AN: So here's a chapter dedicated to Rachel and Quinn interaction. As always, thank you to those who continually take the time to read this story. Reviews, faves and alerts are just bonuses, but they are more than welcome too :)
Chapter 3 – Serendipity
First, Rachel wonders how long Quinn's been standing there alone in the cold. If she had known the blonde's intention to sneak out, she would've joined her. Except that she's not entirely adept with escapism either. In fact, she often gets caught in the middle of everything. Point in case, she ended up here— barely able to walk without staggering—and Quinn's here too, sober and looking perfectly unaffected.
Second, she thinks, 'Oh my god, she's beautiful.', because it's the first time she's seeing Quinn's profile, and it's immaculate—so much that it leaves no room for jealousy in Rachel's heart. Or maybe she's just that drunk, because when you have one drink too many, everything feels awful.
"Hello." She drawls, dragging out the 'o' until all the air leaves her lungs. She sounds so fucking outlandish even to herself, but she's utterly helpless when her jaw feels ten tons heavy.
Quinn whips her head around and Rachel doesn't miss the way her short blonde hair bounces through the sudden movement.
She's tall, Rachel observes, eyes briefly scanning the blonde's entirety—from toned arms subtly visible through cotton sleeves, down to shapely legs covered in faded denim jeans. And a bit athletic too…
"Hello." Quinn responds slowly, drawing out the last syllable exactly the same way Rachel had.
Rachel's brows crease in confusion as Quinn's mouth twist in a measured smile. She can't tell if she's misreading Quinn's actions, or if she's legitimately being mocked by this girl.
"You were supposed to be there," Rachel clumsily tilts her head in the pub's direction. "Not here." The blonde's been missing the whole time and it surprises her that no one took notice at all.
Quinn regards her with a blank expression, so that Rachel can't tell whether she's thinking of an answer or already spacing out in the open.
"But you aren't there either." Quinn answers languidly, tilting her head towards the same direction and mimicking Rachel's previous action.
"Well, I haven't been here for all night, getting drunk on a Snapple." Rachel snaps, gesturing wildly at the empty bottle in Quinn's hand.
Quinn's retaliates with a look that sends a chill down Rachel's spine. Jesus, that look she keeps sending her. It's impenetrable and a little frightening—as if she's aiming to trap Rachel with just her line of vision.
The brunette bites her lower lip anxiously, starting to feel overwhelmed by the growing silence. She can't think of anything more to say, and it seems neither does Quinn. But even in her intoxicated state, Rachel can't stand not talking to someone she just met. She always feels the need to entertain, to keep things interesting, to reel people in and give the best impression. Damn, it's hard being Rachel fucking Berry sometimes.
She constantly needs. And she's always conflicted when she doesn't deliver.
Except, things are ten times worse when the person refuses to talk but shamelessly keeps staring at her like she' reading into Rachel's life, starting from the very beginning.
Just, what is this Quinn person thinking of right now?
"It's rude to stare, you know." Rachel mutters, leaning against the perishing wall behind her.
"Says who?" Quinn asks coyly, mimicking Rachel's movements as she too, leans back.
"Are you seriously asking me that, or you're just playing with me?"
Quinn nods slowly.
"Come on, which is it?"
Again, the blonde merely bobs her head up and down. Up and down, resembling those bobblehead dolls displayed on most public vehicles. It's freaking annoying her more than normal.
"Why are you being so mean to me?" Rachel whimpers in a little child's voice.
Then Quinn smiles, all teeth and pink gums and radiance, and says, "Do you want to sit down somewhere?"
Rachel shakes her head harshly. "I don't think I want to go back in there. I'll round another lose of their stupid game and I'll be the drunkest in New York City. My fathers would just love that, wouldn't they?"
Quinn wheezes in short beats, and it takes a while for Rachel to realize she's laughing.
Rachel's ears turn a crimson shade. Laughing at what? … Having two gay dads?
"'Lose another round' you mean? Are you okay? " Quinn says between chuckles, before Rachel can interrupt her with a dirty look.
Brown eyes soften in an instant, appreciating her mistake for once.
"So you weren't being distasteful of the fact that I have two gay fathers?" says Rachel, suddenly more lucid.
Hazel eyes dart from brown, finding a sudden interest towards the starless night sky. For a while she contemplates the infinite cosmic mantle, and then poses a question of her own.
"Why would that sort of thing warrant an insult?"
Rachel's teeth dig into her lower lip hard, but not hard enough to draw blood.
"I've been asking that myself for years now actually."
Rachel falls silent, waiting for something; maybe for Quinn's two cents, or for some kind words of comfort. But Quinn just lingers, seemingly caught up in her own thoughts.
A growling noise comes out of nowhere, and the topic drops in a beat. Rachel dips her head, hand coming down to rest on her tummy. And there it is, another growl—more prominent than the last one—loudly confirming Rachel's suspicions. It's not a pleasant sound to give off to someone you've just met that morning, but she's too damn out of focus to find it in herself to care.
Quinn's face morphs into a funny expression, keeping her lips tightly pressed together in an effort to contain her amusement. She watches Rachel arduously try to remember the last time she's eaten.
"They didn't have vegan mac and cheese. Or anything vegan…" Rachel mumbles unhappily, frowning at the look Quinn is giving her.
"Do you want to grab something to eat?" the blonde offers kindly.
Rachel ducks her head and shrugs her shoulders.
"'kay."
They both stay completely still— Rachel clutching her empty stomach and Quinn watching her.
It lasts for several seconds until the brunette exclaims, "Oh, for Pete's sake!" and grabs Quinn by the wrist, ignoring the slight twitch of pale hand when her tanned skin met the blonde's. On her initial step, Rachel almost loses balance, knocking Quinn's at the same time. Quinn at last, takes matters into her own hands, gripping the brunette by the elbow to control both of their movements. They're locked like that all through Rachel's quest to find a diner, eventually stopping at a hotdog stand when the pain in her stomach becomes too unbearable.
Drinking with an empty stomach— not a good idea, Rachel notes for future reference.
"Are you sure you want to eat here, Ms. Rachel Berry?"
"I'm obviously not stopping here to merely chat with you, Quinn."
"Yeah. But I think I recall you mentioning your vegan diet."
"And so?"
They buy an ordinary hotdog sandwich with lots of pickles (at Rachel's request), and Quinn takes a bottle of water. Quinn quietly watches Rachel pull out the hotdog from the bun and tosses it into the garbage can. They fall into a momentary lapse, as Rachel merrily nibbles on her pickle sandwich. For most part, Rachel eats in silence except for when she asks Quinn if Snapple's her favorite drink, to which Quinn replies with a quick 'just their pomegranate flavor'. Rachel's a bit disappointed after that, thinking every Snapple flavor tastes just as heavenly.
"You're not particularly fond of talking, are you?" Rachel says right after finishing her meal.
Quinn's forehead creases as if lost for a moment, and then says, "I sometimes talk to people I know." Sometimes. Rachel wonders how frequent that is.
"My name is Rachel Barbra Berry. Now you know me."
Quinn smiles and shakes her head.
"And you're Quinn uhm… I forgot."
"Maybe I'll tell you later. But I hardly think that's how it works, Ms. Rachel Barbra Berry."
"Can you stop that?"
Quinn arches an eyebrow— which is already perfectly arched anyway—in a nonverbal question of 'stop what?'
"Calling me by my full name."
"Okay, Ms. Rachel."
"And fucking omit the 'miss' already! God, can't you address people like a normal person?" She usually doesn't swear, but then again, she also doesn't find a pickle sandwich enjoyable on a normal day.
"Okay, Rachel."
Rachel knows it's an off-handed remark and Quinn should be offended, but she doesn't miss the playful sheen in Quinn's eyes as she crosses her arms in font of her chest.
It's without a doubt that she's meeting the worst people ever. There's Santana who's overly and incessantly in rage. And then this blonde, who—
God, she has no fucking clue who this Quinn is, or what's behind those eyes that stubbornly clings to her. Rachel can't find anything to say about her companion.
But thinking so deeply into this is starting to physically hurt, as her head pounds louder than her chest.
"Maybe I just do things differently than most people..." Quinn mutters softly. Rachel can see the sincerity of that statement in Quinn's eyes. And she probably needs to apologize for yelling, but instead she keeps her mouth and observes Quinn some more.
"Why don't you sit down, Rachel?" Quinn says, pulling her back to the present or taking Rachel's attention away from herself.
Rachel breathes, long and hard like it's her very first.
On the pavement…? "Where?"
Quinn answers by looking at the sidewalk. Well, she doesn't really have a choice. Rachel carefully drops to the ground, Indian style, just a few inches away from the blonde.
It surprisingly feels nice.
"It's your duty, you know, to keep talking to me so I don't fall asleep and have a concussion." Rachel says, giving another go at an actual conversation. Problem is she's too inebriated to think of a good topic. So maybe requiring Quinn to talk could force her to put some effort and give this a try.
"You said you had two gay dads. What's that like?" Quinn asks.
Rachel smiles proudly at the mention of her fathers. "Hiram and Leroy Berry—two people I love more than anything in this world. Two people who love me more than anything in this world, too."
"That's quite an introduction."
"It's true."
"Where are they?"
"Lima, Ohio. That's where I came from, my hometown. Then I got into Julliard and came here right after graduation. One of the hardest things I ever did in my life was walking through that invisible line at the airport, the one that tells me there's no going back—that when I cross over that point, I'll be here, and my fathers on the other side. Hey, can I take sip from that?"
Quinn shrugs and hands Rachel her bottle of water. Rachel closes her eyes as she drinks, and soon, she feels some of the heaviness in her head wear off. When she's done, she hands it back to Quinn, who refuses. "You can keep it."
"What, you've got some unresolved saliva issues?" Rachel teases.
She takes Quinn's silence as a yes.
"Shit, I'm sorry." Rachel says. She scrambles to her feet, with the intent of getting Quinn another bottle of water until Quinn stops her by reaching out and gently tugging the hem of Rachel's shirt. "It's fine, Rachel."
With the loose hold she still has on the brunette's shirt, she pulls Rachel back to her previous position.
And this is where Rachel gets struck with fervent curiosity. This girl, who loves to maintain eye contact but won't speak more than two sentences, who sneaks out of a social affair to drink Snapple by herself, who's asking Rachel about her family like she's genuinely interested to know and not just being polite…
There's a word for it. Fascination. Like when she had her first viewing of Funny Girl, and became so intrigued with musicals and Barbra, she spent more than eighteen years of life wanting to be her obsession.
And it's kind of the same with Quinn, except Quinn's a real person, and Rachel can't crack her open unless Quinn permits it. It's the magic of meeting someone for the first time. They're a brand new learning that pokes at someone's natural excitement of discovery, so that people turn into magnets constantly drawn to each other, on and on.
But then, it's not like she's going to remember this encounter with Quinn in the morning. And yet, it doesn't keep Rachel from hoping she would— because she kind of wants to have Quinn as friend despite her weird habit of openly staring at a person.
Quinn just continues to look at her, and Rachel's beginning to find this rude manner of hers quite pleasing.
"I told you, it's rude to stare." She reprimands Quinn gently with a grin.
Quinn's eyes unexpectedly shifts downwards in response.
"Quinn…?"
Hazel eyes return to Rachel once again. "Hmm?"
"What are you thinking?"
"I don't know," Quinn looks away. "Thoughts?"
"Like what?"
A reply never comes. By now, Rachel's caught on the minimal chance of getting this girl to answer any of her questions. So Rachel begins thinking of some way to find these answers, and discovers one.
"You don't like it when it's about you."
Not a question, but a statement. But Quinn just runs her tongue over her chapped lips, pretending she didn't hear the brunette.
Rachel has gotten the hang of how Quinn communicates to parse this reaction. Kind of like a "fuck off" but in a nicer, subtler way.
Jesus, it's insane that she's learning all these things with about 50% alcohol in her bloodstream.
"You know what, we can be a team. I'm obviously good at talking and you're an excellent listener." Rachel muses.
"Sounds like a useless team to me, unless there's an existing conversation contest in America."
"If there is, will you enter with me?"
Quinn grins. "Maybe…"
"Hey, can you be my sink just for tonight?"
Quinn shrugs. She crosses her legs together and rests a pale cheek on her wrist.
Rachel takes it as signal and starts breaking down her thoughts to pieces, and getting each one of them out in the open.
"It's probably going to be a lengthy monologue, but you are very welcome to interrupt me anytime you want," Rachel says. "But I really need to get this out while I'm half coherent enough to withstand the dirty ground I'm currently seating on."
"You have…" Quinn checks the time on her cell—12:11 am. "…all morning." Though a quick glance at Rachel can tell anyone that with her current state, she won't last any much longer than half an hour.
"I—I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore. I thought I did, but I should've known I'd arrive to a situation in which I can't seem to go anywhere. It's like deciding to visit your favorite restaurant for dinner—but not knowing which dish to order, or what you're having for drinks. God, I'm not making much sense, am I?"
"I'm assuming that's just a metaphor for a more tangible situation?"
"Yes. But metaphors are important, Quinn."
The corners of Quinn's mouth inch up every so slightly. "If you say so… But that's a metaphor for what?"
"For choosing to transfer to NYU, despite Julliard and singing being my whole life. I have this plan in my head where I'll finish with honors, and within a few months, grab my first role at Broadway. But I should have known that I was planning for disappointment too.
"Because look where I am now," Rachel snorts, lacking the humor that usually accompanies it. "I'm as bad as this pavement and life seating on my face. I run away from Julliard, Quinn. What the hell was I thinking?"
"What happened?"
"A humiliation that I've been struggling to put behind me..."
"Julliard's not really that far from here." Quinn mutters.
At that, Rachel bursts into laughter. Was that a joke? Hilarious but totally uncalled for. What exactly is she trying to say here? That if she wants to return to her dreams she can just take a taxi and tell it to drop her off at Lincoln Center Plaza?
"It's a metaphor, Rachel." Quinn says sheepishly.
"For…?" Rachel asks in between giggles. Silly girl, it's not.
"For…" Quinn's forehead creases, and it's obvious how much she's concentrating on this one idea. Rachel decides to take pity on the blonde and restrains herself.
After a long moment, Quinn breaks eye contact. "Never mind."
"No, please, tell me."
"I forgot." Quinn dismisses with a shrug.
She doesn't believe Quinn. Not even a little bit. But she's tired too tired to bicker and lets it go, mentally swearing she'll someday get Quinn to tell her more than evasive answers. In the mean time, she continues her story.
"You know what the worst part of my story is? My boyfriend had something to with it." Rachel pauses for effect and waits to see if it'll earn a surprised reaction from Quinn, but the blonde's face remains docile.
"Or should I say ex-boyfriend." Rachel corrects herself a second later. "I don't understand how someone who claims to love you, betray you for their selfish benefit."
"Men can be rather convincing…" Quinn trails off, her eyes unsteady. Her tone of voice isn't comforting or anywhere close to that—yet it sounds as if she's only saying what she knows, and would rather not say more than what she means just to make Rachel feel better. And she appreciates that about Quinn. She releases a drawn-out yawn, stretching her arms to relieve some of the stiffness.
Quinn pulls her legs to her chest, throwing her arms around them in a protective manner. Rachel feels the desire to ask what Quinn knows about men and their conniving ways. She wants to know the backstory behind that statement, just as she wants to know if she can still turn things around in the end. But there's something she hasn't done in a long time.
Singing. Overwhelmed with a sudden longing, Rachel starts humming a few notes from the West Side Story's 'I Feel Pretty', and she wonders too, if Quinn can carry a tune herself.
"Quinn?"
"Yes?"
Rachel rubs her eyes roughly. She's halfway to losing herself to sleep. "Your surname? You said maybe you'll tell me, and I think I'm about to die, so…"
Quinn's laugh rings in her ears—in a very musical way— just before her mind starts to drift off to wonderland.
"Fabray," Quinn whispers at the last minute. But Rachel misses it, already having fallen asleep.