"I'm going to watch 'Desk Set' if you want to come watch it with me," her voice is soft, drifting in from the doorway, Thursday evening.
You're laying on your bed propped up by a bunch of pillows, halfway into a book you picked up on the way home. You glance at her over your book. You can't sit on the couch next to her, not touching her and wondering the whole time what you did to drive her away. "No thanks."
She lingers in the doorway. She looks nervous, pulling at her off the oversized t-shirt that's hanging off her shoulder. You try to ignore it so you sigh and turn back to your book.
"Quinn," she says a little more quietly, "Are you mad at me?"
You look up from your book, sitting up a little more. Her bangs have fallen into her eyes and she looks anxiety ridden. She's finally talking to you so you want catch everything, "Why would you think that?"
"You spend more time in your room than you do in the living room...more that usual." She crosses her arms and kicks at the corner of your rug.
"Why should I stay in the living room when there's nothing to do? You barely talk to me anymore," it has a bite to it and you can't stop it. You don't want to. You're trying to provoke her.
She takes a deep breath and slowly makes her way to the bed. "I'm sorry." Her voice is shaky and as much as you want to stop yourself you turn to look at her. She lays down on your bed, staring at the ceiling, still not getting close to you.
You have to ask, "Are you like...disgusted by me?"
"What? No Quinn absolutely not," she props her head up and looks at you.
"But you stopped..." you set your book down on the nightstand, "You don't hug me anymore or like when we watched movies you'd lay on me or we'd hold hands but now...you won't even touch me."
She looks a little surprised by what you say, but realization washes over her. You're not sure what she's realized, but her lips press together and she swallows. You try to hold her eyes, but movement at your waistline steals your attention. Her hand is slowly creeping toward your body, before resting on your hip. Immediately her thumb starts stroking a sliver of skin that is exposed by your skimpy tank top. You close your eyes because the action has turned you on a lot more than it should. As you're forcing your eyes open, you find that she's moving herself toward you, her body pressed against your own. Your legs tangle together and your heart is pounding. This is a horribly wonderful dream. It's got to be. This cannot be real.
She licks her lips and you can see that her eyes are tracing yours. Your hands have yet to move from your sides. You can't seem to move at all.
Her hand leaves your hip to move to your cheek. She tenderly caresses your face, her eyes flickering up to yours. You're completely on your back now and her torso is on top of yours, the ends of her hair brushing against your shoulders.
Her head moves down until her parted lips are almost touching yours. You're breathing the same air and you feel like you can't get enough oxygen.
Finally the wires in your brain connect again and your hands move. They move to her upper arms, keeping her from moving closer. You shake your head, trying to shake out the daze her proximity has put you in. You slide out from under her and sit on the edge of the bed next to her, "Rach-wha-what was that?" you ask. You're not sure she heard you because she's staring at where you were just lying, slowly tracing her lips with the tip of her finger.
You're not sure why you're angry with her. Maybe because she knows that you have deep feelings for her and she almost kissed you, knowing that she can't reciprocate. She gives you hope only for you to realize that there's no chance.
"Rachel!" you bark, jerking her out of her trance. You need to her explain. You need her to tell you that she tripped and her lips just almost happened to touch your own before she could catch herself.
Her eyes shoot to you. They're watery and shimmering in the lamplight. She looks frightened and your chest immediately gets tight, disliking that she feels like that. When she blinks and looks away a few tears run down her cheek. "I-I didn't-I don't…" She keeps her head down and slinks off of your bed. She practically runs out the door muttering, "Sorry. I'm so sorry."
When she disappears from your room, you immediately feel guilty. You didn't mean to make her cry. You just wanted to know why she felt the need to torture you. You decide to go apologize when you hear the front door open and close. With a huff you sit on the bed.
You knew that eventually your feelings for her would get in the way of your friendship. You just wished it wasn't so soon. You finally decide to take a shower. She probably won't be back until after her show tonight anyway. You need to wash the feeling of her breath and hands on your face and body off before you become addicted.
Once the warm water hits your skin your shoulders slump and you run your tongue over your lips. You can still feel her breath on them and something inside tells you that no matter how much you try to wash it off it will always be there. You smile in spite of yourself and lean back against the cold shower wall. It was amazing. You felt weightless. And it was more than you ever thought anything could be and your lips didn't even touch.
When you get out of the shower, you get dressed to go to Santana's apartment and are surprised to find Brittany there as well. You're about to leave, giving them their alone time, but Santana pulls you inside, seeing how upset you are. You're sure you look a hot mess. You had put your wet hair up and had thrown on jeans and a t-shirt covered by a red sweater.
"What's up Q?" they sit you on the couch between them. Brittany takes your hand and Santana leans close to you.
You explain everything starting on Monday up until today and what just happened.
"Wow," Brittany whispers.
Santana just stares hard at the coffee table, processing. Finally she looks to you, "Do you wanna stay here tonight?"
You slowly nod. It's probably for the best. You need to think about what you're going to say to her and she probably needs to as well. Tomorrow will be an interesting non-birthday day.
Brittany gets up to get some ice cream so you can all have a bad movie night like you used to do in high school. Santana grabs the movies and sticks one in the DVD player. When she plops down on the couch next to you she asks, "Are you still going tomorrow night?"
You nod. You already have the ticket Rachel procured for you and the dress you bought for the occasion. And it's not like you'd ever miss Rachel sing by herself, "Are you?"
"Might as well," Santana shrugs, "I have a dress and Brittany's boss dropped two grand on the tickets. And most importantly, Brittany wants to go."
You attempt a smile at her and add, "That's the only reason you need."
She grins as Brittany walks back into the living room carrying two tubs of ice cream with three bowls and spoons on top with chocolate syrup and other toppings under her arm. Santana helps her out and takes some of the things from her.
Brittany and Santana cuddle up together, sharing ice cream and being grotesquely adorable in general. You eat enough ice cream to make yourself feel a little nauseous and then excuse yourself to go to bed. Brittany makes sure your comfortable and tucks you in, much to your amusement. She kisses your head and pauses at the door to turn off the light, "Nighty night Q."
"'Night B," you call back.
The next morning, you wake up and make the girls breakfast before they both reluctantly run out to door. After Santana's class, she tells you that she's going to take you out and still do the birthday thing because she's still pissed at you for lying to her, but she says so with a smile.
You're sort of looking forward to it. What you're not looking forward to is the benefit tonight. You feel like you need to talk to Rachel first, but you don't know if that's such a good idea. She sings best when she's emotional, but you don't want to emotionally cripple her for the night. You want her to have a good time. Luckily, since she hasn't been talking to you much you didn't actually set her up with that coworker of yours. So you sit on their couch and wait for Santana to get back, trying to decide what to do at the benefit.
When Santana gets back, she takes you to your favorite lunch place before going to get a hair trim and style as well as get your nails done. By the time you finish at the salon, it's time to get ready. You run by your apartment to grab your dress, slightly depressed that Rachel isn't there. But when you get back to Santana's apartment, Brittany is already there, freshly showered and in her underwear with three large curlers in her hair.
"Baby you are so hot," Santana laughs and kisses Brittany before hopping in the shower.
Brittany oohs and ahhs over your dress before guiding you into your bathroom to get ready. After you've showered, done your hair, and applied your makeup and finally slipped into your dress, you smile at yourself in the mirror. You're pretty damn hot.
But as you look in the mirror with your hand on your hip, your eyes zero in on your hand that's on her hip right where Rachel's was last night. A chill shoots through you body and your eyes flutter closed. You know that she was about to kiss you. You just don't know why. Maybe she was testing you. Maybe she wanted to see if you could really control yourself around her. Maybe she wanted to know what it was like to kiss another woman. Maybe she was just caught up in the moment. She watches all those stupid romance movies. And maybe she was possessed by a poltergeist that totally has a thing for blonde divorcees. You roll your eyes. That's just as probable as her discovering some deeply seeded feelings for you that she's repressed since high school. You can hear her voice in your head Do I repress anything?. Nope. No she doesn't.
It was probably a poltergeist. Just your luck right?
You start to get nervous as you ride to the theatre where the benefit is being held. Brittany hasn't let go of your hand since you left her apartment and Santana has been watching you with a studious eye. You assure them that you're fine and that whatever happens tonight, you'll be fine.
However you start to personally doubt that when you see her near the front doors of the lobby. She's talking to a few other people that you don't recognize. They seem to enjoy her company, but you can tell that she's not in it. Her eyes are vacant and her usual hand gestures absent.
Santana thrusts a glass of champagne into your hand. You wrap both hands around it because when it's in one, you can visibly see the liquid rippling in the glass as your hand shakes. You quickly down it so Brittany will stop worrying over you and Santana will start talking and stop staring.
After watching her from a distance for a while, you see her excuse herself and disappear backstage. You check your phone. The music is about to start and people are about to take their seats. You need to clear the air so she can give a performance she can be proud of and one that will give her a fair chance to sing at the Tony Awards. It's her dream.
"I'm going to go talk to her," you tell Santana and Brittany who haven't left you side all night. You know they'll try to stop you so you take off before they can. You slip backstage with disturbing ease. You find her in a dressing room labeled with her name on a piece of laminated paper. You knock on the door and her quiet voice answers, "C'min."
You take a deep breath and open the door. She's sitting at a vanity looking at herself in the mirror. She has to brush her hair away from her face to look at you but when she does she completely freezes. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again. Her shoulders slump, "Quinn, I-"
She's interrupted by the sound of running coming toward you both. You move out of the doorway and into the dressing room, subconsciously and pretty much consciously ready to protect her. However, David slides to a stop on front of the doorway a huge smile on his face. He strides to Rachel, completely passing and ignoring you, "She's here."
"What?" Rachel blinks a few times trying to keep everything straight in her head.
"Barbra." he leans down so that he is eye level with her.
"Barbra?" she asks, breathlessly.
He nods, his smile widening, "Barbra."
Rachel's breathing gets shallow as she whispers, "She's here. She's going to watch me sing. I'm going to sing for Barbra." You're a little worried because she seems like she may be starting to hyperventilate.
David drops his hands with a grin on his face and take a deep breath, "She's going to watch you sing."
Suddenly, Rachel's eyes turn to one of a trapped animal. Probably a squirrel. You know something small and cute with big eyes and…well the animal doesn't matter. What matters is that she's panicking. You take a step toward her, just in case she faints.
Her eyes shoot from David to you. You can tell that she's shaking. A look of sheer panic taking over. "I...She's...Quinn...I...Singwithme."
It's your turn to blink to get your head straight, "What?"
She moves from the vanity and stands in front of you putting your hands on her forearms, "I need you to sing with me. I-I can't do it by myself."
"Wha- I can't. I don't sing." You automatically shake your head, "Oh no Rachel... I..."
"Quinn please? She's out there and she's going to see me sing. This is like….I can't even….words, words I don't have words," she takes a step forward and takes your hands, "I get goosebumps when we sing together and I... Need this. I need goosebumps because Barbra's out there watching and if I go by myself I may…I don't know if I can go on."
You swallow. You know there's something deeper at work here and if it weren't for that you would have held out longer. You can actually see the need in her eyes mixed with the pleading and the desperation. You nod. Not like you can tell her no anyway.
She let's out a small, relived smile and turns to David. "I need you to go tell that stage manager that we need another microphone and then record Barbra's reaction with your phone," she instructs David, "Don't be obvious though and send it too me as soon as the song is over. And if you get caught...you're on your own."
He quirks an eyebrow, but nods before talking out. He shoots you a smile and a wink, "Break a leg."
Her arms wrap around you as he leaves. Her head rests on your chest, "Thank you so much Quinn. I couldn't do this without you."
You hold her loosely against you and look up at the ceiling. You really need to talk, but at the moment you're talking yourself down from stage fright. You haven't performed since high school unless you count that karaoke bar that Rachel loves. After three deep breaths, you ask, "What are we singing?"
The stage manager has you standing on opposite sides of the stage. You can see her standing in the wings wringing her hands. When she finally spots you, her give her a reassuring smile. That seems to be all she needs. She holds her head high as the music starts. You take a last breath and step onto the stage. You sing the first few lines with a smile because none of these people know who you are and you find that stage familiarly comforting. Finally right before Rachel steps out, you hold your arm out toward her and announce, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Rachel Berry."
That wasn't part of the plan, but when the crowd goes wild and she steps onto the stage, her whole body glows. You know she needed that. She needed that confidence boost and you gave it to her. The band has to play an extension to the verse because she can't sing over the crowd. Finally when they calm down she continues with the song.
As you sing with her, a song from your high school days that wounded both of you, you see tears shimmer in her eyes. You have to look away or you'll start to cry too and unlike her, you were never able to sing through your tears.
You can feel a cloud of sadness settle over the stage and you close your eyes to try to block it out. She hits her power note as you sing harmony. That's how it's always been. She goes for it and you back her up, ready to catch her if she falls.
When you open your eyes, you see her looking at you. The intense stare almost makes your knees buckle. There's something different in her look and it shots electricity up your spine. You have to look away as the song winds down. When the audience erupts you force a smile, keeping your eyes away from her. When you feel you've accepted enough, you turn on your heel and quickly walk off the stage.
You don't stop walking until a hand on your arm forces you to turn around. "Jezus Q. I've been calling you for like ten minutes. Where the hell are you going?" You finally realize that you're outside the theatre and across the street. It's a small wonder you didn't get hit by a car.
"I don't-" the tears from earlier gather in your eyes and you try to swallow them, looking to the sky for help, "I can't do this."
"Do what?" She asks quietly, placing one of her hands on your crossed forearms.
"I love her," tears make their way down your cheeks, "I really, really, really love her..." You sink onto a bus bench, "She's so beautiful when she sings and she's in so much pain and I don't know why. Why me? I was doing okay not really loving anyone."
You can tell that Santana doesn't know what to do as she sits next to you so you just lay your head in her lap. That gets her to moving. Her hands start to move through your hair at a comforting pace.
The rumble of a bus pulls to a stop in front of you. You feel her pull you to your feet. You barely register that she pays the driver and you two are now sitting on the back of the bus. You're still leaning on her, but now your eyes are out the window.
After a few stops, Santana gets up and leads you off of the bus by your hand. You cross a street and she stops at the front doors of a church. She pushes open the massive wooden door and waits for you to step inside before she follows you. You mention, "I didn't know you were religious." You look at the obviously Catholic cathedral with its vaulted ceiling and colorful stained glass windows.
"I'm not," she crosses herself, "Most of the time." You follow her to the middle of the church before she sits down in a pew. There are a few other people scattered about the room and a hobo sleeping in the back.
You look up at the ornate ceiling and the empty space above you. You feel so small and so helpless.
After a few minutes Santana asks, "What did she say?"
"Nothing. We were about to talk about it but David ran in and told her that Barbra was in the audience." You offer with a sigh.
"Barbra?"
"Streisand."
Santana nods, "Oh yeah I totally saw her in the can. She told me she liked my dress. I would have gotten her autograph for Berry but I had to pee."
You couldn't help but smile. Only Santana could meet a Broadway legend and only think about her bladder. "Anyway she freaked out and begged me to sing with her. Then after we were done I freaked out and now I'm here."
Santana nods, "Okay so what are you going to say to her?"
You shrug, "No idea."
"Why was David there? Are they still like friends?" your friend asks.
"No idea," you repeat.
A priest walking over shuts Santana up. He smiles kindly at you both and sits in the pew in front of you. His hair is gray and his smile is kind. "Hello Santana."
"Father," she nods.
He smiles at you, "I'm Father Tyson."
"Quinn," you feel awkward introducing yourself to him. You haven't been to any church since your wedding and you feel like he can tell that just by looking at you.
"Anything I can help with?" his eyes shift smoothly from you to Santana.
"I think I got it," Santana tells him with a confident nod.
He nods back, taking the hint. He slowly rose, "How's Brittany?"
Santana can't stop a smile, "She's doing well."
He mirrors her smile, "Good. I'll meet you in the confessional."
Santana sighs and whines, "Tonight?"
He chuckles, "Will you come back this week?"
"Yeah," she huffs.
He nods to both of you, "Peace be with you."
You watch him walk off before turning to Santana. "What was that?"
"Sometimes I come here because it reminds me of the one in Lima," Santana explains, "I just come here to think. It's quiet except for the annoying priests trying to drag me to the confessional. I mean do I really look that sinful." She glances down at the cleavage protruding from her dress, "Well tonight's an exception. Anyway, sometimes I just come here to clear my head."
"How does he know Brittany?"
"She came with me a couple times," Santana leans back in the pew, "Sometimes if I'm really upset and I won't talk to her, she'll drag me down here."
You look up at the stained glass window behind the altar. You're sure it's beautiful when the sun is shining. You don't take your eyes off of it as you add, "I'll wait for you if you want to go to confessional."
She smirks, "I better wait for one of the younger priests. I've been particularly bad since the last time I was here and I wouldn't want to give Father Tyson a heart attack."
You can hear him chuckle from the isle next to you. When you look at him, you see that Santana is smiling and was apparently joking. He touches her shoulder, "I believe after your last confession, that I've heard everything."
He walks off and you have to ask Santana what she did. She tries to squash a smirk, "It had something to do with a pig heart and an intern at the hospital that called me an idiot. I'll just leave it at that."
You rest your head on her shoulder, "Where's Britt anyway?"
"She's still at the benefit I guess," she puts her arm around you, "I was already backstage when you were done singing. She'll be fine. A bunch of her friends are there. I'll call her later." She gives you a gently squeeze and waits a few seconds before asking, "Do you think you can handle living with her anymore?"
You nuzzle into Santana's neck and close your eyes, wishing the whole world away. "I don't know San. This is all so fucked up."
You feel her cradle your cheek with her free hand. "You know you're always welcome to stay with me and Britt. We'll figure this out Q. Pinkie promise."
There are a few small tears running down your cheek, but you smile and sit up, catching her eyes, "Pinkie promise."
She let's out a sad smile and forces your head back to her shoulder, "Shut up. I live with Brittany."
You're happy that you have Santana and Brittany. They're great friends. But as you sit there in Santana's arms, you remember what Rachel's feel like around you and that makes you miss her. How are you going to be able to talk to Rachel without bending to whatever she wants? How are you going to be able to stand up for yourself? You sigh and hold onto Santana, hoping to absorb some of her fiery demeanor.
After a few more minutes, you tell Santana that you're ready to go home. You need to suck it up and face Rachel. You need to. For your own dignity and sanity.