AN: Hey everyone! Thanks for reading and reviewing the last chapter, I got a lot of positive feedbacks from it and I would just like to say that I have a purpose for writing Quinn this way. It's going to be a major factor in their relationship development. After this chapter, the stage for this story will be almost complete. Please don't forget to review :)
Chapter 4 – Quinn Who?
Received: Aug 28, 2012 6:30 am
*MQOTD: Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant. – Paulo Coelho
P.S. Give us a call soon, sweetie. We miss you… Love always, dads.
Brown eyes flutter open to the sound of an alarm going off like a tripwire.
Her own bed could be blazing at the very moment, and yet, Rachel wouldn't notice.
Not with a recurring headache coming down on her head with pointy, needle-like claws—and that's a lot worse than being inside a burning building and dying from suffocation. Rachel twists on her side, causing a groan to escape Rachel's dry throat, as she feels a dull ache in her lower back. She struggles to sit up, grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth, and an acid-like pain in her stomach, telling her she might have visited the toilet a couple of times throughout the night. Worse, she doesn't know where she is, but there's an elegant poster of the NYU Violets plastered on the wall to suggest that she's most probably in one of the Residence Halls. Rachel swings a leg off the bed and hits something soft.
Rising in panic, she hurriedly checks the floor.
There's a body there. A body, wrapped cocoon-like in a thick blue blanket. Unmoving. Is it breathing? Should she check if it's still alive? Rachel shakes her head, reminding herself that it's NYU, not some abandoned house in the middle of the desert. It's safe to say there's a fat chance of accidentally stepping on a dead body. Or Jesus, maybe she still not anywhere near half-sober. Just how many drinks did she had last night? Six, seven…? Not like Rachel even wants to find out, but it's a damn record breaker for sure. She needs a cold shower and a glass of water. Maybe both at the same time.
She had woken up like this on numerous occasions, so she's not entirely a novice when it comes to this sort of thing, though for it to happen even before the term begins is just down right unappealing. Her fathers, if they find out, they'd certainly be—
"—very disappointed in you!" Hiram's voice echoes through the receiver. Rachel closes her eyes and imagines her dad's face—red and stern, smoke billowing from his ears. God, it surely isn't helping her worst headache in history.
She had left the room as soon as she found her phone (warm and stuck inside the rear pocket of her jeans from yesterday), and read her inbox first out of habit. And now she regrets having called her dads before she even has the chance to clear her head and plan how her conversation with them should go.
But the minute she hears her fathers' gleeful, 'good morning, baby girl' the truth comes flying out of her mouth. It's like they know how to rip it out of her no matter where she is or how hard she tries to hide it.
"Rachel Barbra Berry, you have two minutes to explain." Hiram growls, his voice approaching a dangerous volume.
"It's not as bad as it looks. We were just having fun, kind of like a welcome celebration for new students." Rachel mutters quickly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Do you even hear yourself, young lady?" Leroy.
Rachel's kind of hoping that it's just Hiram, and her daddy won't ever have to know. But of course she's been put on speaker mode. The Berry men rarely hide anything from each other, much less when it involves Rachel.
Leroy continues, "Not a big deal? You don't wake up to someone else's room with no memories of last night and say 'it's not a big deal'."
"I'm sorry." Rachel whispers. Their temper hardly ever rises because with Rachel, they rarely ever need to. Every time it happens, there's a feeling of being caught unprepared, similar to running her fingers along a livewire that has been dormant for years until without warning, it snaps back to life.
"This won't happen again." Hiram warns. "Your daddy and I let you make your own decisions and we give you as much space as you want. We trust you, so much that you're there in New York 'land of do-as-you-please' City. But don't take that for granted, Rachel."
Defiant, she answers, "I'm nineteen. I'm not in high school any—"
"You aren't. That's why you should be more careful."
This conversation can only go so far, and she knows they're not going to let her go unless she acknowledges her mistake.
"I know." Rachel concedes finally.
"Baby girl, we're aware of how things have been difficult for you lately. But you know that can always talk to us about your problems, instead of participating in these meaningless festivities."
"Again, I didn't do it because I was unhappy—" Rachel abruptly blocks her sentence. She's too fucking tired to argue, so maybe she should just give this up. "Okay. I'm sorry. I promise it won't—h-happen again."
"Glad we're clear on that," Leroy replies. "Take care, Little Star. We love you."
"You too, dads."
She ends the call feeling relieved, and concentrates to sort out yesterday's events. With her mind considerably vivid enough, Rachel recalls the following: a place called 'Circus' which did not look like a circus at all (at least not the type Rachel imagined as a child); Puck's stupid drinking game which most likely is a cheap strategy to get girls drunk off their faces; and out of nowhere appears an empty bottle of Snapple, which belonged to—
Quinn.
Rachel blinks at the thought of the blonde settling in her mind. Quinn! She must have brought her home last night, which means—
Rachel rushes back to the room, pushes through the door and pulls the blanket away from the maybe-dead body sprawled on the floor.
"Qui—"
"Motherfucker!"
The instant she meets angry eyes that aren't hazel, Rachel's smile falters. "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Rachel screams in return, disheartened and retreating. It's just that girl Georgia, or whoever she is— but definitely doesn't look like someone who occasionally indulges in Snapple.
She shuts the door quietly, all the while thinking of where Quinn had gone, or what happened after losing consciousness on that memorable pavement.
xxxxx
The day drags by with every second of it stretching like hours. Forbes guides them through the session as if she weren't with them at Circus, giving the impression that she's more than adjusted to the business of bringing a bunch of kids to a night club, and being their lecturer the next day. And that makes the brunette partial to the honorable-looking woman before them.
Quinn arrives late. She skirts around mutely in unmeasured strides and plops on her designated seat, without so much as heeding the curious gaze of her peers. She looks so… indifferent. Absent to the world. The barest hint of dark circles under her eyes suggests scarcely slept last night, causing Rachel to duck her head in guilt.
"Good morning, Quinn." Forbes welcomes her with verve.
"Good morning." The blonde mumbles to no one.
Rachel eyes stay fixed on her, hoping it would send some telepathic message and Quinn would glance her way. It feels as though she owes Quinn an apology for being a responsibility, and for anything she might have done that's rather off-putting. But her hazel eyes are void of any expression, like she has her thoughts somewhere else, so perhaps Rachel should save it for later. Besides, she's got the rest of the day.
xxxxx
Several hours later, Forbes has finished wrapping up the final part of the orientation. They're back in the dining area reserved for this workshop, and Rachel absentmindedly eyes the bowl of salad before her.
She still hasn't gotten hold of Quinn. Not for lack of trying or much less, an opening— as a matter of fact, there were plenty of them that she had missed due to that small part of her that is hesitant. Being around Quinn seems to be so much easier with booze clouding Rachel's judgment. At least she had her bleary vision, which she used as some sort of shield from Quinn's claustrophobic gaze. God, what's the protocol for approaching the person who saved your drunken ass?
Rachel idly pokes the mayonnaise-dressed potato with her fork. Fifteen feet. That's approximately Rachel's distance from Quinn, and she reminds herself that the worst thing that can happen is Quinn giving her a bland look in response. And that's something Rachel Berry can take any given day ever since the minute she stepped into New York City. She had gotten a handful of shoulder-shrugs in the past, most of which from people who seem to sniff out where she came from, like she's literally wafting of Lima or dirt. When it comes to dealing with discrimination, Rachel has learned two things: either you kill them with kindness or talent. They both work out, but she gets more satisfaction with the latter.
And Rachel Berry is oozing with talent and flare. So why can't she cross that fifteen feet distance and strike up a conversation like a normal person?
But Quinn doesn't generally fall into the category of normal, does she? Maybe she doesn't need a plan. Like yesterday night, when she didn't plan on getting trashed and meeting Quinn outside the pub. Maybe what works with Quinn is spontaneity. And holy shit, she's not exactly adept with that, having planned her entire future and all.
Rachel takes a deep nervous breath. Raking her eyes over the shiftless blonde by the corner, she gets into position. Here it goes.
"Hey, Rachel?"
Puck appears behind her, hands buried in his pockets. "Mind if I get your number?"
Rachel looks up at him and all she can see are the stuff he revealed during his ill-famed drinking game. Some of which, still makes her cringe and squeeze her eyes shut.
"I'm sorry but I'm n-not interested in—"
He abruptly raises a hand to quiet her. "Just in case you'd like to sing a duet with me some time." Puck explains with a grin, scoffing.
Rachel purses her lips, thinking. Music is music, and she can't deny that she misses being surrounded by people who share the same passion for it. She had come across offers like this in the past. There's only so much that one talented person can do, and having an accountability partner in music can set the bar higher.
She should at least, give this collaboration a chance.
"Do you have a pen?"
Puck smiles victoriously and plucks out one from his leather jacket. Rachel swiftly scribbles her number on his palm. She purposely leaves her full name below, just because she's sick of being called 'Michelle' the first time.
"I'll see you around," Puck glances at her elegant writing. "Rachel Berry."
Puck leaves her with a wink, which Rachel dismisses with a shake of her head. For a moment there, Rachel finds herself hating his guts.
She turns around, remembering Quinn and her spontaneous mission.
But to her dismay, Quinn's no longer anywhere to be seen. Rachel gapes sullenly at the empty chair previously occupied by the blonde. Maybe she'll her around… or not.
xxxxx
On her way home Rachel decides against taking a cab, saving around 30 dollars she can use for other expenses. She's starting off ground zero and jut wasted a year of tuition at Juilliard, the least she could do is manage her allowances appropriately.
She trudges down the street, pulling her suitcase behind with minimal difficulty. Rachel enjoys the drama of it all—falling from grace and ending up on her feet, dragging her life. It helps that she's currently residing in the more gracious parts of Manhattan. The upscale lifestyle makes everything—even hardships—no less than beautiful.
Something on her body vibrates, and Rachel gently locks her luggage to her side. She reaches inside her pocket and pulls out her phone, hoping it isn't another call from her fathers.
She beams at the name flashing on the LCD.
Shelley. Rachel quickly hits the accept button.
"Rae!"
"Shells!"
"Rae!"
"You have no idea how happy I am to be hearing your voice right now. How's it going?"
"Pretty swell. Guess who's at Starbucks Greenwich Village right now."
"Shelley Foxman, dancer extraordinaire?" Rachel exclaims in excitement. "Oh my god, seriously?"
"Seriously! Get your ass over here in fifteen minutes, or I'm ordering without you."
"I'm on my way!"
xxxxx
She spots Shelley even before she inside the cafe. The dancer scrambles to get up from her seat and throws her long arms around the tiny brunette, nearly knocking her down. She's strong and taller than Rachel by six inches so it's not surprising if one day, Rachel ends up tackled on the ground.
"I missed you, Gold star." Shelley whispers, resting her chin on top of the brunette's head.
"Missed you too..."
It's Shelley who pulls back and her eyes immediately surveys Rachel from head to toe.
"Wow, did you adopt a new form of diet?"
Rachel shakes her head. "You know what they say when you transfer, it's either you gain 'em or you lose 'em."
"I can't relate. Eating is my hobby anywhere. And drop the fake southern accent, you sound stupid."
"And you pull it like a rock star."
"Of course I do, I'm from Texas."
Rachel laughs heartily. "Come on, let's get our drinks." She says, and links their arms together.
They walk towards the counter. Shelley takes a minute choosing a Frappuccino and Rachel checks out the items on display as she waits for her turn. She ponders on her friend's comment on her weight loss and thinks she's probably going to gain it all once the official classes start (a week from today), so she might want to stay away from that strawberry cheesecake daunting at her behind a glass frame.
"Welcome to Starbucks! May I take your order?"
"You may. I'll have a tall soy latte and one of this." Rachel says, taking a granola bar from the item set to her right before glancing back at the delightful pastry that seems to daunt her with its generous topping of fresh strawberries.
She hears the staff clear his throat, causing Rachel to break eye contact with the cheesecake.
He looks appalled. And given his giant structure, he looks awkwardly funny to Rachel that she can't help letting out a small giggle.
Rachel's eyes fall on his nameplate. "How much do I owe you, Finn?"
"I uh— $3.50?" He couldn't sound more like a girl if he tries.
"Are you asking me?" Rachel teases. Shelley shoots her a knowing look.
"$3.50." He says more firmly.
"What was that?" Shelley asks nosily.
Rachel shrugs, smiling.
"Really, he was ready to jump over the counter and pounce."
She laughs at the imagery, ignoring the implications underneath it. It's nice being wanted, to render a man speechless from time to time, but Rachel's got her hands full at the moment and he's…
He's just damn to tall for her, isn't he?
"So what brings you to Greenwich?" says Rachel, when they're settled on one of the couches.
"Actually, I need to tell you something," Shelley says, eyes dropping to the table between them. Seeing the reluctance in the dancer's eyes, Rachel squares her shoulders, preparing for the worst.
"It's about Jesse. I don't want you finding out the worst way—seeing his face plastered on a yellow bus or his name up there."
'There' could mean anything. But Rachel knew in an instant that it meant the giant Broadway ad located at Time Square.
Shelley tells her everything she heard on the deal they offered him. Next fall, he is set to play the lead role in an upcoming Broadway production of "Once". And he hasn't even completed four credits of opera studies, and yet—
And yet he is right where Rachel would have given everything to be.
At the outset she's angry. But she's been angry at him for such a long time that it feels comforting rather than mortifying. She wants—yearns— to forgive Jesse. She really does. She honestly thinks it's the only way to completely renew her self and start anew. But it's difficult when he persists in winning at every chance that she might've had if things happened differently.
"I'm sorry." Shelley murmurs quietly at the end, gauging Rachel's reaction.
"Thanks but I'm perfectly fine."
"Are you sure, Gold Star?"
Rachel gives her a toothy smile. "How are you doing back there?"
"Honestly? They're riding me pretty hard. They want to fuse us with your pool. Now don't take this the wrong way, but about more than half of them are worse divas than you are."
"I don't think it's really that complicated for you to get along with the drama department. I mean, you're friends with me, and it's not like I'm too different from them."
"But you are. God, I'm telling you Rach, you're the best among those people and—Oh my god!" Shelley shrieks all of a sudden and points at Rachel's cup. The brunette's heart stops and inspects her drink for a moment.
"No, silly. Here," Shelley guides her around her cup, and that's when Rachel spots the label. Instead of her name, a "to a beautiful girl with chocolate eyes" is scribbled in small at the bottom part so that it's not immediately recognizable. "Chocolate eyes. Couldn't he think of a better adjective?"
"Hey Rach, look," Shelley nods her head at Rachel's admirer who's awkwardly leaning behind the counter. "He's been giving you those puppy looks ever since you ordered that latte."
Rachel glances over her shoulder and she accidentally meets his gaze. Finn averts his eyes right away, but the way his forehead's anxiously creasing tells her that he knows he's been caught. How adorable.
"Although he's a bit soft around the edges, my advice is that you write your number on that napkin now."
"Shells! Keep your voice down!" The brunette hisses at her with ruddy cheeks.
"Fine. I'm just saying he looks cute enough to make-out with. And with all that's happening in your life right now, you can use a little… distraction."
Rachel makes a disapproving noise and playfully smacks the dancer's arm.
"Anyway, what's with the ginormous bag?"
She's startled for a while, before she remembers that she came here with a luggage which—
Her eyes are promptly everywhere, searching for her pink luggage.
"Calling the attention of all of our customers, we found a Samsonite stroller—"
"That's mine!" Rachel yells, scurrying towards the entrance where her bag is sitting.
xxxxx
She arrives at the apartment before midnight after touring her friend around her new neighborhood. The dancer was slightly impressed, but it's nothing she hasn't seen before. As a matter of fact, the apartment she shared with Shelley is located in the swankier areas of Upper West Side. Rachel thought about offering Shelley to see her new dorm room, but threw ultimately flung out the idea at the possibility of Santana being home.
And now after stepping inside, she's more than glad that she didn't invite Shelley in. The room's absolutely filthy. Rachel cautiously walks across the room. She passes by Santana's bedroom and peeks in to see if she's there but (to Rachel's relief) it's deserted.
Right when she's sure that she's all by herself, the bathroom door bursts open.
And through the shadowy steam, out came a very half-naked Santana Lopez.
Oh.
Rachel's mouth drops to the floor, not for the exposed areas of her roommates' body that should not be exposed in front of anyone in the first place, but for the fact that she's drenching the maple flooring of their living room. And she only mopped the thing two nights ago.
She brushes past Rachel, smirking at the small brunette's reaction. Rachel gapes at the Latina, trying not to think about how this makes the shower ten times grosser than any part of apartment that has suffered under Santana's care (or the complete lack thereof). But before Rachel can berate her roommate, another distraction comes without warning.
Another naked, sun-kissed flesh steps out of the bathroom.
And it belongs to an unfamiliar woman.
A woman. Oh.
Wait, is that her towel?
Santana's visitor has the good grace to blush when the Latina gives her ten minutes tops to get dressed and leave the apartment immediately.
"Call me?" She yells after Santana, clutching the soft material around her body.
"Uh-huh." Santana mumbles absently and throws a shirt after her guest.
Rachel fumes. That is, without a doubt, her goddamn towel.
"Jesus, your face." Santana smirks, toweling her hair.
Rachel lifts her chin at the Latina, wearing an expression between embarrassment and irritation. "You don't need to parade your female parts just to prove that despite your caveman attitude you are, indeed, feminine." Rachel says through gritted teeth, trailing behind the Latina.
"I'm a bitch, not a fucking homo-sapien. Get your adjectives right, honey. Where were you anyway? For two days I thought you've been murdered, so I threw a party for two." Santana says, looking pointedly at the bathroom door.
"Wow, thanks a lot."
"Welcome. Anyway, why were you missing really? Are you like, a part-time porno star who shoots off-campus, or—"
Rachel decides to cut Santana off before her sentence progresses into something more graphic. "I attended the Steindhart orientation for two days, which I believe, I mentioned in a note I left on the fridge that you obviously ignored. And no, I don't make it a habit to walk around naked in front of other people. Also if you can't tell, I was being sarcastic."
"Fuck, you do have a machinegun mouth," Santana says with a short laugh. Rachel rolls her eyes. It's like singing to deaf ears with this girl. Initiating a proper conversation with her is just pointless.
"How was it anyway? Met some hot dudes? …Or girls?"
Rachel groans. "Why are you even talking to me?"
"Just meet me halfway here, Berry. Making an effort to be a person is physically hurting me."
Rachel exhales heavily and says, "Fine. I got drunk and passed out on a street."
"Sounds fun to me." Santana snorts. Of course she'd enjoy this.
"Yeah, I bet," Rachel says. "Could you uhm, cover your self now?"
"Prude." Santana banters, smirking as she proceeds to change in her room.
"What happened the next morning?" Santana says, jumping into the couch and wearing an oversized NYU hoodie. Rachel eyes her curiously. Not that she's counting, but she was gone for barely two minutes.
"I'm not sure. The details of it come in fragments every hour. I might let you know when I recover the full story of it for your entertainment. Well, only if you start being nice." Rachel answers coolly, unpacking her overnight luggage.
"So how did you manage to stay alive? This shit never happened with me before, but even I have to say that doesn't sound safe at all. And being from Brooklyn, that's saying something."
"Quinn brought me to one of the rooms back in the Founders Hall, I guess."
"Wait, Quinn? Quinn who?"
"I met her there and unfortunately, under unlikely circumstances."
"Blonde, airhead-looking jock Quinn?"
She flashes Santana a curious glance. "I'm not sure if we're talking about the same person. But yes, she has—"
"—short blonde hair."
The brunette's eyes widen in surprise. "And hazel eyes—"
Santana scowls in distaste. "Geez, really? I haven't stared into the soulful eyes of Quinn Fabray."
Quinn Fabray? Rachel muses with a thoughtful smile. So that's her surname—Fabray.
And before she can get carried away by this information, Rachel revert her attention back to the Latina, all kinds of questions stirring in her brain. "You know Quinn?"
"Assuming it's the same Quinn, yeah I do."
Rachel gasps, causing the Latina to give her a weird look. "But how? You've been here for two years, and I'm positive she's a new student here like me—"
"Again, assuming it's the same Quinn, you've got it all wrong. She's a sophomore like me. In fact, we were together in the soccer team."
She plays soccer? Rachel's mouth opens, and then closes again.
She thought she at least knew a thing or two about Quinn. That one, she's tremendous at displaying a cryptic allure, and that two, she likes to stare at people while doing so. But it figures there's nothing she knows about Quinn—Quinn Fabray. Quinn's not secretive. She's literally closed off to the world.
"Do you know how I can get in touch with her? I wanted to thank her for being there during the stupidest moment of my life."
"No." Santana shakes her head curtly.
"But aren't you guys friends?"
"Back-up a bit, Berry, I never said Quinn and I were friends. And considering her close acquaintanceship with Brittany, I highly doubt it."
At the mention of 'Brittany', it's obvious that Santana's let something slip without her full intention, because she looks about ready to run and never come back.
"Who's Brittany?" Rachel asks, clearly pleased with Santana's distress.
Santana's eyes are hard and cold, but she answers, "Brittany's my… ex-girlfriend."
Rachel's taken aback. She thought maybe Brittany's a rival, or some frenemy but she wasn't expecting this. Santana doesn't appear to be someone who gets into relationships, let alone a romantic one.
"The only girl I had." Santana adds meekly. She's not even hiding the regret in her voice, and from hearing those words, Rachel can guess this girl's different from the one who had just left the apartment, or anyone in that matter. For a second there, she sees vulnerability hiding behind a cold exterior.
"Did she mess you up or something? Is she the reason why you're like this?"
"Like what?"
"No offense, but you're kind of a bitch."
Santana laughs, "None taken. And no, she didn't do anything to… damage me."
"What happened then?"
For a second, Santana seem to consider revealing all her secrets to the brunette, but she blinks once and Rachel can see her defensive walls coming up again.
"Quinn Fabray's a catch." Santana winks at her.
Quinn Fabray. Rachel repeats it quietly to herself. The letters roll perfectly in her tongue. Quinn Fabray. It's rare and beautiful.
Before Rachel can say more, Santana retreats to her own room. To the brunette's amusement, she doesn't slam the door this time.
It's enough progress for one night. Besides, scrubbing the shower's her top priority for now.
*MQOTD- from now on I will use this acronym instead of the whole 'motivational quote of the day'
*'Land of do-as-you-please' - term borrowed from the Magic Faraway Tree, which also has been used thoroughly in V for Vendetta.