III
It's weird.
It really shouldn't be, but it is.
Rachel can't seem to shake just how out of sorts she feels because Quinn is not touching her. After Friday night - which was a resounding success, Rachel thinks - and after being so in tune with Quinn, Rachel can't seem to wrap her head around why Quinn is sitting so far away.
Well, technically, she's lying so far away, sprawled out on the couch while she chats quietly to Santana about whatever the two of them have decided to watch on television.
Rachel isn't paying attention to any of that. Her eyes are on Quinn - casual, relaxed, stunning Quinn - who has been on her mind constantly since they parted ways on the sidewalk outside Tom's apartment building late Friday night. She remembers the feel of Quinn's lips against her cheek, and then she was gone.
And, yes, Rachel is being weird.
Silent.
It's very unlike her, and she doesn't miss the brief looks Santana and Quinn send her way from time to time. She has no actual explanation for it, so it's a good thing neither of them actually brings it up. Her mind is elsewhere, dangerously so, and she can't stop herself from wanting to crawl into the curve of Quinn's body and just lie there.
"Alessia asked about you," Santana suddenly says, cutting into Rachel's thoughts.
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I'm pretty sure she was fishing to find out if you're available," Santana adds, and Rachel feels something awful twist in her gut.
Quinn sighs. "I already told you I'm not interested," she says.
"And, I'm calling bullshit."
Quinn throws a cushion at her. "I'm revoking your 'Bullshit-Calling' powers," she says. "I'm not having this discussion with you again. I'm not interested. I have school and I have the book and I have - " she stops herself, eyes flicking Rachel's way.
The brunette is already looking elsewhere.
"I'm not interested," Quinn repeats, and it's never sounded so much like the truth that Rachel feels her heart drop into her stomach and fly up into her throat simultaneously.
"Whatever," Santana mutters, but she casts a worried look between her two (best) friends.
It's weird.
Santana was expecting Quinn to be the one who struggled with their evening of pretend, but it's Rachel who's been acting as if she's in the Twilight Zone.
It's been two days of this slightly-dazed expression and, when Santana questioned Quinn, the blonde was less than forthcoming.
"I thought it went well," Quinn said. "She got a little emotional somewhere in the middle, but we pulled out of it, and the night ended great. I don't know what's happening, right now."
And, she still doesn't.
Sunday afternoons are usually spent like this. Quinn goes to church in the morning, meets Rachel, Santana or both for a late brunch or early lunch, and then they spend the afternoons together.
Sometimes, they go to museums, various fairs or markets, or they just come to one of the apartments and hang.
Sometimes, Quinn cooks or Rachel bakes, and Santana is their designated taster. Other times, they meet up with Kurt and Blaine, who live together a few blocks away from Quinn.
But, today, it's just the three of them.
Or two, given that Rachel is definitely elsewhere, even if she's sitting in the same room as them.
Eventually, Santana declares that she's going to catch a nap, exaggerating a yawn and a stretch, and Quinn rolls her eyes before muttering to her, "this is why you chose medicine and not acting."
"Shut the fuck up, Fabray," Santana throws right back. "Sort our girl out. I think you broke her."
And, really, Quinn thinks she actually did.
She waits until Santana is out of sight, safely behind her bedroom door before she gets up from the couch and crosses the room to where Rachel is still looking introspective. Without asking permission, she spreads her body over Rachel's, forcing her gaze to lock on hazel eyes.
Rachel looks startled at first, automatically squirming before relaxing and giving in to her fate. "Quinn, what are you doing?"
"I didn't know how else to get your attention," Quinn complains.
"Believe me, you have my attention."
Quinn frowns slightly, unsure exactly what is being implied by those words. "Why are you so sullen?" she asks. "Did - did something happen that I don't know about? Do I have to get Santana to beat somebody up? Because I will."
Rachel lets out an unexpected laugh, and then sighs. "I guess I'm just caught up on… Friday night."
"Oh." Quinn shifts slightly, painlessly elbowing Rachel in the ribs. "What about it?"
"I think I feel… guilty," she starts. "My conscience is acting up about our… lies, and my mind is trying to wrap around what was real and what wasn't."
Quinn wants to scream It was all real, but she just waits patiently as Rachel attempts to figure things out for herself.
Unfortunately, Quinn can't really help her with this part - whatever it is.
"What if this is just the start, Quinn?" Rachel asks. "What if this is just the beginning of my downfall? I mean, I know this is just a… little lie, but where does it end, you know? If I'm ready to sell parts of myself now - even if it's just my soul - just to keep a part, then what would I be willing to do in the future? Am I really that desperate enough to fake an entire relationship just to keep the producers happy? What kind of person does that make me, Quinn?"
Quinn rolls to the side, off of Rachel but pressed against her side. "Is this a… Sunshine situation?" she asks. "Because, if I recall correctly, you've never truly felt all that guilty about that."
"I don't know if it's like that," she says. "Maybe, I think, what if it's because you're involved?"
Quinn waits, perplexed.
"I don't think I should have involved you in this ruse," she says, sounding so sad. "Now, it's always going to be this thing between us."
"Rachel," Quinn says, trying to be understanding when she's just as confused as Rachel is. "It's better that it's me, remember? I'm totally fine with selling my soul. You know that."
Rachel shakes her head in amusement. "What happens when all this is over?"
"Nothing changes," Quinn says, and she can feel how the lie tastes like acid in her throat. Things are already changing. "We'll 'date' for a few weeks, and then we'll break up, and all your cast mates will marvel at how amazing we are for being able to stay friends after all we've been through."
"All we've been through," Rachel echoes in a whisper. "I didn't even ask, but were you actually okay sharing… everything with Tom, Denny and Frankie?"
Quinn pauses. "I didn't really think about it, if I'm being honest," she answers truthfully. "It was all in the moment, and I felt like I was someone else entirely."
"You were acting," Rachel says, and her voice drops in volume because, of course everything was an act.
"Well, yes," Quinn says. "But, it is something I worry about, you know. People finding out about Beth. And, if ever I do get my book published, there's a possibility my life will be looked at a little too closely, and I want to protect her from that." She reaches for Rachel's hand, linking their fingers. "Do you worry about that as well?"
"That all my dirty little secrets are going to be revealed when I'm famous?"
The second the words are out of Rachel's mouth, she knows they're entirely the wrong ones to say. Quinn immediately tenses, and her hand slips free.
Quinn is much too composed to scramble to her feet, but Rachel still feels as if she's running away, hiding her heart behind the walls Rachel's been chipping at for years.
"Quinn," Rachel says; "I didn't mean - "
Quinn just raises a hand, silencing her. "I don't know what's going on with you right now, and I want to help. It's all I want, and you know that." She breathes out slowly. "But, I swear to God, Rachel, if you ever refer to Beth - my fucking daughter - as anything but a wonderful fucking miracle again, then you and I are done. Real relationship or not."
"So, I may or may not have done a thing."
Santana just sighs tiredly as she rolls onto her back and stares at her bedroom ceiling. "Did Q leave?" she asks, even though she heard the front door close. It would never slam. Quinn is far too controlled for something as pedestrian as that.
"She did," Rachel mumbles, and then crosses the room and climbs onto Santana's bed. She curls into a tight ball, her eyes on Santana's profile.
Santana doesn't look at her, resigned to her fate. "What did you do?"
And, Rachel tells her.
It's one of the things about their relationship that developed after the 'Brody Incident' their freshman year of college.
They tell each other the truth.
Always.
Santana pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger when Rachel is done with her explanation of events. "What is wrong with you?" The question isn't asked as an accusation. It's more out of curiosity and concern. "It's not like you to make that kind of faux pas. Least of all in front of Q-Ball."
Rachel closes her eyes. "I don't know, San," she says.
Santana finally turns her head. "She knows you didn't mean it the way it came out," she says, needing to assure her roommate. "Of course, she knows. You love Beth, and she knows that."
"For some reason, I get the feeling I've insulted her in a different way, though," she says. "Like, I've done something so irreparably wrong, and I don't even know what it is."
Santana has to look away because, God, this is all kinds of fucked up. What was Quinn doing agreeing to this, and where does Rachel get off even asking?
"San?"
"Hmm?"
"Have you ever felt as if you're losing pieces of yourself, and there's nothing you can do to stop it?"
And, the thing is, Santana has. She felt it every day she was with Brittany, losing parts of herself willingly, until she just stopped belonging to herself altogether.
It almost destroyed her.
Which is why she doesn't want this for Quinn.
Or, for Rachel.
It's barely even started, and they're already hurting each other.
Santana reaches for Rachel's hand. "I have felt that, yes," she says, whispering the confession.
"What happened?" Rachel asks, even though she's sure she already knows the answer.
"I lost myself completely."
Rachel: I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
Rachel: I honestly didn't mean it the way it sounded, and I understand why you would be angry with my wording, which was highly insensitive and said without thought.
Rachel: I miss you.
Rachel: Lunch today? Tomorrow? Right now?
Quinn lets out a heavy sigh as she stares down at her phone. She feels childish and embarrassed by her own reaction to Rachel's offhanded question. Quinn knows it wasn't meant the way it sounded, but her heart and head weren't quite on the same page the moment the words registered.
Beth is not some dirty little secret.
Rachel knows that.
Of course, Rachel knows that.
Quinn suspects she's really going to have to schedule extra appointments with her therapist because, honestly, it's barely been a week of… whatever this is, and she's already out of sorts.
With another exasperated look at her phone, she starts to type.
Quinn: I know, and I'm sorry I overreacted. And then left the way I did.
Quinn: I miss you too, Berry.
Quinn: Can't meet for lunch today. What time are you done at the theatre? Maybe we can get dinner instead?
Rachel's performance post Quinn's replies is flawless. The relief she feels eases all the tension in her body, and the rehearsal goes off without a hitch, which is sufficient to draw enough attention that their director, Elliot, and Tom even pull her aside to comment on it.
"Is - is that a bad thing?" she asks, genuinely concerned, because they both look so serious.
"No," Tom says with a soft laugh. "It's wonderful."
"You're continually proving to us why we were right to take this chance on you."
And, there it is.
The words are always said so casually, but the men have no idea how crippling they can be to Rachel's psyche, general belief in herself and in their decision. Her face falls slightly, but neither man seems to notice.
"I think that's it for today," Elliot suddenly calls out, and Rachel is relieved for the reprieve. Her heart is beating a little too fast, and it absolutely has nothing to do with the dinner she's scheduled to have with Quinn.
Rachel showers and gets dressed at the theatre, and then meets Frankie and Jasmine on her way out. They're chatting about where to get dinner, and Frankie pauses to invite her along.
"I can't," she says. "Thank you, though."
"Got any special plans?" Frankie asks, and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Rachel blushes, and she can't even be sure why. "I'm meeting Quinn," is all she offers, which isn't a lie. She's decided to do as little of that as she possibly can, now that the foundation of her relationship with Quinn has been laid.
"Ooh," Frankie sounds; "and, how is our favourite blonde?"
Rachel smiles at him, because it sounds as if he's genuinely interested. "She's been a bit swamped with school, but she's well, thank you for asking."
"Well, tell her we say hello when you see her," he says, and then sends her on her way.
Rachel doesn't have to be told twice, and she catches a cab to Murray Hill, which is where Quinn lives. The blonde likes to joke about it being such a (relatively affluent) Graduate student cliché to live there, but Rachel knows she loves the area.
There are just things about Quinn that she knows.
And plenty she doesn't.
It's just after seven-thirty when Rachel arrives at Quinn's apartment door, her hand automatically lifting to knock. Rachel knows it irritates Quinn, and she scrunches her face up adorably, which is the number one reason Rachel never uses her key. She loves that face.
"It's open," she hears from behind the door, and she rolls her eyes before entering the homely apartment. It truly is very Quinn. Calm. Understated. It's got a bit of a rustic feel to it, even though it's deceptively modern.
It's the Judy Fabray in me, Quinn once explained. I can't seem to shake it.
Rachel removes her coat once she's closed and locked the door behind her. This is New York. One can never be too careful.
"Quinn?"
"In the kitchen."
Rachel follows the sound of her voice and the clattering of pots and pans to find Quinn standing over her stove, gently mixing some kind of rice dish.
"Quinn," Rachel says, exasperated. "I explicitly told you not to cook. We're supposed to order in, my treat, and I'm supposed to pour my heart out in apology."
Quinn smiles sheepishly over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling. "I would apologise, but I'm not sorry," she says. "I had a craving, and I know how much you like my vegetable rice."
And, okay, Rachel can't dispute that.
"I'm going to throw in extra mushrooms for you but, dear God, I'm having steak."
Rachel doesn't even comment.
Quinn's smile merely widens at her forced silence. "Help yourself to anything from the fridge," she says. "I picked up some of that horrific tomato juice you claim is the Second Coming."
Rachel could comment on that, letting them fall into easy banter, but that's not what she wants to do. Instead of moving towards the fridge, she heads in Quinn's direction.
With little preamble, she wraps her arms around Quinn's waist from behind and presses the front of her body against the blonde's back. Her eyes slip shut as she buries her face between Quinn's shoulder blades.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and she feels Quinn steadily exhale. "Please say you forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Quinn says, and Rachel can feel the vibrations in her chest. "But, if you need to hear it, then you're forgiven."
"Thank you." Rachel holds on for a few long seconds more, not wanting this moment to end. If she can help it, she'll spend the rest of her life touching Quinn in some way.
But, she's forced to let go eventually, and Quinn continues with preparing their food while Rachel hovers just to her left, the forefinger of her right hand hooked into the belt loop of Quinn's jeans.
If Quinn finds it strange, she doesn't say so.
Rachel just watches as Quinn removes two thirds of the rice from the pan into another, and then adds diced mushrooms to one and strips of seared steak to the other.
Rachel almost swoons when Quinn makes sure to use two separate spoons.
"I figure you can take some home for Santana," Quinn says, adding in some dark soy sauce to both pans. "She's been nagging me lately, and it'd be nice to shut her up with some home-cooked food."
Rachel giggles softly. "What's she on your back about?"
Quinn doesn't immediately respond. "A few things," she eventually says. "But they're unimportant. Tell me, how was your day?"
Rachel debates prying some more about the Santana situation, but she really doesn't want to be discussing their Latina friend right now. "It was… good," she says. "I think."
Quinn gives her a questioning look.
"I think there's something wrong with me."
"I've been trying to tell you this for years."
Rachel pokes her in the ribs, and Quinn lets out the most amazing shriek that Rachel has to hug her again. This time, Quinn wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Rachel hums in content.
Quinn chuckles softly. "Are you okay?" she asks.
Rachel just nods, pressing her face into the juncture between Quinn's arm and shoulder. "I just really missed you."
Quinn decides not to comment on that as she stirs the first, and then the second pan with her free hand.
"How was your day?" Rachel asks. "I want to know everything."
"Including what I had for breakfast?"
"Definitely."
Quinn shifts to release Rachel, and the brunette lets her, her finger returning to the designated belt loop. "Well, if you must know, I had granola muesli and yoghurt for breakfast."
"Nutritional."
"I even threw in some dried cranberries for added texture."
Rachel grins at her. "You actually braved the berries?"
"As long as they were buried in something else," Quinn says, playfully rolling her eyes.
It's something all their friends like to tease them about. Quinn hates every kind of berry fruit in existence. She just can't seem to stomach them, though she likes the flavour. Santana jokes that that's the real reason Rachel and Quinn never got along in high school.
Quinn's irrational hatred of berries.
Rachel's fathers crack up about it whenever Quinn visits, and the blonde just takes it in stride, claiming there's only one very specific Berry she can't live without.
Always said so casually, but with so much truth.
Now that Rachel's paying attention, Quinn tends to make those kinds of declarations a lot.
Her gaze intense.
Her tone serious.
"I also watched three proposal presentations today," Quinn continues, seemingly oblivious to Rachel's thoughts. "Two were for PhDs."
Despite her distraction, Rachel can hear something very specific in Quinn's voice. "Is that something that interests you?"
Quinn bites her bottom lip for a moment. "I've definitely been thinking about it," she says. "I talked to my mom about it, and she supports me either way. My supervisor wants to hold onto me." She lets out a small chuckle. "He'll probably offer me all the funding I want if I manage to get published by the time I'm scheduled to graduate."
Rachel tugs lightly on Quinn's belt loop. "When do I get to read what you've been working on?"
Quinn glances at her. "You read plenty of my stuff."
"But you've kept everything about your actual thesis so quiet," she points out. "What are you writing about, Fabray? Is it something scandalous? Is it Fifty Shades vibes?"
Quinn throws her head back as she laughs, and Rachel finds herself staring at a long, pale neck that is so delightfully perfect, it's not even fair.
"Of course not," Quinn says as her laughter tapers off. "It's just, well, it's deeply personal," she explains. "I'm not ready for any of you to read it yet. It has to be perfect, for one, and there are things in it that… nobody is ready to know."
Rachel perks up. "Like the fact that you're a complete sucker for Westlife?"
Quinn glares at her. "I told you that in confidence," she accuses.
"Actually, you sang that in confidence," she snickers.
"I was drunk," she says with a pout.
Rachel reaches up and gently tugs on Quinn's ear, her own eyes shining with affection. "You're adorable."
"Yeah, yeah," Quinn dismisses. "Make yourself useful and get us some plates."
Silently, Rachel does just that, setting two places at Quinn's breakfast bar. It's Quinn's favourite place to eat in her own apartment, though Rachel's never really been told why. It never seemed important before, but now Rachel wants to know.
She's struck by the sudden, almost irrepressible urge to know everything.
Quinn is the one to dish out their food, careful not to cross-contaminate. The one time she did that, she received an hour-long Rachel Berry lecture that gave her a splintering migraine and an earache.
She wouldn't dream of mentioning the latter to Rachel, though.
"Are you having your blood juice?" Quinn asks, her head in the fridge as she retrieves a bottle of water for herself.
Rachel chuckles. "Maybe later," she says, which is code for I'm going to be drinking half of your water, Quinn.
Quinn is resigned to her fate as she settles in beside Rachel. She says a quick prayer, crosses herself, and then digs in. She's vaguely aware of Rachel eating next to her, but then the brunette starts openly staring at her.
"Is the food not good?" Quinn asks.
Rachel shakes her head. "It's divine."
Quinn glances up, noting the slight crease in Rachel's brow. "What's wrong, then?"
"I called Shelby today," Rachel says, and it's the absolute last thing Quinn is expecting to hear. "Just to talk, I guess. I wanted to speak to Beth, really, because I felt…" she trails off. "I didn't know she was such a fan of baking. We talked about shortbread for literally half an hour."
Despite herself, Quinn finds herself smiling. "It started when she baked bread in class at school," she explains. "Her Christmas list has expanded to include all sorts of baking goodies."
"Are you bummed she's taken to baking rather than cooking?"
Quinn can hear the teasing in her voice. "As in she's more inclined towards you, huh?"
"Baking is far superior, Quinn," Rachel says with an air of supremacy. "Accept it."
Quinn just returns to her food, her smile firmly in place. This part is… easy. Just being with Rachel. Talking to her. Experiencing her.
It's the part that comes after that always manages to trip Quinn up.
Because, regardless of what Quinn has managed to convince herself she no longer wants, Rachel leaves. She goes home. Back to her life.
Where the easiness of their relationship is simply… not real.
Things, somewhat miraculously, seem to settle as the week scuttles along.
Quinn and Rachel are in a… good place. They haven't had to stretch their acting muscles and play the doting couple for a few days, which helps.
It just lulls them into false security, as it were.
When Denny, visiting the theatre on a rare occasion, mentions the mass barbecue/picnic they're planning on having for the cast, crew and family at Pelham Bay Park the following week's Sunday; Rachel's stomach rolls unpleasantly.
It's supposed to be a bonding experience before they go into the last few weeks of rehearsals prior starting their full dress rehearsals and Previews.
Denny makes it especially clear to Rachel that Quinn is definitely invited, and she would love to see her there. The weather is supposed to let up, and it's supposed to be good fun with tasty food and a few organised games to bolster the group's dynamic.
Rachel says they'll be there before Denny can even finish explaining the reasoning behind throwing the barbecue.
Now, all Rachel has to do is bring it up to Quinn, which is what she does that weekend while they're supposed to be getting ready for a night out with Santana, Kurt, Blaine and some others that Rachel definitely isn't paying attention to.
Because, well, she's a little distracted.
By Quinn.
Who is in a dress that is positively… sinful.
It amazes Rachel, really, how Quinn can make her 'little black dress' look so sexy and tasteful, simultaneously. It's practically unfair, and Rachel finds her train of thought wandering more often than not.
"A barbecue, huh?" Quinn asks, slipping in her hanging earrings.
Rachel nods from her position sitting on the end of her own bed. "Next Sunday."
"Afternoon?"
"Yip."
Quinn smiles all too knowingly. "Santana isn't going to be happy we're both ditching her."
Rachel's eyes snap up from where they drifted down to Quinn's legs. "You'll go?"
"Of course."
"And Santana will get over it," Rachel says; "she'll probably welcome the opportunity to nap all afternoon."
Quinn hums in agreement, her eyes on the mirror in front of her. "She's had a pretty tough week. No wonder she wants to go out and have a wild night."
"Not too wild, I hope," Rachel quips as she rises to her feet.
At that exact moment, Santana bursts into the room, yelling, "It's time to go loco, putas!"
Quinn and Rachel exchange a look, and then both burst out laughing.
"What?" Santana asks. "What's so funny? Are you laughing at me?"
"No, San," Quinn says. "It's something else."
"Is this one of those inside fake relationship things?" she asks, her gaze pointed as she studies the two of them. "Because that's totally on pause tonight, okay? Q, you're my wing-woman, and you may or may not have to take one for the team if the lady I set my eyes on has a less hot friend."
Quinn rolls her eyes, because that's not happening, and Rachel forces away the sudden churning in her gut. It's not as if the brunette can actually say anything to make sure none of that happens, but she desperately wants to.
"Can we please go?" Santana says, impatient. "I need some booze."
"You need something," Quinn mutters under her breath.
"What was that, Tight Ass?" Santana immediately throws back.
"You wish your ass was as toned as mine."
Santana gasps, and then turns around, showing Rachel and Quinn her posterior. "This ass is fine," she says. "Berry, tell her. It's so much better than hers."
"I'm not getting involved in this… ass-off," Rachel says, raising her hands in innocence. "I think you're both exceptionally beautiful young women."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Jesus," she says. "All I wanted was a demeaning compliment on how hot my ass looks."
"You won't find that here, Santana," Rachel says.
Santana glances at her. "Well, obviously not from you," she says. "And, that's why we're going out."
As, technically, the only straight person in her immediate friend group, Rachel expects to get lumped in whenever Santana, Quinn, Kurt and Blaine go hopping from one gay bar to the other. It's something she normally enjoys, really. It's always given her a certain thrill, and tonight shouldn't be any different.
But, it is.
It truly, truly is.
Because, for starters, it's not just the five of them on this little bar adventure. And, okay, Rachel would normally be okay with that as well, because the rest of them obviously have other friends, but tonight is something out of the ordinary.
Except, not really.
Rachel is the one not acting… normal.
She was fine.
After leaving the apartment, they met up with Kurt, Blaine and another man, Gavin, who they've met a handful of times, at the first bar. It was already packed, and they were already drinking, and Rachel was fine.
She started up a conversation with Gavin, happily discussing their favourite songs at the moment, and Quinn was sitting close to her side, their thighs pressed together.
Then, Quinn leaned into her, whispered something about going to dance with Santana, and Rachel made the mistake of letting her go.
Now, they're on to their third bar, and Rachel is sulking. How was she supposed to know that dancing with Santana was going to graduate to dancing with Alessia, Santana's friend who has the hots for you?
And, Rachel thinks she would be okay if it was just dancing, but it's not. They're practically grinding against each other, right there, in front of everyone, and Rachel can see their mouths getting closer and closer.
She feels nauseous, and she can't really figure out why.
It's why she stopped with all the bubbly drinks more than an hour ago. She's sipping at a Vodka Cranberry, which is, incidentally, one of Quinn's favourite drinks. Second maybe to a Whiskey Sour.
Sometimes, Rachel hates that she knows Quinn so well.
"What's got you all mopey?" a voice suddenly asks, and Rachel's head snaps up to see Kurt sliding into the booth with her. "Not having a good night?"
Rachel resists the urge to glance in the direction of the dance floor. "It's fine," she says.
"We always worry you don't actually like coming with us to gay bars," he says, tilting forward. He's drunk, but not too far gone.
"It's not that," she immediately says, because it's not really. She wouldn't even be able to explain if she tried, so she doesn't even want to bother.
"I'm sure we could find you a few people to dance with," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Take a ride on the wild side."
Rachel shakes her head, because she's not really feeling it. "I'm okay," she says, sipping at her drink. "I think it's just been one of those weeks, you know?"
Kurt nods in understanding.
He has many, many of those weeks now that his fashion career is starting to take off, but even he knows it's something more with Rachel. There's something deeply melancholy about her and, as tempted as he is to ask, he realises tonight might not be the best time.
Either way, his next response is stolen from him when Blaine approaches, immediately reaching for his hand and dragging him away. He just manages to mumble something over his shoulder, but he doubts Rachel's even paying attention.
She's not, because her eyes are back on Quinn, who's front is pressed so tightly to Alessia's back that it's impossible to tell where one starts and the other ends.
Rachel downs her drink in one go.
And, then, she does something really, really fucking stupid.
In her defence, she is a little drunk and she's rather heartsore, for some reason, and her fingers are dialling the number before she can stop herself.
In the morning, she won't remember the conversation at all, but she must say something because, exactly twenty-five minutes later, Quinn is right in front of her, her heated expression one that doesn't fully register with Rachel until the blonde speaks.
"What the hell, Rachel?" she practically hisses.
Rachel blinks once, twice, and then smiles widely when she looks past Quinn's shoulder. "Frankie, Jazz, you came!"
Quinn shoots her such a dirty look, but Rachel misses it completely as she scrambles out of the booth and throws herself at Frankie, and then at Jasmine.
"I'm so happy you're here!" Rachel practically screams at the newcomers. "You have to say hello to everybody. Come, come, come." She grabs hold of Frankie's arm and drags him away, Jasmine following after shooting an amused look at Quinn.
Quinn is not amused. She's the furthest from amused, in fact.
If Rachel's brain registers it, she doesn't show it. Instead, she drags Frankie and Jasmine to Santana, who's wrapped around a particularly leggy blonde, and then to Kurt and Blaine, who are in the middle of the dance floor.
She doesn't bother with anyone else.
They all end up back at the booth, anyway, with Kurt and Blaine asking drunken questions of Frankie and Jasmine. Santana gets the newcomers both drinks, and then squeezes herself in between Alessia and Quinn, because she obviously needs to now that Frankie and Jasmine are here, and they think that Quinn is Rachel's girlfriend.
The murderous look Quinn approached Santana with might have made her laugh if this were any other situation, and she's nothing if not a firm believer in keeping her one best friend from castrating the other.
Rachel is playing with fire.
Quinn sits stiffly beside Rachel, her face slightly pinched as she tries to figure out just what is going on. It's borderline impossible for her to salvage this night, and she imagines it's highly unlikely whatever she and Alessia were building up to is going to go anywhere now.
Because, apparently her fake girlfriend decided to -
To what?
Quinn doesn't understand. Why would Rachel invite Frankie and Jasmine when she knows what it would mean to Quinn's night?
Unless.
Unless, she did know, and she wanted to thwart it, somehow?
But, why?
Quinn sighs. This is giving her a headache, and the alcohol is helping her hold onto her latent anger. It also doesn't help that Alessia keeps shooting her curious, questioning looks over the top of Santana's head.
Quinn doesn't have any answers for her. Rachel's the one with all the power here, apparently. They probably, definitely, should have discussed exclusivity when they started this whole… farce.
Her fingers tighten around her glass for a moment, and then she relaxes. It's fine. She's a trained actress. She can pull this off, and then she can deal with Rachel Berry.
Rachel's hangover is… extreme.
It hits her the second she opens her eyes, and she's forced to snap them shut when the light hits. She lets out a groan and rolls onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow.
She suddenly lifts her head, gasping at the nausea that rolls through her.
This is not her pillow.
Struggling to get her bearings, Rachel forces herself to sit up and take in her surroundings.
Quinn.
This is Quinn's pillow.
Her bed.
Her bedroom.
"What on earth?" she murmurs to herself.
Rachel turns to Quinn's nightstand to find Advil, a glass of water and her phone neatly lined up, and she feels deep, deep affection fill her chest with warmth. She immediately downs the painkillers and gulps down the entire glass of water before she resettles against Quinn's pillows.
She closes her eyes in an attempt to recall just how she ended up here, dressed in Quinn's sweatpants and t-shirt, in her bed.
Without her.
Frankly, Rachel's too scared to leave the room, or even check her phone. She imagines something very significant had to have happened for her to end up here.
She's even too afraid to find out what the time is.
Rachel ends up drifting off back to sleep, which does wonders for her hangover but very little for her anxiety.
When she wakes again, still alone, she sucks it up and checks her phone, where she has several text messages and one missed call from Kurt.
She decides to check them systematically.
Dad: Hi, Sweetheart. Do you remember where we packed the scented candles when we moved?
Rachel rolls her eyes, because of course that's the thing her father is going to ask. She types a quick reply that isn't at all helpful, and then moves on to the next set of texts, from Kurt.
Kurt: Okay. What is going on?
Kurt: Why does Quinn look like she wants to kill you?
Then, two hours later.
Kurt: Are you dead?
Kurt: Jesus, Rach, if looks could kill… you really would be dead.
Kurt: Call me.
Rachel feels unease creep further up her spine. What on earth happened last night?
Choosing not to reply to him just yet, she moves on.
Frankie: Rachel, I don't want to put you on the spot or anything, but are you and Quinn okay? Some things seemed to be going on, and I wasn't brave enough to ask in front of her. Is everything okay?
Rachel closes her eyes.
What the hell?
God, what happened?
Quinn: If you leave before I get back from church, you and I are going to have a very serious problem.
Quinn: Drink a lot of water. I left breakfast in a container in the fridge for you. I need you to have as little of a hangover as possible when we talk.
Okay…
Santana: Dude. You're in such deep shit.
Wait, what? What happened?
Santana: Fucking prepare yourself.
And, yeah, okay, maybe she should try to remember what the hell happened last night before she faces Quinn.