A/N: What's Quinn been up to? This chapter occurs concurrently with chapter 1. Enjoy!
disclaimer: most of my New York venue names are fictional, but the fantastic television program Girls is owned by Apatow Productions/HBO and the Chrysler Building is a thousand standing feet of real New York skyscraper.
Chapter 2
Quinn Fabray, J.D.
"You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there." – Edwin Louis Cole
"We, the jury, in the matter of the people of New York versus Noah Puckerman, on the charge of traffic misdemeanor, we find the defendant…"
A tall, well-shaven man, cleanly fit in a navy blue suit and matching tie, inhaled calmly.
"… Not guilty."
The man exhaled deeply, elated, and a stern but youthful blonde, dressed in full black blazer and knee-length skirt, smiled grimly beside him. She turned and received a hug from the man, his large arms wrapping around her back.
"Don't do this again, Puck," she spoke softly, knowing full well there would be an 'again'.
"You're the best. Thank you," he said, patting her back.
The two suits on the opposing state council shook their heads as they packed their briefcases.
"It's a fucking traffic misdemeanor, and we have to go up against the best fucking young hotshot defense lawyer in New York."
"And the sexiest."
The crudely-speaking assistant state's attorney shot his enamored second chair a dirty look, and grabbed his briefcase off the desk, mumbling to himself as he left. The second chair followed him out, stealing a last glance at the blonde's visible legs in the black skirt.
"Lunch? I've got some time to kill before I gotta be on the set," Puck grinned, helping – attempting to help – the blonde neatly stack several paper files into her case.
Quinn Fabray glanced at her watch. "I need to be back in the office."
"Oh, come on, Q. I'll buy, we should celebrate."
"Puck. I take your cases with no compensation and I lose potential billable hours by doing so. You would be repaying me as well as fulfilling your gentlemanly duties by buying me lunch."
"I dunno what you just said, but you know me, the perfect gentleman," Puck cracked, trying to wipe off the stern look that had returned to Quinn's face.
"Fine. One hour," she said firmly, snapping the lock shut on her case.
"That's my girl."
They exited the courtroom, ignoring the stares directed their way.
"Ready?" Puck shot a side glance to Quinn as they approached the exit of the legal building.
"Yup."
The New York sun was at its noon peak when they came out. An onslaught of scurrying reporters swarmed onto them, waving microphones and recording devices under their noses.
"Puck! How were you able to get off on yet another alleged traffic charge?"
"Will you be back on Girls soon?"
"Mrs Fabray, why do you continue to represent Mr Puckerman?"
"How has your showrunner Lena Dunham reacted to your third misdemeanor this year?"
"Mrs Fabray, what does your husband think of you representing Puck?"
Outside security formed a path for Puck and Quinn, as they ignored the questions and made their way to Quinn's car. Her chauffeur powerfully shoved a big bald man with a huge TV camera out of the way and opened the door to the black Rolls Royce.
Puck protectively allowed Quinn into the car first, and the reporters slowed down when the car pulled away with trio safely inside.
"Jean Georges, Ranjeet!"
"Yes sir!" the enthusiastic chauffeur acknowledged.
The privacy partition slid up in front of Quinn and Puck.
"Close call, wasn't that?"
She stared out the window as they traveled the New York road, not answering him immediately.
"Puck, you have to keep yourself out of trouble."
"Q, it wasn't my fault! You proved that in court. And you were awesome, like always."
Once again, she paused, her eyes still transfixed on the sky.
"I can't always be at your side to get you out of these things."
Puck softened, feeling Quinn's wall. "Alright, I'm sorry."
"We're seven years out of high school, Puck," she admonished, facing him now. "And you're a bigshot actor now, the spotlight is on you and you can't be driving recklessly."
"I know," Puck said, hanging his head. He met her look, giving her a sincere smile.
"Hire a driver if you have to."
"Can I have Ranjeet?" he asked hopefully.
"No."
Puck laughed. "I can't afford one anyway."
"Then spend less on drinks with your actor friends. Or stop buying gifts for your one-night stands."
"That does sound like a stupid thing I do, isn't it?"
Quinn gave a small chuckle. Puck never learned, and never grew up.
"Jean Georges!" Ranjeet announced.
"Thanks, Ranjeet. We'll be back in an hour," Quinn said. "It's okay," she added, as Ranjeet motioned to leave his seat to open the passenger door for them.
Quinn followed Puck out of the car, peering for press around them.
"All clear," Puck shouted.
"Quiet down," Quinn shushed, smoothing her skirt.
The actor and the lawyer walked side by side into the handsome restaurant, where they were greeted by the maitre d'.
"Ah, Mrs Fabray, Mr Puckerman. Please come with me, we have a table prepared for you."
The pair walked through two chattering rooms before they were guided to a two-person table by a window. The rest of that room wasn't fully occupied, the quiet, noon aura displacing the voices of the crowded rooms.
"Don't you ever think of settling down?"
"C'mon Q, I'm Noah Puckerman. In my sexual peak."
Quinn scoffed. "You'll need a life partner one day, Puck. I can't help you forever."
"What are those again?"
"A wife, Puck. Someone you can enjoy the rest of your life with. Everyone needs that."
He smirked. Puck enjoyed his single life.
"A life partner, huh?"
She took a drink of ice water, nodding.
"Like you found one?"
Quinn swallowed the water forcefully.
"Yes, like I found one. You can too."
"That rich dude," Puck muttered, clear displeasure in his voice.
"I love John," Quinn said flatly.
"Yeah right."
"I do. I have him, my Yale law degree, a great life in a great house, and a great career. And I'm just 25."
"I've seen him. He's not right for you, Q."
"You don't know that," Quinn shot coldly.
"I went to your wedding, Quinn. You can't fool the old Puckerman eyes."
"Stop."
"Look, I know you're not happy. You haven't been happy since–"
Quinn's cold look turned into an icy death stare, effectively stopping him.
Puck didn't relent, silently returning the stare to convey the rest of the sentence. Quinn was the first to break, looking down at her empty plate when old, old thoughts floated into her mind…
"You don't even go home every night anymore."
"Because I work, on cases like yours," she retorted, anger apparent in her voice.
"Whoa there, Fabray." Puck raised his hands in defense upon seeing the death stare return.
Quinn broke again, coughing. The old thoughts swam to the front of her mind. They slowly turned into vivid images… strands of beautiful brunette hair…
"Q?"
The images turned misty, and dissolved. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and dropped onto the plate with a plop.
Puck's expression instantly changed to concern. He reached for her shoulder, steadying her.
"Q, I'm– oh, I'm so sorry, Q."
Puck dashed out of his seat to hug her. He couldn't curb the falling teardrops that fell onto his arm, the table, ruining her skirt…
He lifted a napkin to her eyes, messily dabbing at them, furious that he had unlocked the many years of carefully stowed-away feelings.
She clutched the white paper cloth, immediately soaking it.
"You need to let go of her, Q. Let go of her."
She sniffed, not giving any impression she heard him, or tried to hear him.
"I'm sorry, Puck, I have to go…"
And she slipped out of his grasp and ran through the room's exit, leaving Puck standing alone.
The McBeal, Specter and Gold legal offices sat on the 58th floor of the Chrysler Building. Quinn leaned wistfully, alone, in the corner stainless steel grill of the handsome Art Deco elevator.
Floor 14… 15…
She couldn't shake off how easily she had broken down earlier. That wasn't like The Quinn Fabray, to react so sensitively. She had made a living, in these offices and in the courtroom being fierce and merciless, drawing the admiration of young women everywhere.
The elevator slowed, stopping at floor 22. Three nondescript businessman, eyes glued to their phones, silently stepped in.
Yes, that was who she was. She was a star the moment the firm hired her as a paralegal's assistant during her tenure at Yale Law, and it wasn't even a year after graduation when she bypassed juniors to become a senior associate at age 25. She competently supported the partners as second chair for their high-profile clientele, and took control of her own, a perennial case-closer and relentless cross-examiner.
She stood up straighter, allowing her professional success to dominate her thoughts. She had plenty to be proud of. Profiled in The National Law Journal just last year, Quinn Fabray was known as a daunting rising star in the legal circles. She won the respect of women everywhere, and intimidated men with her unnerving courtroom stride.
Yeah, she was a big deal. Far more than just a skirt.
She stepped out when the digits turned 58, welcoming the usual sight of the spacious, glass-laden office.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Fabray," the front desk secretary greeted her.
Quinn nodded, turning for her office. It was located on the left side of the floor, right next to the corner office owned by Ms McBeal. That office would be Quinn's one day, perhaps soon, whenever McBeal officially announced her retirement. Partnership was imminent for Quinn.
She glanced at the central conference room, seeing Gold and several male associates throwing a tennis ball around. Not feeling social or cheery, she walked into her office and breathed out in the familiar space.
She set her case down, making a mental note to file away all the Puck-related documents later.
On her tidy desk sat mail, a laptop and two case files due for litigation next week. She took the first one, a legal pen and pad, and walked over to sit in a leather chair.
She was about to begin reading when the door opened, and in popped a young, breathless assistant, knocking on the glass door.
"Hi, Quinn! I think I saw the senior associates celebrating in the conference room just now. Are you joining them?"
Quinn thought for a second. "No, I'm fine, Allison. Can I get some coffee?"
Allison nodded with a smile, and whisked out of sight.
Quinn's eyes returned to the case. It was a standard negligence suit. She was certain that it would go to trial. She absentmindedly stared out the window, which spanned the entirety of the back wall. Realizing she wasn't in a working mood, she dropped the case file, just sitting there legs crossed.
A minute passed, and Allison returned carrying a dripping mug.
"Quinn?"
"Come in, Al," she said vacantly.
"Here's your coffee. And your husband is here!" she squeaked, setting the cup on a circular table where a small and elegant, rock tabletop fountain operated.
"Oh." Quinn looked up, and saw John standing behind the glass. "Well let him in."
Allison held the door open for him and ran off.
"Hi," she stood up, pecking his cheek.
"Hey Quinnie. I called earlier," he motioned, shaking his phone.
"I was at lunch."
"That's what I was calling for," he winked.
"Oh. Sorry. I had just left court with Puck."
"Another traffic misdemeanor?"
"Yeah. Sorry I couldn't come home last night, I had to prep," she muttered apologetically.
"That's no problem," he replied without any resentment in his voice. He brought the sitting coffee to her.
"Tired?" he sat with her on an adjacent leather chair.
"I have to prep a few associates on this negligence case," she said, tapping the file.
He nodded sympathetically.
"I was going to see a show tonight."
"Oh," Quinn paused. "Which one?"
"A really small production. You wouldn't be able to get me a ticket."
Quinn nodded, sipping the coffee. The firm offered tickets to New York professional sports games and Broadway musicals to their clients. Leftovers went to senior staff.
"I might have to work through the night again," she sighed.
"No worries," he assured, standing up and kissing her.
"I'll see you tomorrow night. I have a preliminary hearing tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow night," he repeated at the door.
"Yep," she waved, rubbing her eyes.
Slumping back onto the leather chair, she stared at the case file, in no mood to tackle it. Work served as a great distraction sometimes, but sometimes the distraction becomes so overwhelming…
She pulled out her phone, hitting the three on her speed dial.
"Puckerman at your service!"
"Puck. When you said letting go… what… what did you mean?"
next week: Quinn and Rachel reunite! please review :)