I just wanna know you better, know you better, know you better now
I just wanna know you, know you, know you
Quinn has never set up one of these booths before, but she's determined to do it right. She's lucky that her first stop is in this little town in nowhere, Ohio – that way, if she screws it up, nobody important will know about it.
Her schedule for college fairs is pretty rigid over the next six weeks, and most of them draw from a tri-state area. She isn't sure why the director of her department sent her to this singular school in what may as well be Egypt, but she isn't complaining. It could be worse – this could be her first time manning a college booth somewhere like L. A.
Quinn's hands twitch – they don't tremble or shake, for Christ's sake, this is just a bunch of teenagers – as she straightens the pamphlets on the edge of her table. She can still see the fold lines in the stiff dark blue table cloth, and it makes her frown. She uses the pads of her fingers to press on them, in an attempt to smooth them out, but she isn't successful.
She didn't set up the entire thing because her allotted space is rather small, so she kept it limited to three tables, draped with information on everything from dorm rooms to extracurriculars to tuition, but she feels like she should have put up the backdrop as well. She is busy staring worriedly at the blank space behind her tables when she hears another person enter the gymnasium, the door swishing open and closed.
Quinn turns just enough to look behind her, and is relieved to see another woman. So far, Quinn has been the only one to set up for the college fair – though she came approximately two hours early – and she worried that no other college representatives would come. Quinn toys with the string of pearls resting on her collarbones idly as the other woman glances over the room.
Quinn pegs her to be of an age with herself – probably no older than twenty-six. She has long, straight blonde hair up in a simple pony tail, and she wears a neat gray skirt suit. Quinn's eyebrows rise appreciatively when she spies the other girl's legs, long and lean and golden. As her gaze travels back upwards, she's jolted by the surprise of the woman looking straight at her, a knowing smirk on her face. It makes Quinn's heart race and her cheeks flush, and she turns away, fiddling with the papers on her table.
Quinn's eyebrows knit in a scowl – she can't believe she got caught checking that woman out. She moves her palm down the short length of her own hair, smoothing it, and nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a throat being cleared directly behind her.
"Hey,"
Quinn turns around, eyes wide, heart thudding in her ribcage. "H-hello," her voice is rough and stuttery, and she swallows.
"Is anyone using this space?" she indicates the area directly to Quinn's left.
Quinn shakes her head.
"Good." Quinn is met with that same self-sure smile, though it's even more affecting up close – she's drawn to the delicate shade of this woman's lips, a color too deep to really be pink but not dark enough to be red, and the flash of white teeth behind them. Something about the smile itself coupled with the natural cast of her features reminds Quinn of a cat; the spirited, cunning, deadly kind. "I'm Brittany Pierce, by the way."
"Quinn," she takes a full second before she realizes that Brittany is offering her hand in a handshake. "Fabray." She almost forgot her own last name. Jesus.
Brittany's hands are long and narrow, without decoration; her skin is soft, though, and it returns the pressure of Quinn's handshake with ease. Quinn feels abstractly uneasy around this woman – maybe it's the fact that she doesn't feel the need to add much jewelry to her ensemble, besides the diamond studs in her ears, that her shoes are casual black pumps and her hair is pulled back without fuss or preamble; and yet, she still, somehow, manages to be absolutely stunning.
Quinn isn't intimidated by attractive women, usually. Quinn enjoys women – all types of them – but she has a penchant for the ambitious, eager, successful kind; she has a kind of weakness for those who seem to be the center of their own gravitational field, pulling others in by the sheer force of their personalities. Those kinds of women are often lavish and beautiful, and Quinn always appreciates their desire for fine wine and expensive sheets, their pickiness in choosing clothing before going out, their exquisite taste in art and architecture, and how they spend time refining every minute detail. Quinn likes those little knacks in women –
Maybe that's why this girl, this Brittany, puts her off. Brittany seems to be uncomplicated and direct, which is the opposite of the sort of person Quinn generally goes for. Still, she can't deny it – the way Brittany looks at her makes her belly tighten. Her gaze is straightforward and honest, but still playful; the shape of her eyes is slanted, and at first Quinn can't decide if they're blue or gray, with only the weak morning light streaming in from the windows high on the wall to illuminate them.
"Nice to meet you, Quinn," Brittany says slowly, an odd smirk on her face, as if she's trying out the taste of Quinn's name on her tongue. It makes an indescribable warmth flood through Quinn, and she ducks her head slightly, sliding away from the intense weight of Brittany's eyes on her.
"You, too." Quinn shifts, cupping an elbow with the palm of her hand, rubbing her fingers over one of her earrings. "Are you from around here?"
"No," Brittany almost laughs, as if the idea is comical. "Are you?"
"Not originally," Quinn glances around the room, forehead wrinkling. "My parents live here now, though."
Brittany nods. "What university are you representing?"
"Yale," Quinn answers, and this time it's immediate. She can't exactly feel herself swelling with pride – quite. But it's close. She knows that the average person usually finds it impressive that Quinn is on the payroll for Yale University.
"Nice." Brittany smiles, and this time it's appreciative. "Massachusetts Institute of Technology, myself."
Quinn can feel all the spit in her mouth dry up.
"MIT?" she wants to make sure.
"You've heard of it?" Brittany grins.
Quinn just nods.
"These kids must be something special to have Yale and MIT at their dinky college fair," Brittany surmises, taking another look about the gymnasium. It's run down, with chipped, fading paint and black scuff marks on the linoleum. "Well, I better get set up."
Quinn watches her head back towards the door, and she releases a breath.
Now she knows what it is about Brittany that makes her uneasy –
Brittany is a representative of MIT, most likely an alumnus, and that means that she's brainy. Quinn has always felt uncomfortable around people with that type of intelligence; the sort that she simply cannot understand, the kind that often stands out as being recognizably brilliant, overshadowing those with the more literary and artistic kind of minds.
Quinn knows that she's intelligent – she got into Yale, for crying out loud, and graduated with honors, top of her class. She has had the proof all of her life, and she knows she deserves to be where she is now. But that doesn't change the fact that she has little skill in mathematics, certainly not that above the average high school student, and that most sciences disinterest her – she has always maintained a perfect GPA, but she struggled and worked for extra credit in classes like physics, chemistry, and calculus.
Quinn was the girl who excelled in English and humanities, who loved writing poetry and discussing philosophy, psychology, and musical theory. Quinn had considered acting as a career before her current course, dabbled in creative writing, picked up different instruments and tried her hand at sculpting and painting.
She knows that her type of intelligence is just as valid as those with the scientific minds, but sometimes – sometimes – she has moments of jealousy, flashes of insecurity, and an overall frustration with her own brain. Quinn would rather be a jack of all trades – she would like to be one of those people who can write romantic sonnets before breakfast and solve algebraic equations during lunch; play a symphony after dinner and discuss quantum physics before bed.
Quinn is a perfectionist, and she doesn't like not being the best at everything.
Brittany carries in her table beneath one arm, the other holding a briefcase close. Quinn sits in the aluminum folding chair and pretends not to watch as Brittany sets up, but she isn't very good at seeming disinterested. Brittany's movements are quick and efficient, but still somehow graceful, and Quinn feels something inside of her twist at the sight of the familiar gray-and-red cloth that Brittany drapes over her table. Quinn sighs internally as Brittany sets up some mechanical contraption – she should have predicted this – and then groans silently when she realizes it's a kind of projector. Brittany then sets up a screen, and within a few moments is using a tiny remote to power the device on. Quinn doesn't bother to look at the images that quickly click through, because she knows she'll have the better part of the next four hours to do it.
The rest of Brittany's display is fairly simple; a stack of papers, and a bowl full of plastic USB thumb drives. Quinn thinks that's a little bit over the top – MIT is too good to print out informational packets, now? – but the sleek simplicity of it is appealing.
The Yale table feels a bit outdated and stodgy beside the MIT one.
Quinn feels relief flood through her when the double doors open again, this time to a trickle of other adults, who begin to set up their own booths without much hesitation. She watches them, and by degrees realizes that these schools – local ones, for the most part – have plain displays, too.
She checks her watch, and realizes the fair will be opening in ten minutes. A quick scan of her table reassures her that she's ready, so she crosses her arms and switches her legs.
"Hey, Quinn," Brittany says her name so easily and with such intimacy that Quinn imagines they could have been lifelong friends – it makes her spine straighten and the hair on the back of her neck raise up, tingling, sending a wave of goosebumps down her forearms.
"Yes?"
Brittany is still smiling that jovial, amused smile – the one that makes Quinn feel like Brittany has a grand secret, or that she is laughing at some private joke – and it causes the muscles in Quinn's back to bunch and tighten.
"You know the area, right? Your parents live around here?"
"Yes," Quinn answers reluctantly.
"After this, do you want to grab lunch?" Brittany's grin widens. "I'm starving, and I don't know anywhere to eat."
Quinn is thunderstruck for a moment, caught completely off-guard – she would never have imagined this kind of situation, not even close. "Uh,"
Brittany cocks her head, amused, and Quinn's throat works to swallow.
"Don't make me beg," Brittany jokes.
Quinn can feel her face redden. "Sure. That's fine. Yes."
This time, Brittany's smile is slower – somehow more sensual. "Good."
Quinn's abdomen knots, and she hugs herself tighter, trying to regain some control over her own body.
What is the matter with her?
Before Quinn can answer the question, the doors burst open with a hollow bang, and scores of students come flooding in.
Quinn is more exhausted than she expected to be, and while re-packing the remainder of her pamphlets she snaps at a dumpy middle-aged secretary with big glasses – the other woman looks positively stricken, and it immediately makes Quinn feel bad. She sighs, turning to apologize, but instead of the woman with the unfortunate floral skirt, she's met by Brittany's perpetual smile.
"Look out, she's got claws."
Quinn pauses to look over Brittany's face, but finally relents with a smile. "I'm ready for a nap."
"Not me." Brittany grins, lifting her arms above her head. "I want tequila."
Quinn quirks an eyebrow, glancing at her watch. "It's barely noon."
"Perfect party time. Let's get day drunk, Quinn."
Quinn laughs and is surprised that she did so.
Brittany seems pleased to hear it, and the sort of smile she wears now seems more genuine – happy, even.
"Where's the best bar in town? No strippers, please."
Quinn laughs again, and this time she feels something inside of her loosen – whatever fist had been clenched inside of her since this morning finally loses its grip, and she can breathe. Suddenly, Brittany isn't so intimidating – she's just a friendly, good-looking woman, who has the ability to make Quinn laugh. There are many worse things to be, Quinn thinks, than the person at the receiving end of Brittany's attentions.
"I think I know just the place."
"Somehow, I didn't think you'd have this in mind," Brittany says skeptically, looking around the hotel bar and restaurant area. "Unless you intend to immediately take me upstairs and have your way with me," she offers Quinn a small grin, "then this would be pretty efficient of you."
Quinn does that thing that's half a cough, half a chuckle, at Brittany's words, and then smooths down her hair nervously. "No, I – uh." She clears her throat. "You asked for the best bar in town. All rest of them are run down honky tonks."
Brittany laughs, and Quinn leads them both over to a booth tucked in the corner. "Where are we, that the best bar is inside of the Holiday Inn?"
Quinn shrugs. "Lima, Ohio."
"Pretty lame."
Quinn smiles, glancing over the menu, and places her order when the hotel waitress comes to take it. She is a bit surprised that Brittany orders a long island iced tea – but Brittany just flashes her a wink, not missing a beat when the waitress asks for her I.D.
"You're quite the party animal."
Brittany nods. "In college I took bets on how many keggers I could make it through without getting liver damage."
Quinn laughs. "You weren't some geeky scientist nerd, curled up in your dorm, reading sci-fi novels?"
Brittany cocks her head, bemused. "What would make you think that?"
"Oh, I don't know," Quinn shrugs. "MIT?"
Brittany pauses a moment, her face suddenly still, for - what might be - the first time since Quinn met her – except for her eyes, which scan over Quinn with a kind of assessing calculation in them. Quinn imagines that she can almost feel them making their way over her skin.
"You're a very pretty girl, aren't you?" Brittany says, smiling, but the quality to it is somehow off – shifted, different. Quinn feels tension coil deep in her gut, near her spine, tightening her muscles. "You spent most of your childhood feeling ugly, though."
Quinn's gaze sharpens, and she feels like everything goes into hyper focus – she stares at Brittany, her face frozen, while a dim buzzing noise sounds in her ears.
"You were probably a cheerleading captain, something like that," Brittany's smile doesn't waver, and her voice is low, intimate – but it makes Quinn's spine go rigid. "You were homecoming queen and girlfriend of the star quarterback, but you never really felt pretty, did you?
"Were you in a sorority at Yale? When did you finally stop caring about it?"
Quinn is silent for a long moment, before something inside of her snaps – she narrows her eyes at Brittany. "You think you're very clever, but that wasn't even hard to do. You just painted the broadest stereotype you could imagine and applied it to me."
"But I was right," It isn't a question. Brittany grins, lifting her chin.
Quinn glares at her. "You don't know me."
"You don't know me, either, Quinn," Brittany leans forward, and now her face is serious and intense – Quinn thinks that her eyes alone must have a palpable force behind them, and she has to repress a shiver. "Do you see how making assumptions can be – ah, insulting?"
Quinn is irritated for a nameless, abstract reason; she knows that Brittany is right, but it pisses her off. She's still frowning when the waitress comes back, placing her salad in front of her, and serving Brittany up a philly cheesesteak.
"I was just trying to joke with you," Quinn mutters.
Brittany blinks, tilting her head, and then she laughs. "You know something? You're right. I shouldn't have –" she shakes her head, still laughing, and Quinn looks at her with a perplexed expression. "I overreacted to that. I'm sorry. I've been doing that my whole life – I get a little prickly about stereotypes."
Quinn watches Brittany, who seems fully amused with herself, and eventually finds the knot of dark anger inside of her loosening. Finally, she smiles, shrugs, and takes a sip of water. "I've been doing it my whole life, too," Quinn admits. "Stereotyping people."
Brittany nods, lifts her glass in a mock toast, "To fucking up repeatedly, no matter how often you tell yourself you'll stop doing it."
Quinn laughs quietly, gestures with her water. "To being able to own up to it, at least."
Brittany smiles and takes a long sip of her drink.
"What are you thinking?"
Quinn surprises herself by asking it, but she's been doing things all day that are strange for her. Brittany takes her time responding, looking over the rim of her glass. Her eyes are slanted and they glint, even in the dim light.
"About taking you upstairs. The way your face would look, during.." Brittany smiles, trails off. Quinn feels the heat inside of her flare, from a simmering ember to an inferno – turning everything inside of her white hot and blinding.
"Well, what's stopping you?" Quinn can't believe her own boldness, but when Brittany's gaze flies to hers, she meets it without flinching. She knows that the color in her cheeks is obvious, but she can't help but smile at the predatory gleam in Brittany's eyes.
"Okay, princess. If you're sure."
Quinn can hear the blood roaring in her ears, but she never takes her eyes away from Brittany. She stands up, shouldering her bag, and digs through her purse to pull out a few bills to lie on the table beside her mostly untouched salad.
Brittany is smiling a different smile when she takes Quinn's hand – which is, of course, completely steady, now – and it makes Quinn feel special, almost, as if it's a smile meant only for her.
The next day, when Quinn is collecting her clothes from their hotel room and Brittany is fixing her hair in the mirror above the sink, Brittany says, "When can I see you again?"
And Quinn thinks – she doesn't know this girl, not really. All she knows about Brittany is the different shades of her smiles, and how her eyes are like paperweights, pinning down her soul; the way her hands move in the dark, the way her skin tastes.
It isn't much. But it feels like something more. Something important.
Quinn pauses, running her thumb over the seam of her discarded shirt, before she turns to look at Brittany. "My schedule will take me to New Orleans in a couple of weeks."
Brittany grins, slowly. "It will be hard to compete with Tulane. They have the home team advantage."
Quinn returns Brittany's grin with one of her own – she likes the look of Brittany in nothing but a long t-shirt – before she stuffs her clothes back in her suitcase. "Somehow, I think Tulane might to hold on to its shirt, with both Yale and MIT coming to town."
Brittany hums, nodding, and runs the pads of her fingers along the base of Quinn's spine. "I'll see you in New Orleans, Quinn."
Quinn looks up into Brittany's eyes, and finds herself smiling (again – she just can't seem to stop, when Brittany is around).
"I can't wait."