario, all over again. It's foolproof."
"A fair point." It's bright enough in the parking lot that Marley is sure she's visible. Quinn looks like she's seated at the dining table in her apartment. There's her takeout container of beef in front of her, she has her hair up in a messy bun, and she's wearing her glasses.
"You look beautiful."
Quinn snorts. "I look tired."
"Long day in the office?"
"You could say that." Quinn's hand appears from outside the frame to rub at the bridge of her nose, under her glasses. "I won't bore you with the details right now, but suffice to say… there was way too much time wasted on discussions in corporate meetings that could have been resolved with an email."
Marley makes a face. "Yeah, that sounds like it sucks majorly. I'm sorry that happened."
"Me too." The frown fades from Quinn's face, transforming it. "I'm happy your day was much more productive than mine, though. Call me the instant you record your song. I can't wait to hear it."
"Will do," says Marley, laughing.
By the time she's showered and dressed in her pajamas, most of the adrenaline has run out, and Marley feels about ready to collapse. But before she falls asleep, she indulges herself in one last thing. Lying on her side, she places the phone on the pillow beside her.
Quinn picks up the video call within a few rings. Her surroundings are dimmer, and Marley recognises the corner of a print Quinn's got hanging behind her bed. "Hey again. What's up?"
"Nothing much. I called to say I'm about to go sleep, and wanted to know if you were already asleep." Marley's face creases into a frown. "Wait. You're three hours ahead, aren't you? So that means it's like, one in the morning? Isn't it late for you?"
"Isn't it a bit early for you to be in bed?" Quinn fires back.
"One of those days, y'know," says Marley, smiling.
"I get it. And yeah, it is a little late for me; I was going through a manuscript, and lost track of time." She takes off her glasses as she speaks; the image shakes as Quinn moves to put it somewhere out of the frame. "You caught me just before I was about to turn in."
"I have excellent timing, and a sixth sense."
A smile curves Quinn's lips. "So you do."
"Put the phone to your ear, and tuck yourself in," says Marley. "You can turn off the video call mode."
"So demanding." But the screen goes back to Marley's regular wallpaper – a candid photo of Quinn outside the Griffith Observatory – and Marley gets under the covers too.
"I'm tucking you in now."
A soft giggle. "Okay."
For the second time today, Marley sings for Quinn; this time, it's in hushed tones, more intimate, for Quinn's ears only.
When everybody filled me up with pride
I was only looking for a place to hide
I am no statue a monument to raise
But I try my best these days
Funny how time doesn't mind
Who we keep and who we bear to leave behind
So into this great unknown
I will wander on my own
Will I ever stop imagining
What if I've done things differently
And will you find it a corner in your heart
For me long after we part
Long after we part
When she's done, there's nothing on the other end but the muted sound of Quinn's breathing. Marley smiles, whispers a "goodnight", and ends the call. Her fingers stay curled around the phone as she closes her eyes.
No matter how much of a creative roll they're on, no matter how deep she's in the zone with her creating, Marley begs off at five o'clock on Saturday. She's home (after a quick stop along the way for some things she forgot in her last grocery run) by half past six, and her phone's already lighting up.
"Hey!" says Marley brightly, putting the call on speaker. "I just got home!"
"Hi. That's good, so did I."
"So… stir-fry."
"Stir-fry it is." Quinn hums in agreement. When she next speaks, her voice sounds distant, and there's a lot of rummaging going on in the background. "I've got… peppers, celery, cabbage, carrots, chicken, noodles, eggs…"
"Bacon?" asks Marley, smirking as she removes a pack from her freezer.
Quinn huffs. "We've already got chicken."
"Bacon goes with everything," says Marley, fake-innocent. "Imagine all those veggies soaking up the meaty flavours."
"You're terrible."
"So terrible," agrees Marley. She turns on the tap as she rinses the vegetables. "I've got my iPad out. Shall we switch to Skype?"
"Sure."
She wipes her hands on the dishtowel and logs into Skype. She waits impatiently for the green light next to QFabray to go on, signalling she's online; once it changes, Marley places the call.
"Hi again," says Quinn, smiling from the small screen of the tablet.
"Back atcha," says Marley, pointing a finger gun at the screen; Quinn groans and rolls her eyes theatrically, still smiling. "Ready to cook dinner?"
"Of course." Quinn reaches out to adjust the angle of the device on her end; the image wavers wildly. When it finally stabilises, Marley sees a familiar kitchen, with groceries on the counter surrounding a cutting board.
"Did you pick up the Korean gochujang I was telling you about?" Marley holds up the small tub towards the camera.
"I did. I had a taste earlier; it's amazing. How'd you discover that?" Quinn pulls her own tub of gochujang into the frame.
"We're really spoilt for choice when it comes to lunchtime. I went out for Korean with Trent and Gabe – that's one of the other audio engineers – the other day. Gabe's Korean, and he was waxing lyrical about this miracle seasoning." Marley dips her pinky into the tub and pops it into her mouth.
"I'm kind of excited for dinner now." Quinn starts chopping up cabbage into strips. Marley follows suit.
"Me too. I miss cooking with you." She dumps a handful of cabbage into the colander, and reaches for a carrot.
"Yeah. This is pretty fun, though." When Quinn leans forward to take more vegetables out of the sink, something silver glitters at her neck. She absently tucks it back into the neck of her T-shirt, like it's happened many times over the course of the day to be completely unremarkable now.
Marley smiles to herself.
As nonchalantly as she can, Marley rinses off the cutting board. She retrieves the mostly-thawed bacon from the sink and cuts open the plastic. She starts slicing the meat, deliberately not looking at the iPad until she hears Quinn's low, amused chuckle.
"You're really the worst."
"As though you didn't have your own stash hidden from me?" ripostes Marley, and laughs hard when Quinn sheepishly puts a few slices of bacon on her cutting board. "I knew it."
"I need to finish these leftovers before they go bad," says Quinn, smiling too wide for it to be natural.
"Whatever you say." She has a chicken breast left to cut up; she hesitates, before slicing the entire piece of meat into neat strips. Marley won't worry about eating too much, because that's not the kind of person she is anymore, and besides; stir-fry tastes just as good when left overnight.
Quinn's chicken is already cooked, and sits, shredded, in a little bowl. "Halley and Nicky cooked last night," she explains. While they both wrestle with the plastic packaging of their egg noodles, Quinn talks about her day. Marley listens intently; the microphone doesn't always pick up everything, and it's a long way from New York to Los Angeles over a Skype connection.
Marley likes to have her seasonings arranged within easy reach when she's cooking; it's stir-fry, and her mom's taught her that it tastes best when cooked over high heat and within a short time. Quinn is just as methodical, but with one crucial difference.
"The way you cook is so cute," says Marley, trying very hard not to smile at the array of little dishes in front of Quinn. "You measured out all the seasonings, didn't you?"
"Not all of us are blessed with a gift for cooking," says Quinn a little huffily. "Nor an instinct for knowing how much soy sauce is enough."
"That is such a Rachel thing to say."
"No, Rachel would be giving you a lecture on golden proportions and the importance of following the recipe to the letter." Quinn turns on the heat. "Ready?"
"Ready."
Marley sloshes peanut oil into her wok. Quinn does the same, although hers is more controlled. The garlic sizzles when it hits the hot oil, filling both kitchens with the sound. She tears her attention away from the iPad, focusing on the wok.
Onions go in next, followed by the meat. She grins when the bacon fat causes the wok to sizzle louder. She likes her carrots and celery on the crunchier side, so the harder vegetables aren't in for too long before the cabbage follows. She scrapes everything to one side so she can fry the gochujang, adding more oil, before mixing everything together.
She alternates adding light and dark soy sauce, and pepper to taste, before she adds the egg noodles. Ralph's has a pretty decent Asian grocery selection, and so she opted for the fresh noodles rather than the dried ones.
Finally, she cracks an egg into the whole thing, tossing everything in the wok, before turning off the heat.
"Done," she says, scraping everything onto a plate. The wok goes into the sink to soak, and she fishes chopsticks out of the cutlery drawer. Marley sets up her dinner table, the iPad taking pride of place in front of her.
"Me too," says Quinn. Her food looks just as appetizing, and Marley tells her so. "Thanks. Yours looks really good, too. I wish I could have a bite."
"I'm sure mine tastes the same as yours; I mean, there's a reason we bought the same ingredients for the same dish," says Marley.
Quinn laughs. "Yeah, but there's a distinct difference in skill level."
"We can fix that, the next time I go back." Marley digs in, moaning a little as she chews. "Mmm. So. Good."
"It really is." Quinn dabs at the corner of her mouth with a bit of tissue. "This is becoming a staple of this kitchen."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"So, tell me about your tour. I thought it was just around town? Why did your boss decide to expand it?"
Marley takes a sip of her water. "It's not really my tour, though. The album sales got a boost from the record store tour, so he decided to take a chance on it and go regional. While it's still fresh in everyone's minds, I guess."
"Not your tour? But aren't you going?"
"Me? Nah. I'm just the producer; the only stuff I work on is the album recording. I did work with Trent for his setlist and acoustic tweaking, but that's only because I don't have any other projects on hand at the moment. That's also the only reason I went along on the local tour."
"Ah. I see." It's already hard as it is to gauge Quinn's expression; it's harder when it's on the small screen of her iPad. So Marley changes the subject, asks if she's read any good books (books, not manuscripts) lately.
Towards the end of dinner, Marley picks the last few morsels of food off her plate and says, "I've got a surprise for you."
Quinn looks momentarily surprised, and then her smile is warm and genuine. "Another surprise? Does it rhyme with 'hype plate'?"
Marley scowls at her. "Spoil my surprises, why don't you?"
"Not that I don't enjoy them, but you really do spoil me," says Quinn. "Skype dates are fun and creative any way you cut it, but cooking dinner together over Skype was honestly so much fun."
"Wait 'til I make my first million. Then the real spoiling can begin," says Marley, deadpan. "Anyway, it's not really a surprise if you already know what it is."
Quinn arches an eyebrow at her. "I do?"
"Yeah." Marley attaches the file to an email draft, and hits the send button. She hears the echoing ping of an email client halfway across the country. "We finally finished it, and I cleaned it up."
There's a soft sigh, and Quinn busies herself with her device, expression caught between curiosity and dawning understanding. Marley hears Trent's guitar, and then herself, made tinny over distance. She doesn't need to listen to the music; she has it herself, in a multitude of forms in between the scratch version they worked on to the final finished MP3. Marley watches Quinn listen to the music, her eyes fluttering shut, body held in the attitude of listening.
Quinn looks like someone awakened from sleep when the music ends. "That was… it was even better than I thought it would be. Except…"
"Except?" asks Marley, heart catching in her throat.
"Except I think my favourite version would be the one you sang for me the other night." A cheeky smile slides over her face. "No offence to Trent and his guitar."
"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." Marley folds her arms on the table, propping her chin up on them. "I'm glad you love it."
"I do. I love it so much. How did you… What was your inspiration?"
"I was at the Griffith Observatory the other day, and I thought of you," says Marley. "More specifically; us, that day. And I missed that."
"Oh, Marley."
"I'm a bit of a sap, I know," she says.
"That's not… it's incredibly sweet. You're incredibly sweet. I love it." Quinn's moved elsewhere, presumably her bed; judging from the familiar view behind her head. "I can't believe you took that memory, all those feelings, and turned them into a song."
"You're pretty inspirational," says Marley. "Rachel told me you inspired a song she wrote."
Quinn makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "She always tells that story."
"It's a nice story," defends Marley, "and now, I'm sure I'm in the same situation. It's true what they say about pretty girls and music, yeah?"
"Don't be such a dork," laughs Quinn. She rests her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands.
"It's too late; you're stuck with me now."
"Yeah." Quinn looks anything but resigned to her fate, however. "You're really something special, aren't you, Marley Rose?" she says, hazel eyes soft in the lamplight.
And it's not the first time she's heard such things, but she can't help the colour that seeps into her cheeks, and the grin that overtakes her face. "Only as special as whomever I'm dating at the moment."
Her schedule is pretty packed close to the end of the year, as per usual. There's the rush of people scrambling to clear up work before the city shuts down for the holidays, projects being postponed until the next year, Christmas albums and other seasonal productions being pushed out onto the market.
She's busy until it's the week before Christmas, and then she isn't. Marley cleans her apartment thoroughly and heads out to the airport, laden with gifts from Finn and Brittany for New York. She checks her car into long-term parking; she won't need it until next year, when her boss promised her she'll start on her new project with some band or other artist that's on the up and up – a reward of sorts, Marley supposes, after the test that was Trent Morgan.
All of that fades into background noise, however. It's the holidays, and she's headed home to Lima via New York. Her flight is on time, her seatmates keep to themselves, and her baggage is waiting on the carousel by the time she gets past LaGuardia immigration.
She falls into Quinn's arms, and her world finally starts to turn again.
When Marley – teasingly – suggests staying in a hotel for the duration of her time in New York, Quinn fixes her with the most withering, Sue Sylvester-esque glare that makes Marley squirm, and half-expect a slushie. "That's wasn't funny, Marley Rose," she says.
"It wasn't," agrees Marley. "So…? I'll be staying with you?"
"Of course." Here the cold glare leaves Quinn's eyes, edged out by affection. "The others can just deal."
"Would it be better if I cook for everyone? Earning my keep and all?"
Quinn grins. "Hell, I think they'll offer to put you up in their rooms." Her smile disappears. "Not that I'm up for sharing."
"I sure hope not," teases Marley.
The subway is crowded, and Marley thinks that she's been out of town far too long. She's spoilt by her own car and the warm West Coast sunshine; here, it's cold and wet and crowded, with no prospect of a seat all the way to Brooklyn.
Quinn seems to sense what's on her mind, because she grimaces and says: "Sorry – I forgot you aren't used to this crap anymore."
Marley elbows her lightly. "I resent that. I'm still a honorary New Yorker, okay."
"Seriously? Your elbowing needs more work." Quinn shoves her back, and they giggle.
It goes back and forth until the train lurches, and Marley has to grab onto the straps to save herself, bringing the play fight to an abrupt end. Quinn grabs onto her in turn, both giggling until they're breathless.
"Yep, what happened to your ability to balance in a crowded train?" says Quinn sardonically.
"You're one to talk. You're supposed to be more New Yorker than me." Marley nods down at Quinn's hand clinging onto the tail of her jacket. "And yet…"
"You're the one who elbowed me in the first place!" Quinn exclaims. For some reason, that's unbelievably funny that they dissolve into giggling again, and they don't stop until the grumpy old man standing nearby clears his throat loudly.
When they finally arrive at Quinn's apartment, Marley's glad she opted for boots. They're easy to kick off, and so she does, speedily, making for the couch. She flops on her back, sighing exaggeratedly.
"You look comfortable."
Marley opens her eyes a fraction. "Don't just stand there; come find out just how comfortable," she says, waving a hand in the direction of Quinn's voice.
"Sure, let me clean up your mess first."
Her eyes snap open in her indignation. "Lies. I am the perfect house guest."
Quinn shakes her head. Marley reaches out, makes grabbing motions. "Come here."
"You're impatient," Quinn says, looking not at all annoyed. She walks over to let herself be caught, and dragged closer.
"I've missed you," answers Marley simply.
She can see the exact moment Quinn melts, and the moment after that in which she realizes what's happened and tries to cover it up. "We talk all the time."
"That's not the same, and you know it. Now stop being so cutely standoffish and let me cuddle you." Marley punctuates her words with another tug.
Muttering something to herself about Marley's neediness and questionable vocabulary, Quinn puts a knee on the cushion beside Marley's thigh, her free hand on the back of the couch for support. Marley's hand goes to her elbow to pull her down, then around her waist to keep her there. "Perfect," says Marley, kissing Quinn's hair.
"Speak for yourself, my arm is squashed. We should've done this somewhere more comfortable and less… open."
Marley laughs. "What time will the others be home, again?"
"Too soon for us to start anything, if that's what you mean..."
She groans, mortified. "No! What I meant was… wait, were you making fun of me?"
Quinn buries her face in Marley's shirt to muffle her laughter. "Not initially, then I paused to think about what I'd just said. But after that, yes. It's fun to watch your face change like that."
"You initiated sex in my car, Miss Horndog. You understand if I have to think twice about anything suggestive you say," Marley huffs. "Anyway, I just want to be with you, without being… with you, you know?" She rubs Quinn's shoulder, frustrated that the words she needs to express herself adequately aren't coming through.
"Strangely enough, because that was extremely eloquent and succinct – " Marley gives Quinn a long-suffering look, "– I do."
To pay her back, Marley says sarcastically: "Good we're on the same page, then; I knew there was an advantage in dating someone with a degree in English – " and breaks off, grunting, when Quinn contorts her whole body to knee her. "Ow! First elbows, and now knees? This totally counts as abuse, okay."
"Abuse," echoes Quinn flatly. "From the woman who lured me here under false pretenses."
"Yeah, you got me. I totally lied about cuddling to get you into my clutches, so I could do… this!" And she digs her fingers into Quinn's sides, tickling her mercilessly.
Quinn is laughing too hard to fight back or even protest, and it's the timely return of Halley that saves her. "... Oh," says the other woman, one eyebrow rising so high it disappears under her hijab, "... hi, Marley. Quinn. Not interrupting anything, am I...?"
"Nope." Marley stops, and mouths let's take this to your bedroom to Quinn, grinning as Quinn splutters.
"... Right." Halley's other eyebrow joins the first. "Good to know. Uhm, welcome back to New York." And she disappears into her room.
Marley bursts out laughing. Quinn growls at her. "I hate you so much, right now," she bites out, pushing at Marley's chest.
"No, you don't." Marley catches Quinn's wrists, and pins them down, still laughing.
They go to Rachel's show the night before their flight to Lima (even if the actress playing Jasmine is annoyingly healthy, Rachel's still part of the ensemble), and Santana drags everyone out for drinks afterwards.
Marley doesn't drink a lot. Really, she has more fun watching Rachel become increasingly ebullient and Santana increasingly emotional. Quinn, on her part, is also less guarded when she's tipsy.
Somehow, they make it to Quinn's apartment in one piece. Still giggling about something funny Marley said, they stumble into Quinn's room; Quinn retains enough presence of mind to lock the door behind them.
"Finally," Marley says. She pats the mattress with a sigh, and sort of crumples on it.
"That looks uncomfortable."
"It's really not." She jerks her body so she can pull her head into a more natural position for gazing at Quinn. "So… is now a good time to be starting something?" says Marley, arranging her face into her best hopeful expression.
Quinn bursts out laughing. "Please don't tell me you were fixated on that the whole day."
"I'm not drunk now, if that helps," answers Marley, unwilling to confirm or deny it.
Quinn's smile turns into a smirk. "It does," she says, grabbing Marley's ankles and pulling her feet off the bed, crawling in between her spread legs. Eagerly, Marley sits up so she can kiss Quinn. "Mmm." Her hands slide into Quinn's ponytail and destroy it completely, fingers teasing out her long blonde hair. Marley gasps when a hand rests on the inside of her leg; Quinn takes advantage of it to deepen the kiss, fingers hooking around Marley's scarf.
"I really like seeing this on you, but I kinda want it off right now."
Her hands fly behind her neck to fumble with the knot; Quinn laughs into the kiss, and puts enough distance between them to help. When it becomes apparent that Quinn is so much better at it than her, Marley turns her attention to Quinn's neckline – or more specifically, what lies just below.
Quinn's breathing turns heavy. "You're not helping," she says, voice roughened with arousal. When Marley's tongue laves over a particularly sensitive spot, Quinn shudders and tilts her head, giving Marley better access.
"Yes, I am." Marley reaches around; the zip of Quinn's dress is far easier to manage than her scarf, and she's quick to drag it down and slip Quinn out of the armholes, and her bra. "I'm helping me." Marley drags her teeth lightly over one nipple, savouring the taste of skin, and the effect she has on Quinn.
Quinn's fingers give a last, ineffectual tug on the knot. "Fuck the scarf," she says, "that's not coming off."
"Good," replies Marley. "You said you liked it on me, anyway."
The look Quinn shoots her is dark with arousal. There's a flash of a smirk, before one hand is on Marley's jaw, tilting her head to the side ever-so-slowly – Marley bites her lower lip in anticipation – and the other tugging the scarf away. Quinn's mouth latches on the patch of newly-exposed skin.
"Oh…"
She searches for something to hold on to. The half of Quinn's dress gets bunched up around her waist as Marley's hands cup Quinn's ass, pulling her forward.
"Is this okay?"
Quinn moans and nods furiously, Marley's neck quite forgotten. She presses her forehead into Marley's shoulder, hips rocking forward as Marley's fingers bury themselves in wet heat, thumb rubbing Quinn's clit. The angle of her hand isn't ideal, but the burn of her muscles is nothing compared to the heat of Quinn's skin.
It doesn't take too long; they're both incredibly worked up. Quinn cries out, and the movement of her hips gradually tapers off. Spent, she sags forward, Marley catching her.
Marley lies down. She surreptitiously wipes her hand on the side of her dress, and cups the back of Quinn's neck, rubbing it. "You're beautiful."
Quinn's eyes flutter open. "So are you," she says, hot breath tickling the fine hairs of Marley's neck.
Her fingers thread through sweat-dampened hair and start to massage Quinn's scalp. Quinn lets out a contented hum, and snuggles closer, settling comfortably on top of Marley. "You're making me fall asleep," she complains softly.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"It is, when I haven't made you scream my name yet," Quinn tells her bluntly.
Her hand stills. "I – wow," says Marley. It's rare for Quinn to be this forward, and she becomes hyper-aware of the ache between her legs – and the dampness of her panties, when she shifts.
Marley's unease seems to have a profound effect on Quinn. Her eyes, normally hazel, go darker, more intense. She lurches forward, capturing Marley's mouth in a deep and filthy kiss that's mostly tongue, which is eagerly reciprocated.
She loves it when Quinn gets this way. She surrenders to Quinn, letting her take charge of her pleasure and her body. Marley whines, arching into Quinn's touch, eyes drooping shut.
"Can I…?"
Marley's eyes snap open. "Are you kidding me?"
"Yes," purrs Quinn. Marley's wet enough that Quinn's fingers glide up her leg, pushes aside her panties, and enters her in one fluid movement. All the air in her lungs empties in a gasp.
Quinn's fingers start thrusting. Marley's breathing becomes ragged, and she grabs onto Quinn's upper arms for leverage. She needs more; she's so close.
"Please – !"
Marley opens her eyes just in time to see Quinn's perfect pink lips close around her left nipple, and suck. She moans Quinn's name, and comes hard.
It's the sound of Quinn's chuckle that grounds Marley again, and causes her to loosen the vice grip she has on Quinn. "Satisfied now?" asks Marley, interlocking her fingers behind Quinn's back, the pad of her right thumb idly tracing the healed scar there.
"Sleepy, actually."
Marley's mouth twists. "Honestly, me too." She presses a kiss to the only part of Quinn that's within easy reach – the crown of her head – and nuzzles it. "We should get under the covers."
Quinn huffs a laugh against Marley's collarbone. "How do you even have the energy to talk?"
"I'm not tipsy. You are." She presses her knee into Quinn's flank like she's a horse. Quinn grumbles but shifts, and in this way Marley gets her to shift enough so she can pull the corner of the comforter over their entwined bodies. "Okay. Now we can sleep."
But Quinn's already breathing softly into her shoulder.
She keeps a close eye on Quinn the entire way back to Lima; the last time they were there, things didn't exactly go smoothly for Quinn. Marley's grateful that they're not alone this time, but traveling with Rachel and Santana.
As expected, Quinn becomes more quiet and subdued when their plane lands. She does her best to hide the change in mood, and almost gets away with it. But Rachel – who can somehow be simultaneously self-absorbed and sensitive to the moods of people around her – homes in on Quinn like a heat-seeking missile, and clings to her.
Santana seems perfectly content to let her girlfriend hang off Quinn's arm, somehow, and Marley takes her cue from her.
Much to everyone's surprise, waiting outside the arrivals gate, with Rachel's dad and Marley's mom, is Puck.
Marley hangs back. It's disconcerting, the way that Rachel, Santana, and Quinn stare at him.
Then Rachel lets a huge smile overtake her features. "Noah!" she squeals. It breaks the spell; Santana smiles as well, though hers is more restrained. Quinn's expression remains wary.
After hugging her mom, Marley draws Quinn over to their little family circle, where Millie envelops Quinn in a huge hug that gets a genuine smile from Quinn. "I've missed you girls," exclaims Millie, gathering Marley back into the hug.
"What are you doing here, Noah?" they overhear Rachel asking. Marley notices Quinn's body stiffen into an attitude of listening; her hand slips into one of Quinn's and holds on.
"Heard my girls were coming back together for the holidays," he says. He still has an arm around Rachel's waist, which Santana is currently eyeing with distaste.
Millie glances at Quinn, then gives Marley a look. "Somethin' wrong?"
"I don't know," says Marley, her eyes on Quinn.
Her mom glances between them again, then over at Rachel's dad – who also seems just as discomfited. "I'll give you girls some privacy," she says, and walks over to him.
Quinn approaches Puck. "Why are you really here?" she asks, and her voice practically drips with hostility.
Puck releases Rachel to raise both hands in front of him. "Chill, Q," he says, "can't a guy come meet his high school exes?"
Rachel wavers between them. Santana is quick to come to her rescue, lacing her fingers with her girlfriend's. "Fuck you, Puckerman," Santana says; Marley sees Rachel shake her head in silent reproof, but that's all.
"Subtlety has never been your strong suit, Puck." Quinn's eyes narrow, and widen in sudden understanding. "... It's her, isn't it? She's here."
He says nothing, but it's clear that Quinn's right. Rachel exhales softly, Santana scowls, and Quinn's expression hardens. Marley's half a beat slower, but the significant glance Rachel and Quinn exchange puts the pieces together.
"Shelby's here for me, okay? You know she lives in New York now, and I don't get to see her much."
At this, Rachel worries her lower lip between her teeth.
"Shelby's invited me to Christmas dinner, and she'd really love it if you both could come," finishes Puck. "Just the five of us. It'll be like the last time, on Beth's birthday."
Rachel bristles, as something flickers in Quinn's eyes at the mention of the name. "Shelby could have asked us herself instead of sending you as her messenger boy." She sends him a sharp glance after, which Puck avoids. "She knows how to contact me or Quinn."
"Don't blame Shelby for this; she thinks you all hate her. I was the one who talked her into this."
"Stay out of it, Puck," Quinn snaps. "You can go – play happy families with them again for all I care. Just don't assume what we want."
He clenches his jaw. "I thought we were fine. We had a birthday party for her, and it was good."
"Quinn's right, Noah," interrupts Rachel gently. "You should have asked first, rather than assumed."
"Fine. Forget I asked, then," he snaps, and rounds on Quinn. "I'm sorry I tried to make sure we're part of our daughter's life."
"You – "
Marley moves before she's aware of what she's doing. She catches Quinn's elbow, angling their bodies so Quinn's pulled into Marley. "I'm sorry, Puck, but I think you should go."
He storms off. She barely notices Rachel going after him, before Quinn violently wrenches away from her. Marley gasps in pain.
"Don't – " starts Quinn, wild-eyed, then stops. "I… did I hurt you?"
Marley shakes her head. But Quinn seems to deflate before her eyes, all the anger draining from her in an instant. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, "I should…" And without completing her sentence, she flees.
"Quinn!"
She follows Quinn to the bathroom, catching up with her just as she makes it inside. "Quinn, come here," says Marley. She doesn't touch her, but she stands between Quinn and the exit.
Quinn leans over the sinks, head down, knuckles white as she grips the counter. She doesn't respond.
Marley closes the distance between them slowly, like she's approaching a wounded wild animal. When she gets within arm's length, she rests an open palm on the small of Quinn's back; an open gesture that Quinn is free to reject or accept. "Quinn, sweetheart."
Eventually, she comes, willingly. Marley's hands cradle the back of Quinn's head; Quinn tucks her face into Marley's neck, which melts Marley's heart. Quinn's shoulders start shaking, and Marley holds her as she cries.
Author's Notes: The chapter title comes from Say You Will by Fleetwood Mac. The song that Marley 'writes' is actually Great Unknown by William Ryan Key.