Saturday, June 18th / 12:17pm
"I'm asking you to try on one fucking pair of jeans."
"They're ugly."
"You haven't even looked at them!"
"I've seen enough."
"Jesus H. Christ, Fabray," Santana said, flapping the rejected clothes against her legs in frustration. "It's like shopping with a ten-year-old boy. You won't even look at anything."
"I've looked at plenty," Quinn said dismissively, circling aimlessly around the closest rack for the third time. "And I don't like any of them."
"Aight, you know what?" Santana said, slamming the hangers holding Quinn's prospective jeans back down against the rack. "I give up. Go back to Christians-R-Us for your summer wardrobe for all I care. But when we get our first gig for the band, I don't want to hear your bullshit when you're forced to wear my clothes."
Quinn shook her head and turned her back on Santana. "I need a churro."
"Oh shit, Q, good idea," Santana said, shoving the clothes she'd been planning to try on back on the rack and following Quinn out into the mall.
...
They sat side by side on a bench near the crowded food court, the bags of Santana's merchandise in a pile between them.
"So Berry got a part," Santana said, eventually, as she crinkled up the wrapper of her third churro.
"Yep. Two, actually."
"So which one did she take?"
"The Sondheim one. Company."
"Figures. Never heard of it."
"I got the movie of the Broadway revival on iTunes. Haven't watched it yet."
"We should probably do that on our own time before she makes us sit through a screening in her basement."
Quinn said smirked just a little. "Probably."
"She at rehearsal?"
"Uh huh."
"So how'd you get out of going?"
Quinn pursed her lips. "I went once. Didn't go that well."
"Couldn't stand her big diva mouth, huh? I get it."
"It was more that she introduced me to the whole cast as her girlfriend, and then we had a fight in the bathroom."
Santana uncrossed her legs and stomped both feet on the ground, turning toward Quinn. "For serious, why do they think that's all right?"
"I would think you'd be used to it from Brittany by now."
"Uh uh," Santana said, shaking her head. "It hasn't been her usual TMI crap. She told her mother AND our new cheerleading coach at Toledo about us, right in front of me."
"Damn," Quinn exhaled.
"Oh, that ain't all. She also told the coach that you were gay, too, and that I'd slept with your girlfriend."
"She—she what?"
"That's riiiight."
"What would possess a person?" Quinn shook her head in disbelief. "Okay, Brittany's big mouth aside, though," she added, "I need you to not say that out loud anymore."
Santana smiled. "Which part?"
"Any of it."
Santana stifled her grin with the straw of her Diet Coke.
"Okay, Fabray," she said, finishing the soda and setting the empty paper cup aside. "It's time to talk about the elephant in the food court."
Quinn stared ahead. "And that would be?" she asked, already tired of the conversation.
"That little episode you had the other day."
"What are you talking about?"
"With, you know, the demons."
Quinn side-eyed her. "I would tell you to speak English, but I don't actually want to know what you're getting at."
"Oh, quit playing dumb," Santana said. "You were crying about your kid at the Bible School thing."
"About. . . my kid?"
Santana held out her hands, palm up, at her sides. "Uh, yeah."
"Okay, wait. Wait. You think you saw me crying about my daughter, and you – Santana – want to talk about it?"
"That's right," she nodded. "Look, I'll admit it, Q, I'm interested in this topic, in your particular streak of teenaged-mother crazy. I mean, first of all, I'm morbidly fascinated by why anyone would choose to push a fat, screaming, ball of soul-suck out of their lady business in the first place. I'm fascinated why anyone who was lucky enough to find some poor, guilt-ridden sap to take it off their hands would be anything but grateful that they never had to change its diaper, or attach its mouth to your boob when, let's face it, you have Rachel for that and it's way more fun."
"Oh my God stop, stop, stop, Santana, just stop." Quinn held her hand out to the side to block Santana from her view.
"Then tell me what your problem was."
"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn't about Beth."
"So you were just being a bitch for the usual reasons, then."
Quinn nodded. "Guess so."
"Bull shit."
"No, seriously. Santana, it wasn't the kid." She paused and shrugged a little. "Not specifically."
"Really? Cause that's where you were looking when it happened."
"Just leave me alone, Santana. I would rather try on jeans than talk about this."
"Look, Q, I don't want the gory details. I just want to understand why it was I had to walk to the damn Save-A-Lot with Brittany to buy mac-n-cheese in the middle of the day when we weren't even high. I think you owe me the truth for that. Help me understand how that little twerp who gave you a snot-encrusted t-shirt as a thank you present got under your skin if it wasn't about the daughter you gave to the woman who gave birth to the chick you're currently banging. "
"Okay, oh my God, okay. Just stop talking."
Santana smiled, proud of herself.
"It wasn't the kid, it was the prayer," Quinn said. "And the scripture, and the homily. It was all of it."
"Oh. . .kay," Santana said, furrowing her brow. "I mean, totally I get it. That shit bums me out hard core. But I thought you like, got off on it."
"I love my church," Quinn said, her voice low and tired. "But standing at that one hearing them preach to all those kids? I don't know," she shrugged.
"Yeah, I'm still confused, cause I always thought your type enjoyed incepting the young and the vulnerable."
Quinn's jaw dropped halfway open. "You are seriously offensive."
"Tell me something I'm not proud of," Santana smiled. "Offending you isn't really a challenge, though, but I'll take the win. So anyway, so they were praying with kids. Who cares?"
"Kids are just . . . innocent," Quinn said.
"Those kids?" Santana asked. "Please. You should have heard what that kid Cristofer was saying in Spanish when he knew the priests couldn't understand him. I used to do the same thing, so I know they're not innocent, they're little assholes."
"No," Quinn said, shaking her head. "No, think about it. They still have all their opportunities in front of them. All their choices. All their chances to do it right."
"And . . . what? You don't? Jesus Fabray, it's not like you're knocking on the pearly gates anytime soon. At least wait until you've screwed up half your life and have your midlife crisis before you get this depressed about all your fuckups."
"Santana, you're not getting it. Ten years ago, I was Dottie. Now I've screwed up everything."
"But, why? I mean, yeah you got pregnant and that was a total train wreck, but you fixed it. And yeah, you're totes a lezbo, but there's nothing you can do about that, so—"
"Would you keep your voice down?"
"No, and would you quit shushing me? You're like a gay fucking librarian up in here."
"I don't know why I bother talking to you."
"Uhh, you talk to me because you know that once you get past my hilarious, dagger-like insults, I bring the wisdom, and I bring it LHA-style, without a side of bullshit. So, listen up, Q. I don't know much about your religion crap. To be honest, I find the whole zombie Jesus story downright creepy, and I outgrew imaginary friends that I could talk to in my head somewhere around the third grade. But like, aren't there a lot of gay Christians out there? I mean, it must be most of them, judging by how all the altar boys I hooked up with in confirmation class in junior high turned out."
"Not at my church."
"Well, shit, find a new church. This is western Ohio, it must be the only place in the country that has more churches than Starbucks."
"I grew up in that church, Santana, it's not that simple. And that's not what it's about, anyway. It's not about being . . . gay," Quinn said, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"Ay Dios mio," Santana said, pressing her fingertips into her temples as Quinn lapsed back into silence instead. "This is like fucking pulling teeth. Look, if this is going to take much longer imma go get another churro."
"I was proud of being good, okay?" Quinn exhaled. "I was proud of being . . . not you." Quinn flapped her hand derisively at Santana.
"Pfft. If by proud you mean devastated."
"Would you shut up? If you're going to badger me into talking to you, you can at least listen."
"I would listen if you would actually say anything."
"I was pure, Santana. I started dating when I was thirteen and I could have any cute boy I wanted. And they did, they wanted me. But I never let them touch me. It wasn't something I talked about, it was who I was. It was what everyone expected, and I did it. I stuck to my morals, and I was good."
"And now you're. . . . not good?"
"Now? Now I'm starting to think it wasn't my morals at all. Maybe I just never wanted those boys to begin with."
Quinn paused, and it took Santana a second to realize the shaking of her shoulders was from laughter.
"Yet I still managed to get pregnant," she continued. "And of course, considering I'm having sex all the time now, it's pretty safe to say I have no moral fortitude at all. I probably never did. And that, Santana, is why being around praying little kids makes me feel like throwing myself in that fountain over there and breathing in deeply. Happy now?"
"Sooo let me get this straight," Santana began, ignoring the question. "No pun intended, of course. It's not so much that you feel guilty about gaying it up with Berry every night. It's more that now that you finally have the opportunity to have sex with someone you're actually attracted to and you're taking it, you're no longer better than everyone else."
"Yes, it made me special," Quinn said indignantly. "Including to myself. And you have no room to talk, Santana. Look at the things you've done to stand out."
"So then why don't you stop?" Santana asked. "With Berry, I mean. If being pure and special is so important, stop having sex."
Quinn laughed again. "I tried."
Santana looked at Quinn with quiet alarm. "You tried to stop sleeping with Rachel?"
Quinn nodded. "I made it one night. I told her I had a headache, and we cuddled instead. I spent the whole night smelling her hair and kissing her neck."
"So you're torturing yourself. God, are you sure you're not Catholic?"
"My dad says Catholics are insane and hellbound for praying to humans."
"Well it must be true, coming from such an upstanding guy as your dad."
"Watch it," Quinn said.
"Okay, so you want to know what I think?" Santana asked, not pausing to hear the answer. "I think you're fucking in love with this girl, right? And don't tell me that you're not, because it's seriously so obvious it's sickening. But you're wasting your energy trying to pry yourself away, just to be able to say you're this perfect little angel, which nobody except you ever thought you were anyway."
Quinn stared at the marbled tile at her feet.
"Fabray, are you listening? I'm trying to tell you to shut up and be happy in the privacy of your own bedroom. You and me, and Brittany and Rachel, we're going to face enough bullshit in this world without beating ourselves up, too. You have a right to try to figure it out, okay? You have a right to be happy. If Jesus doesn't like it, he'll forgive you later. He's like, famous for it."
"That's an oversimplification," Quinn said half-heartedly.
"Okay, can we talk about me now?" Santana said a moment later, jarring Quinn out of a rather stunned, pensive silence.
". . . Yeah, whatever."
"So, I need your help. Do you know what's on the SAT?"
Wednesday, June 22 / 6:57pm
Rachel sat fidgeting at the oversized desk in her parents' study. Still dissatisfied, she rearranged the note cards in front of her for a fifth time.
"Quinn," she said finally, unable to come to a decision on her own, "I need your input. Do you think I should organize these vocabulary flashcards alphabetically, by difficulty level, by part of speech, or by frequency of appearance on the SAT in the past seven years?"
Quinn, standing on her knees on the loveseat across the room, browsing the Berrys' meticulously organized bookshelves, answered absently. "I think you should pick your three favorite cards and plan to teach those, because that's how long it's going to take before they lose interest and start making out, or talking about the last episode of Cake Boss."
Rachel frowned. "It's possible that your cynicism is not unfounded," she conceded. "But you don't think the prospect of winning cheerleading scholarships together will be enough for them to take this exam seriously? Santana asked you for help, right? That can't have been easy for her."
"I guess we'll see," Quinn replied dismissively. "Your dads have so many books," she said in a slightly awed tone, running her fingers along the row of spines. "Everything on my dad's shelf is a version of the Bible, or something by a disgraced Republican governor."
"They're not just for show, either," Rachel beamed. "Everything on these shelves has been read by one or both of my dads."
I wonder if the compulsive organization is genetics or environmental, Quinn thought to herself, noting the Library of Congress-level precision in the books' arrangement. She stepped down from the loveseat and moved to her left to inspect the section marked "religion/philosophy."
"A History of God?" she asked, pulling the title down from the shelf. "How you can write a history of God? That's what the Bible is."
"Well, that's not so Miss Fabray."
Quinn jumped. She turned around to see Leroy Berry smiling at her as he entered the room with a tray of snacks for their study group.
"The Bible doesn't tell you how people's ideas about God came about. Or about how those ideas have changed over the millennia," he continued. He set the tray on the desk and joined Quinn at the bookshelf. "This is one of my favorite non-fiction books," he said with a smile, tapping its cover with his index finger.
"But, you can't study God like a school subject," Quinn said carefully.
"Why not?" Leroy asked.
"Because His is nature is revelatory. It's beyond human reason."
"God is a human idea, Quinn. Whatever your beliefs, you can study the history of any human idea."
"Why do I get the feeling this is one of those books that would try to talk me out of my faith?" she said, opening it to the table of contents.
"Actually," he said, "it was written by a former Catholic nun. But there's only one way to find out if it confirms your suspicions. You can borrow it if you like."
"Oh. Thanks," Quinn said quietly.
"No problem. Oh – looks like your friends are here," Leroy said, looking out the front window.
Quinn put the book back on the shelf where she'd found it.
Rachel positioned herself just inside the study doorway.
...
"Welcome, Brittany!" she exclaimed cheerfully as she and Santana made their way inside. "Please join Quinn by the fireplace for your SAT math lesson. Santana, you and I will proceed to the desk area for a lesson in SAT reading and writing."
"Rachel, why does your hair look like that?" Brittany asked.
"It's in a bun," Rachel explained, put off by the question, as it seemed to her that the answer should be obvious. "I'm in character for the role of English teacher, Brittany."
"Shit, I didn't know we were role-playing," Santana said. "I would have worn my naughty schoolgirl uniform to go with your teacher thing."
Rachel blushed as Quinn's glare chilled the room.
"So Santana," Rachel said, quickly moving along and ushering her over to the desk. "Did you review the eight most frequently tested grammar rules that I posted on your wall yesterday?"
"Wait, that was on purpose?" Santana asked, settling in at the desk. "I thought you got hacked and sent me a virus so I blocked you."
Rachel stared blankly for a moment, blinked, and shook her head. "Okay. Whatever, I'll resend it later tonight after you unblock me. Let's . . . let's start with the essay." She rifled through her papers until she found the one she was looking for, held it up, and cleared her throat.
"How would you answer the following question: 'Is education necessary for equality, or can equal opportunity be achieved by other means?'"
"Yes."
"Wait, yes what? It's either-or, not yes or no."
"Oh. The first part. Education for equality, or whatever. Is that right?"
"Well, for the essay part there's no right or wrong answer," Rachel explained patiently. "What matters is how well you can argue for your opinion. So let's talk about what you would say to support your position."
"I don't know," Santana shrugged. "Why do I have to write about this? Why can't I write about something I want?"
"Because you'll spend four years in college writing about things you don't care about, and they have to make sure you can do that before they accept you. So, why did you pick that answer?"
"Because it's what my mother always says."
"Okay, why does your mother say it?"
"I don't know, I usually pretend I forgot how to speak Spanish when she starts one of her minority education rants."
Rachel pressed her lips into a thin line. The successful teacher never shows frustration toward her students, she reminded herself, but instead uses what the student knows to their advantage.
"The SAT readers," she started slowly, "like when you use examples from history or literature to back up your points. For example, you could talk about the importance of literacy in the struggles of women or African Americans to gain equal rights. Or maybe there's something you've learned about the history of Hispanic Americans that you could use," she said with her eyebrows raised and an encouraging smile.
Santana appeared to be deep in thought.
"All right, I got this," she said finally. "Wait. Can I use real-life people?"
"Personal anecdotes are acceptable, yes."
"Word, so how about that time on Real Housewives of Orange County when –"
"Okay, Santana?" Rachel interrupted. "You're gonna need to read some books."
...
"Brittany. Brittany!"
"What?"
"I said, let's review one more time. The angles of a triangle add up to. . ."
"One hundred eighty degrees."
"And in problem number three, we figured out that the first two angles are. . ."
"Forty-five degrees each."
"So one more time – how would we figure out the measure of the third angle, x?"
Brittany picked up her calculator and appeared ready to start punching in numbers. Quinn's heart leapt with joy.
"Can you show me again how to turn this thing on?"
Quinn lowered her head into her hands.
...
"Santana, no texting! You're supposed to be memorizing those vocabulary words!"
Santana hit send, and across the room Brittany giggled.
"Hey, wait are you talking about me?" Rachel asked, alarmed.
"Cool it, Berry," Santana rolled her eyes. "We're gonna take a little break, that's all."
She got up and walked to the window that looked into the Berrys' back yard just as Noah Puckerman appeared on the other side of it. Rachel and Quinn jumped out of their seats, startled, and Santana lifted the screen to let Puck in. He was carrying two brown bags.
"What are you doing here, Puckerman?" Rachel demanded.
"What? I have to take the SAT, too, you know. Chill out, Rachel." He detached a can of beer from a six pack in the large bag and tossed it in Rachel's direction.
She jumped out of the way and it hit the floor behind her.
She lowered her eyebrows in disapproval. "My dads are home!" she whispered.
"It's Wednesday, isn't it, Berry?" Santana drawled. "If memory serves, they're about to leave for their bowling league in, ohhh, twelve seconds or so."
An hour later – which roughly translated to two six packs and a decent fraction of a bottle of whiskey – Rachel lounged on the loveseat with her head in Quinn's lap as Quinn scowled down at her with a distinct look of "I told you so."
Brittany lay upside down on the easy chair by the fireplace, her legs slung over the back of it and her head resting on the floor next to Santana's. Santana lay flat on her back on the floor, scrolling lazily through something on her phone.
Puck leaned back in the desk chair with his feet propped up next to the computer monitor. He was flipping through a book of Renaissance art, stopping at all the female nudes, keeping one eye on Santana and Brittany so as not to miss any drunken making out.
"Hey Britt," Santana said, a hint of mischief in her voice.
"Yeah?"
"Mila Kunis, Emma Stone, Olivia Wilde."
Across the room, Puck smirked and let out a "Yeeeahh."
Rachel clapped her hands, laughing.
"Ugh, please don't," Quinn said. "I hate this game."
"Why?" Rachel asked, "It's totally fun."
"It's objectification."
"Britt?" Santana encouraged. "Mila, Emma, Olivia."
"I would marry all of them."
Santana sat up. "We have been over this eleven thousand times. You can only marry ONE of them and you can only fuck ONE of them, and only once. The third one you have to throw off a cliff."
"Okay," Brittany said, chewing her bottom lip. "I would marry Emma Stone because she's funny."
"Okay, and?"
"I would sleep with Olivia Wilde."
"Good call." Santana clinked Brittany's shot glass with hers. "So Mila gets the cliff."
"No. I would marry her too."
Rachel threw her head back in laughter as Quinn rolled her eyes.
"I give up," Santana said. "You lose, you have to drink." She got up and took the bottle of whiskey from Puck, and returned to fill Brittany's shot glass.
"Okay, do Berry now," Santana ordered.
"Okay, Rachel," Brittany said. "Emma Watson. . . Shay Mitchell . . . Shantel Vansanten."
"I don't know who that last person is," Rachel said, frowning.
"Britt, nobody watches One Tree Hill except you," Santana reminded her. "Pick someone else."
"Okay, uhhh. Kristen Stewart."
"I'd throw Kristen Stewart off a cliff for agreeing to be in Twilight," Rachel said, wrinkling her nose.
"Bitch, you crazy," Santana said under her breath.
"Like Pretty Little Liars is any better," Quinn pointed out. "At least Kristen Stewart has been in other stuff."
"Looks like we know who Quinn would fuck," Puck said, opening another beer.
Quinn flushed. "I would not."
"Quinn does have a point," Rachel conceded. "I'd have to marry Emma Watson, I suppose, never mind how weird it is that I've been watching her in movies since we were both little kids."
"So you'd kill Kristen Stewart, and marry Emma Watson. What else? Come on, Rachel, you have to say it," Brittany teased.
"Okay, okay." She took a deep breath. "I'd fuck Shay Mitchell."
Rachel blushed and covered her face with her hands. "Maybe you were right about this game," she said to Quinn through the spaces between her fingers.
"No sympathy," Quinn said.
"Okay, okay. Since Quinn won't play, it's your turn, Noah," Rachel said, sitting up. "Ummm. Okay, so who do boys like?"
"Artie loved Megan Fox," Brittany suggested.
"Okay, Megan Fox . . . Katy Perry . . . Sofia Vergara."
"Who's that last chick?"
"Who is Sofia Vergara?" Santana asked in disbelief. "You are the gayest one in this room, Puckerman."
She stood up, clicked a few times on her phone as she crossed the room, and showed him her screen. "You're welcome."
"Daaamn," he exhaled. "Easy, I'd marry her. And I'd fuck Megan Fox. Katy Perry gets the cliff, she's not that hot, and her music sucks."
"Okay, Santana's next," Brittany said excitedly.
"All right, Lopez," Puck started, rubbing his hands together. "Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, and Rachel Berry."
"Oh, come on!" Santana exclaimed, as Rachel and Brittany both let out a long "Ohhhhh!"
"Hells no, you can't switch to real life people," Santana protested.
"I don't know why everyone is pretending to be so scandalized," Quinn chimed in. "We all know she's going to marry Brittany and throw me off the cliff so she can sleep with Rachel. I mean, substitute 'beat up' for 'throw off a cliff' and it's basically all happened already."
"I want to hear her say it," Puck shrugged.
"Well, of course I would marry Brittany," Santana smiled. "But I'd throw Berry off the cliff," she said, shrugging. "What?" she said, against Quinn's horrified look. "Been there, done that. I'm a breaking new ground kind of girl."
"I need a drink," Quinn said to Rachel.
"Okay Noah," Santana said, narrowing her eyes. "Finn Hudson, Sam Evans, Mike Chang."
"Just give him the whiskey," Rachel said, when she was able to stop laughing. "Cause he's never gonna answer that."
"For your information, I am comfortable in my masculinity," Puck said, standing up. "I'd totally marry Finn. He's my boy."
"Noted. So who would you fuck?" Santana asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
Puck paced between the desk and the love seat.
"Dude, you are thinking about this way too hard," she said. "Do you need some alone time to work it out for yourself?"
Puck finally came to a stop. "I'd fuck Mike Chang. Cause if I'm gonna fuck a dude I want him to have sweet moves."
Santana pretended to vomit as Quinn frowned and muttered, "Poor Sam."
"Santana," Puck said, "Mr. Schue, Coach Bieste, Coach Sylvester."
"Gimme the bottle," Santana said, shaking her head. "No fuckin' way." She took two big gulps straight from the bottle of whiskey.
"That's right, I'm the king," Puck said, flexing his biceps.
"I need to cleanse," Santana said, and wrapped her hand around the back of Brittany's neck.
"Puckerman, put your phone away, you perv," Quinn chastised him as he snapped pictures of them making out on the easy chair.
"Whatever, I gotta split," he said as he continued to take pictures. "Lauren's gettin' off work in 20 and I usually get me some if I meet her there and walk her home. Later, lesbos."
He snapped one more picture as he walked out the door.
"He is such a pig sometimes," Quinn remarked after she heard the front door slam.
"It must over-inflate his ego hanging out with us," Rachel agreed. "He knows we know he's slept with three of us and made out with the fourth."
"Yeah but think of how blue his balls are right now," Santana said with a smile, rolling off of Brittany, her voice husky and stilted from shortness of breath. "He can leer all he wants but that's it. Ain't never goin' there again."
"No way," Quinn said.
"Do you guys ever miss men?" Rachel asked. "I mean, like . . . sex with them?"
"I don't miss being afraid of getting pregnant," Quinn answered.
"I like sex with men," Brittany offered. "But it's not about the person's gender, so. Good sex is good sex."
"Berry, trust me. Girls are so much better," Santana said emphatically. "Think about it, when a guy is fucking you, he's moving how it feels good for him. When a girl is touching you, it's because she wants you to have an orgasm."
"I'm sure not all men are selfish like that, right?" Rachel asked hopefully.
"Not after they've done it a bunch of times," Brittany said.
"Sometimes they make sure you get there because of their ego," Santana added. "But it's not the same thing."
"Yeah, but you never slept with a guy who was in love with you," Quinn pointed out. "It's not really fair to judge men on random hookups, especially ones in high school."
"But so," Rachel interrupted, "You don't find it. . . unsatisfying to be with a girl? After being with boys?"
"Okay, wait, it's all becoming clearer," Santana laughed. "She's asking if we miss penises. There are ways to have that experience without a dude attached to it, you know, Berry. I'm sure Quinn would strap on for you if you asked nicely."
"Quinn's red," Brittany observed.
"Have you guys . . . have you like, tried that?" Rachel asked Santana and Brittany, swallowing nervously.
Santana and Brittany turned to each other and smiled shyly.
"Rachel, stop," Quinn whispered.
"We've talked about it," Brittany said.
"But what am I supposed to do, order it online and have it shipped to my parents' house? I don't think so," Santana said.
"Aren't there stores for that?" Rachel asked.
"Walk in and buy that in person? That's even worse."
"I'd go," Brittany shrugged.
Santana turned and looked at her.
"I'll go in and buy it," she repeated. "I might be a little embarrassed, but don't you think it'd be awesome if I could hold onto you with both hands?"
"I. . . uh,yeah," Santana said hoarsely. "Can we. . . Britt, let's go home."
"Oh, take my umbrella," Rachel said, looking out the window as Santana and Brittany stood up to leave. "It's pouring."
...
Rachel smiled as she heard Brittany's giggle retreat out into the rain. She laid her head back in Quinn's lap, and Quinn played absently with her hair as they listened to the rain fall.
"Everything okay?" Rachel asked, trying to lend her voice a light-hearted tone.
Quinn shrugged.
"Are you mad at Santana and Brittany, or something?"
"No. It's their problem if they blow off the SAT, not mine. I already got a 2150."
"Quinn, I have to be honest, okay? You're scaring me a little."
"Scaring you?"
Rachel sat up.
"Yeah, a little. You seem so unhappy. I worry when you brood like this. Quinn, I'm trying to give you space, but then I don't know how to reach you when I start to feel like there's too much of it. I always think you'll talk to me about what's bothering you when you're ready, but. I – I don't know. I guess I'm not sure what to do."
Rachel felt a little dizzy. What was she saying? Whiskey might be a bad, bad thing.
Quinn opened and closed her mouth. "I'm not . . . mad at you, if that's what you're worried about."
"Well, did something happen? Did something change?"
Quinn felt her stomach lurch. What could she say? Really, nothing had happened. And no matter how sad – desperate, even – Rachel's eyes looked, it didn't help her think of words to say.
But she had to say something.
"I really hate that stupid game."
"I know," Rachel said, relief flooding her chest at receiving any answer at all. "I'm sorry, I should have stopped it."
"It's not your fault."
"But Quinn, why does it bother you so much? It's just a silly game."
"I don't like talking about women that way," Quinn said quietly, turning her head from Rachel.
What way, as though you like them?
"Not even with Santana and Brittany?" she asked aloud.
"No. I just want to talk about you," Quinn said, and managed a genuine smile. She reached a hand toward Rachel's face and brushed her hair away from her forehead. Rachel's heart leapt as soon as Quinn's lips turned upward, a testament to how seldom she saw it happen these days.
"You want to talk about me with Santana and Brittany?" she teased. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."
"God, no," Quinn said. "They would like it too much."
"But, Quinn?" Rachel said, serious again. "You can talk about it with me, you know. About women. About liking them."
"Oh, you're an expert on women, now?" Quinn said, reaching out to tickle Rachel's side.
"No, I'm serious, Quinn," Rachel said, grabbing onto her hand. "I know it's not easy for you, and truth be told, sometimes I'm a little confused, too. Maybe we can help each other."
Quinn stared at Rachel, her eyes soft. Quinn's breath caught in her throat and butterflies fluttered in Rachel's stomach as she thought Quinn might cry, or speak, or something. It was a mix of anticipation and trepidation, like waiting for a first kiss.
"Rachel. . ." Quinn squeezed her eyes shut. "I just need . . ."
And then there was an actual kiss, and not a hypothetical one, and Rachel's offer was left hanging in the air while Quinn pushed her down on the loveseat.
And Rachel was confused, because this was not exactly conducive to the discussion she'd been craving, but she was also a little worked up, because well, there had been a lot of talk of fucking and marrying and girls giving you orgasms and strap-ons and there had also, frankly, been a lot of alcohol, so if this is what Quinn wanted to do instead of talking, how, in good conscience, could she deny her?
Which, really, she probably wouldn't have even had time to do anyway, because Quinn was lifting her shirt in a fantastic hurry, and her hands were everywhere at once, and then all of a sudden Rachel's bra was undone and her breasts were under Quinn's palms.
"God, Quinn, your hands," she breathed, the heat in her body collecting between her legs and in her cheeks.
She tugged at Quinn's shirt, because really, breasts were so much better against each other than against clothing of any kind. And she reached upwards because fingers, specifically Rachel's fingers, were much better in Quinn's hair than anywhere else.
And when you thought about it, Rachel decided, tongues against tongues might be even better than breasts against breasts. Although, it was a pointless debate really, especially when you could have both at once, which Rachel currently did, and so there was no reason to prefer one over the other that she could see, or even to argue about it with oneself. Better to just appreciate the way Quinn worked her tongue deep into Rachel's mouth, smashing her lips with the force of it, murmuring those little noises and stinging Rachel's skin with her nails.
Rachel did not appreciate, though, the fabric of Quinn's skirt between their bodies, and the damn zipper that she couldn't seem to get a hold of one-handed while trying to breathe through Quinn's face.
"Off," she whined, and Quinn sat up and started to undo it, but it had the unintended consequences of taking Quinn's skin away from her, not to mention her breasts and her tongue, and it was all quite tragic and unfortunate.
But as it turned out, while unpleasant, the absence of a Quinn on top of her did afford her the opportunity to remove the rest of her own clothing. As soon as that skirt was off of Quinn, Rachel was on her again and this time naked, tackling her to the love seat.
"Ohhh, Quinn," Rachel whispered, eyes closing, as their crotches met and Rachel could feel how ready Quinn already was. The tiny patch of curls at Quinn's very center was soaked and leaving trails of sticky on Rachel's skin every time she moved.
And Rachel couldn't not touch that, there was no way, so then her fingers were winding through Quinn's hair and parting the folds of her skin, and God, she really wanted to stay here and play but Quinn was rocking her hips up and down and Rachel could smell her now. So then her fingers were inside of Quinn, smooth and sticky, tracing the shape of her edges, fighting the wall of her body to work their way deeper.
Quinn grimaced and let out a little whimper, pretty much the sexiest one she had ever done ever as far as Rachel could tell, just loud enough for Rachel to know where to stay, and Rachel wanted to fuck her, but even more than that didn't want those hips to stop rocking beneath her, because that sight was making her sweat all by itself.
"You do it," she whispered, holding her hand strong and firm against Quinn's insides. "Let me watch you."
"No. . . Rachel, please," Quinn pleaded. "Please."
"Come on, Quinn," Rachel said, thrusting a little, well aware it wasn't enough.
Quinn arched her back and let out a low "Mmmm," of frustration and slid her body roughly down against Rachel's hand.
They wound up compromising, Rachel moving a lot and Quinn moving a little, and Rachel got inspired because really, fucking one's girlfriend is very inspirational, and reached down and tugged on Quinn's hair behind her ear.
"Stop it," Quinn hissed, and batted at her hand.
And Rachel said, "No," and held on anyway because, well, she was thoroughly enjoying feeling Quinn strain against her in two places now.
Quinn either stopped caring about the hair-pulling or decided that she liked it, because the next thing to happen was that Quinn's fingertips were working their way between Rachel's legs. She wasn't fucking Rachel, exactly, because she was barely inside of her. She was feeling her.
"Why are you doing that, Quinn?" Rachel cooed in her ear. "Does it help you come to feel me all wet from fucking you?" she continued, because apparently, whiskey was indeed a bad, bad thing, a bad thing that made her quite bold.
Quinn only whimpered in response, but Rachel had her answer anyway, written across Quinn's contorted face.
"Your face when you come is the sexiest thing ever," Rachel said, breathless as she struggled to keep the pressure on Quinn's insides as they clenched and threatened to push her out. "You are so fucking hot."
Quinn squeezed Rachel's hand with her inner thighs and then everything about her collapsed at once. Rachel smiled in pleasure and in pride, and then slid her body upwards and straddled Quinn.
She rode Quinn's fingers all the way down to the base of her hand, and then fell forward, bringing their bodies together roughly, with a smack.
"Talk to me, Quinn," Rachel breathed, as she and Quinn worked against each other again. "Talk to me like I talked to you."
Quinn squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, and planted her hand on Rachel's hip.
"What's it like to feel me up here, Quinn?" she tried again. "What's it like to watch me?"
"You're beautiful, Rachel," Quinn said, the hoarse tension in her voice making up somewhat for the fact that it wasn't exactly the response Rachel was looking for.
Rachel didn't dwell on it, frankly, because Quinn's fingers were doing their job. She came easily and with a moan that seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was really, really good, both the orgasm and the moan.
Her body felt warm and relaxed, and she planted kisses across Quinn's face.
"You are so, so beautiful, too, Quinn."
Quinn opened her eyes, finally, and she looked up at Rachel and smiled a little.
"Can we. . ." Rachel said, smiling a smile that was somehow both shy and mischievous, "Can I maybe, have your mouth?"
Quinn closed her eyes and opened her mouth a little as she nodded and rolled Rachel onto her back.
The downside, for Rachel, as Quinn slid down her body, was that she couldn't try to get Quinn to talk while this was going on.
But that was okay, she decided as Quinn's warm, soft mouth closed over her clit. She'd probably do enough talking during this part for the both of them.