"See you on Monday!" Brittany called, waving from her spot in Santana's car. "See ya, suckers!" the Latina shouted over her shoulder, sticking her fist out the window in a salute of sorts. Quinn and Rachel waved, watching as the black SUV sped down the street blasting Spanish music.
The blonde head Cheerio rolled her eyes, knowing that Santana had purposefully left immediately after breakfast to avoid cleanup duty. Rachel laughed.
Once inside the Fabray mansion again, the remaining two girls went about gathering all of Rachel's belongings and righting the furniture they had knocked over the previous night. Or at least they tried. The cleaning process took longer than usual for Quinn, as every time Rachel bent over to pick something up, or even just turned around, the blonde couldn't help but stop and stare. She's so beautiful. The way the sunlight reflects off her hair…and her smile…and her legs…oh God, her legs…
Once she noticed, Rachel started bending over a little more sensuously, just to see what Quinn would do. The diva thought she was being subtle, but after a while, the cheerleader spoke up.
"You really need to stop doing that, Rach."
The brunette was pleased to note the slight hoarseness in Quinn's voice, but her smirk faded when she turned and the other girl was mere inches away. The shorter girl shivered when she felt delicate hands rest on her waist.
"Look at me, Rachel." Though barely more than a whisper, there were traces of the no-nonsense Head Cheerio in that command, along with something else Rachel had rarely heard. She looked up.
In Quinn's hazel eyes, the singer saw the focus and guardedness she had noticed the first time she met the cheerleader. She also saw hints of a smile—a real smile, the kind Rachel had only ever seen when Quinn was with Santana and Brittany. Most importantly, Rachel saw—or, rather, felt—an intensity in the other girl's gaze, unfamiliar and almost overwhelming.
The brunette's lips parted in a silent gasp, and the corners of Quinn's mouth curved up as she bent down to kiss her girlfriend. Slender fingers tangled in soft hair. Hips pressed impossibly close. In that moment, if you asked either girl to define perfect, it would be this—this amazing, exhilarating experience of belonging with someone.
"Sorry, sorry! I come back later! I sorry!"
The teenagers sprang apart, flushed, at the sound of heavily-accented broken English. Rachel didn't know who was more embarrassed, herself or the young blonde maid currently cringing at the bottom of the basement stairs. The woman—closer to being a girl, really, probably only in her twenties—was clutching a basket of cleaning supplies, one arm raised as if to ward off a blow.
"I no mean to interrupt! No realize anyone here! I need job! I sorry, I sorry!" she continued to apologize.
It's like a scared animal, Quinn thought. She looks terrified. Pushing away her own feelings, the artist spoke softly and smiled gently.
"It's okay, really," Quinn reassured the trembling maid. "You didn't interrupt anything."
The woman hesitated. "No trouble?" she asked hesitantly.
The teenagers frowned. Why would she be in trouble?
Seeing their confusion, the woman elaborated. "When I see Mr. Fabray do this, when I interrupt, he is very angry."
"When you see him do what?"
"When I see him with pretty girls! He say he send me back to Poland unless I make up to him!"
Rachel's eyes widened at the revelation. She wanted to hold Quinn, comfort her, but the Cheerio still had questions.
"When do you see my father with pretty girls? Who are they?"
"I see girls sometimes—Americans—when your mother no here. They are young. I do not know who, but sometimes they answer phone and use calendar."
"And how does my father insist you 'make it up to him'?" Quinn's voice was deceptively calm.
At this, the maid looked down. "He…he want me to do things…touch him…" she whispered. "When I say 'no' he is angry. He yell and hit…I ran. Even your mother punishes me. When I go to clean bedrooms, she screams 'Get out! Never touch things in here!' My boss sends new girl for some time, until they forget." She smiled bitterly. "We are all the same to them."
Quinn, though shaking, managed to keep her voice steady. "I'm sorry. I apologize for my father. But I am not him. I will not hurt you, and I will do what I can to keep him from hurting you too. I'm sorry about my mom, too. If you can't be relocated, then I will give you copies of my parents' schedules, and mine, so that you know when it is safe to come. I will help you. Please believe me."
The woman met Quinn's eyes and nodded. "I am Hanna."
"Hi, Hanna. I'm Quinn, and this is my girlfriend, Rachel." The artist took the singer's hand and squeezed.
Hanna looked meaningfully at their intertwined fingers and asked, "You are together? You care for one another?"
With Rachel's approval, Quinn nodded. "We do. Does that make you uncomfortable?"
The maid paused, and then answered, "No. I think…it is nice. It is the first time I see love in this house."
Both girls met Hanna's smile with their own.
Later that day, as Quinn parked in front of the Berry residence and stroked her girlfriend's hand, Rachel turned to face the blonde.
"Quinn?"
"Yeah, Rach?"
"Are you okay?"
The artist momentarily stopped tracing patterns on Rachel's palm. "What do you mean?"
Rachel sighed. "You know what I mean. About Hanna…and your parents. I can tell it's bothering you, and I want you to know that you can talk to me about it."
Quinn shrugged. "I'm okay. It's not your problem, alright?"
The diva frowned and pulled her hand back. "It is my problem, because it affects you. I care about you, Quinn Fabray. A lot. Don't lock me out." Please, she added silently.
"I care about you too, Rachel. I really do." I think I could even fall in love with you.
"Then why won't you talk to me? Do you not trust me? Do you not want this—us—to be serious?" Brown eyes filled with hurt.
"No! It's not that; it's not you. I promise."
"Then why…?" Is it about Frannie, whoever she is? Or why you live in an attic apartment, even though your house has more than enough bedrooms?
Quinn reached for Rachel's hand again.
"Rachel. I want to be with you. I want to hold your hand, and hug you, and kiss you. I want to make you laugh. I want to protect you and comfort you and kill anyone who hurts you. I want to know what makes you tick, and what ticks you off. I want to know your life story, and I want to be in it. And I hope you feel the same."
"I do. So then…" The singer trailed off.
Quinn continued, "Listen, I want that, all of that, but it doesn't have to all happen right now. There are some things I just don't like to talk about—my family, for instance. I need time to process things, okay? But I promise I'll go to you if I need to."
The blonde kissed pouting lips softly, until she felt Rachel smile. Pulling away slightly, but pressing their foreheads together, she whispered, "I plan on being with you for a long time." The diva responded by kissing her more deeply.
They broke apart at the sound of snickering, and saw a nearby boy—a second-grader, maybe—watching them through the car windshield. Quinn made a face, and he laughed and ran away.
"Whoops," the Cheerio commented, "Guess we suck at keeping this secret."
Silence.
"Rachel?"
The brunette bit her lip. "Quinn? Do you want this to be a secret?"
The blonde thought about it. "No," she replied. "But I don't want to tweet 'Quinn Fabray is a raging lesbian' either. And then there's church…"
"So what do you want to do?" Rachel asked.
"Well, Santana and Brittany already know…"
"And that random kid," Rachel joked.
"Yeah, and that random kid," Quinn agreed.
Rachel had an idea. "What if we didn't announce it, but just…told a few people. Friends. Family. It's Lima—news like this will spread. I know Kurt would want to hear it from me."
The cheerleader nodded. "Yeah, that could work. I don't want to tell my parents, and they're not around long enough to matter, but I do want to tell Sam and Mercedes. And maybe Puck."
"Oh God, he'll probably be ecstatic," Rachel groaned, and they laughed.
The girls grinned at each other for a while, kissing a few more times before Rachel finally got out of the car.
Quinn watched her walk to the door, enjoying the view, and waited until the petite singer—and her fathers!—waved from the front window. Blushing, Quinn started the ignition and drove home.
AN: Again, sorry for the delay, and thank you to everyone still interested in this story. A lot has been going on in my life, and this got pushed to the back burner. On the plus side, I finally have a plot, so updates should come much more frequently now that I know what to write about. Reviews are much appreciated—they let me know if I should continue this story, what I should continue, and what I should improve. Thanks again to everyone following this.