Note: Two bonus scenes from Rachel's and Quinn's POV respectively.
Warnings for scars, violence, mentions of death and cannibalism.
Rachel waited nine hours before returning to the rock. It was enough time, she'd reasoned, for the human to forget her transgression, considering her species' lacking retentive abilities; but not enough time for her to become hungry and annoying.
She picked up a few seashells along the way, as a peace offering in case the human did remember, or as a pacifier in case she'd somehow managed to become hungry again after all.
Just don't touch her again, she told herself. Touching humans, and human women especially, has never had very positive consequences for her.
She thought about the little yellow human, with her seemingly permanent scowl and her obviously human weapon-inflicted scars and her nasal voice which was unexpectedly rather pleasing, in fact. She was, in some strange, human way, not altogether terrible company.
And, she had to admit, not-altogether-terrible company was a thing she'd been craving for a very long time.
But when Rachel reached the rock, there was no human on it at all; only a message written with pebbles and an abandoned game of tic tac toe.
Reasonably, Rachel completed the game first, stacking three fishbone exes in a row, before turning her attention to the note. Once she'd read it, however, she couldn't help a small smile.
Don't stop singing, she thought sardonically. As if I have any sort of choice.
Kurt and co dropped Quinn off at the closest port with an assurance that Brittany and Santana were docked nearby. Quinn saw them off with a promise to meet up with Mercedes for a bar brawl or two next time they cross paths, and a promise to Kurt to pretend they don't know each other next time they do.
Quinn's next priority was to obtain a shirt and a drink, and so naturally she went for a drink first.
She hadn't gotten more than halfway through her second serving when a fist slammed into her back.
"Lucy Quinn fucking Fabray," Santana shouted at her. "I am so fucking mad at you."
Quinn whirled around and immediately threw her arms around Santana, squeezing her hard and inhaling the scent of salt and stale sweat that was unpleasant but wonderfully familiar. "I know you missed me, but there's no need to bruise your knuckles over it," she said once she released her.
"I thought you were fish food," Santana said. "I thought we'd only find your fucking bones."
"Actually, you wouldn't have found the bones," Quinn informed her. "She likes to wear them."
"She? Who the fuck is she?" Santana asked.
"Rachel," said Quinn.
"Rachel?"
"Rachel, the siren."
"Rachel," Santana repeated tonelessly. "The siren."
Quinn nodded. "We got acquainted," she explained.
"You got fucking acquainted," Santana muttered, incredulous. "Quinn, we thought you were dead."
"Well, thank you for going to the trouble of orchestrating a rescue mission for my bones, then."
"Yeah, you owe me your fucking first born for that one," Santana said vehemently. "Being indebted to Kurt Hummel is a fate worse than death."
"I'll make it up to you," Quinn promised.
"Good," said Santana. "Then come on, Brittany's already aboard. We've just been waiting for your worthless hide."
"About that," Quinn said, clearing her throat. "I was wondering if you have a shirt I could borrow. And some supplies. And a boat?"
"What?" Santana yelped. "Listen, Q, don't you dare go off plundering on your own! I fucking raised you! If you're going solo, I want a percentage."
"'I fucking raised you,' really, Santana?" She shoved her lightly. "I'm not going solo. I'm just going on a little detour."
"To do what, exactly?" Santana demanded.
Quinn snorted self-deprecatingly at herself for what she was about to say. Then: "To rescue a siren," she answered.