Author's Note: Yes, I'm still writing these. No, I cannot promise quality content. Ficlet set before Don't Blink You Might Miss.
The Joker Ain't the Only Foo
Playing with the Queen of Hearts
Knowing it ain't really smart
The Joker ain't the only fool
Who'll do anything for you
~Queen of Hearts, Juice Newton
Whoever said that weddings are joyful occasions don't know the first thing about planning one. They're stressful and complicated and occasionally mind-numbing ordeals of scheduling and fittings and samplings and just generally life-consuming nonsense. Rachel really doesn't know how her younger self could have romanticized the whole thing so thoroughly, but she supposes that pulling together a rushed (and ultimately doomed) ceremony at the county courthouse didn't even hint at the level of planning required to give Quinn Fabray the wedding of her dreams.
The fact that Rachel also intends it to be the wedding of her own dreams is neither here nor there. Her own dreams had involved far more romantic declarations of unending love and far less contracts and checklists—though she is admittedly a big fan of checklists under normal circumstances. Weddings, Rachel has discovered, are hardly normal circumstances. In fact, the planning of them is far more akin to orchestrating a highly intricate military campaign than a loving union of two souls. She has both thanked Barbra for their wedding planner, Candace, and cursed her existence in equal measure.
The wedding is now less than three months away, and it isn't exaggerating to say that it's consumed nearly every aspect of their lives. The parts that aren't otherwise occupied with ticking off pertinent items from the very detailed checklist that Candace had provided them are filled with valiant attempts to keep up with both of their always hectic careers. It's eight shows a week at the Wintergarden for Rachel while Quinn pushes through the final stages of publishing her second book in between her part-time copy editing job and the promotional day trips she's being sent on to drum up more presales for her yet-to-be-released bestseller.
Rachel is not a fan of those trips.
Oh, she's incredibly proud of her fiancée and the ever-increasing success of her first novel, of course, but the fact that most of Quinn's recent book signing excursions happen to fall on Rachel's only day off is starting to feel like a personal attack.
She knows it isn't; knows that Devon thinks it will be good publicity and Aileen is fully on board with it. She knows that Quinn's little out-of-town jaunts are fully determined by whatever day and time those small, local bookshops can accommodate her—and really, it's a miracle that most of them are even still in business in this age of electronic media.
Still, it sucks to have to share her precious Quinn-time with anyone or anything in their already crazily busy pre-wedding daze. This may or may not be a factor in her own spontaneous decision to fill her day off next week by tagging along with Quinn on her overnight trip to Columbus. She'll barely be able to make it from the airport to the theater on Thursday in time for her show, but it's better than the alternative of addressing wedding invitations on her own while Quinn is off signing books for her adoring fans.
And speaking of wedding invitations—
It's just past one o'clock when Quinn finally breezes back into their apartment with her briefcase in one hand and a box clutched in her other. She'd had a rare in-person meeting with Aileen to go over the latest round of edits for her second book, so she'd volunteered to pick up their wedding invitations from the print shop on her way home. Honestly, those damn invitations were supposed to have arrived a week ago, but there'd been some kind of delay with the gold, metallic ink that Rachel will absolutely not take responsibility for (even if it had been added to their invitation order at her insistence) because if the company advertises something then they should be able to provide it in a timely manner. In any case, it had been a relief when Quinn had gotten the call this morning that they were finally ready.
At least they're not falling too far behind on their checklist.
Rachel happily abandons her half-folded laundry the moment she hears the door open, disturbing Oliver's afternoon nap when she bounces off the sofa. He immediately zeroes in on the opportunity and dives into the abandoned pile, stretching out with a contented purr.
Rachel should probably care more that she's going to need to redo all of that now, but her focus is on more important matters. "Let me see them," she demands, relieving Quinn of her package as soon as she's within reach.
"My meeting was productive. Aileen is doing well. Thanks for asking," Quinn replies drolly. She drops her briefcase on the chair before plopping her body on the sofa with a tired sigh, mindlessly reaching over to scratch Oliver's head.
Rachel clutches the box against her chest and ducks her head in contrition. "Sorry," she offers before settling down into the space next to Quinn. She resolves to be patient and give her fiancée the attention she deserves in the scant few hours they have before Rachel needs to leave for the theater. They'd only had enough time this morning to enjoy breakfast together before Quinn had had to leave, and yesterday had been a bust with Quinn getting stuck in a tiny bookshop in Albany for most of the day. "I'm glad you had a good meeting. I hope Aileen didn't give you a ton of revisions."
This hope is admittedly a little bit selfish. The less Quinn has to rewrite, the more time she'll have for Rachel.
"She gave me enough," Quinn admits with a frown. Then she shrugs. "But it's mostly just grammatical fixes and a few cuts I need to approve or reject."
"Rejecting, obviously," Rachel declares with a grin. "Every word you write is brilliant and deserves to be included."
There's a deep, rich chuckle from Quinn—the kind that reverberates through Rchel's entire system, never failing to leave her warm and fluttery. "You're fabulous for my ego, sweetheart, but there's a reason you're not an editor."
"Yes," Rachel easily agrees. "Because I'm far too talented to be sequestered away in an office, reading manuscripts, when I can be on a stage, performing for my adoring fans."
Quinn dutifully nods despite the teasing glint in her eyes. "Yeah, that's totally the reason. Not at all your terrible spelling and penchant for run-on sentences and general loquaciousness."
Rachel's own eyes narrow. "I am an impeccable speller." She doesn't bother to argue Quinn's other two points. She won't be forced to concede if she doesn't acknowledge them at all.
Quinn laughs, delighted, and shuffles closer to Rachel, leaning into her with a mischievous smile. "As long as you can spell your name right on our marriage license, I don't care."
"Well, I can definitely do that," Rachel promises, closing the small distance between them so she can kiss the smirk right off her fiancée's lips. She does an excellent job of it too, if the blissed out expression on Quinn's face is anything to judge by. "Now, speaking of marriage," she lets her sentence trail off unfinished, instead holding the box of over-priced wedding invitations aloft and giving it a meaningful shake.
Quinn laughs again, shaking her head. "I'm genuinely surprised you lasted this long." She makes a sweeping gesture with her hands, indicating that Rachel should do the honors of opening the box.
"You really should have more appreciation for the level of patience I've displayed." Rachel scoots to the edge of the sofa cushion and sets the box on the coffee table. "I would have gone to the printer as soon as they called this morning if you hadn't insisted on picking them up on your way home."
"I was heading in that direction anyway," Quinn reminds her with a shrug. "Why waste another trip?"
"Well, they're here now," Rachel accepts, finally lifting the lid away from the box after having broken through the scotch tape holding it closed.
A little squeal of delight slips out at her first sight of the invitations—pristine white paper edged with ornate green vines bordering the elegant golden lettering.
"They look good," Quinn murmurs beside her, slipping an arm around her waist.
Rachel nods, a wide smile on her lips as she reverently traces her fingers over the top invitation before picking it up. Her eyes dance quickly over the lettering before she forces herself to slow down and truly absorb the words that will joyously beckon all of their friends and family to bear witness to their marriage.
Together with their families, Rachel Boobra Berry and Lucy Queen Fabray request the honor of your presence as they join their lives in marital bliss on Wednesday, June Sixteenth, Two Thousand Twenty One at two o'clock in the afternoon at the Boathouse in Central Park, New York, New York.
The smile on her face freezes, and her eyes frantically scan over the words again, hoping to have been tricked by the light glinting off the metallic lettering. She tilts the invitation to the left and then the right.
Nope.
She's still seeing it.
Her smile evaporates, and her heart drops into her stomach before spiking up into a frenzied rate. "Quinn," she whispers, horrified..
"What?" Quinn asks, brow furrowing as she notices Rachel's sudden distress.
"Read it," Rachel demands, shoving the offending invitation in her face with shaking hands. Quinn takes it from her with a curious frown, and Rachel immediately picks up the next two invitations from the box, one held in each hand, looking back and forth between them in fruitless desperation, hoping to see something different and disheartened when they read the same way.
Beside her, Quinn drags in a deep breath and exhales slowly. "That's…an unfortunate typo."
"Unfortunate?' Rachel screeches, whipping her gaze back to Quinn. She only vaguely registers that way Oliver jumps three feet into the air in fright before skittering onto the floor and racing from the room. "Unfortunate! Quinn! These are our wedding invitations!" She waves the two in her hand around haphazardly. "I cannot be Boobra on our wedding invitations!" She can't even believe she has to articulate this travesty out loud. "How could this happen? Did we not check the proof?"
"We did check the proof," Quinn assures her, strangely calm. They'd gotten the sample two weeks after they'd placed their order, lacking the gold metallic ink but otherwise fully drafted.
"We did," Rachel echoes, reassured only that she didn't imagine it happening. "Was it not correct?"
"It was," Quinn nods dutifully, because of course it was. They'd both read it over multiple times before approving it. Even Candace had taken a look at it!
"So how are these wrong?" Rachel practically screams, throwing the invitations in the general vicinity of the coffee table in a fit of ire. They end up on the floor.
"A printing error?" Quinn supplies unhelpfully, tossing the invitation in her own hand onto the table in a much gentler manner.
Rachel glares at her. "Well, obviously!" She drops her head into her hands, suppressing the urge to cry. She's too angry right now, but she's sure the tears will come later. "This is a catastrophe," she mutters, dragging her fingers through her hair in frustration.
She feels the warmth of Quinn's palm press against her back, rubbing gentle circles there. "Calm down, sweetie. We can fix this."
"We shouldn't have to," Rachel exclaims, lifting her head. "This is going to put us weeks behind schedule, Quinn!" She gestures uselessly to the box of invitations. "We should be mailing these out next week, not stressing over whether or not the stupid printer can correct their idiotic mistake in time for us to meet our deadline! What if they can't, Quinn? What if we don't have wedding invitations? What if no one comes to our wedding because we have nothing to send them to tell them when and where to be?" Each question grows slightly more manic.
"Most of the people we really want there already know they're invited," Quinn reasons.
"But it isn't official until they get the invitation," Rachel argues, shrugging off Quinn's attempt at comfort. "The invitation on which my name is reduced to a…a…a bad semi-pornographic pun!" How can Quinn stay so frustratingly calm about this?
"My name is wrong too," she points out, arching an eyebrow.
Rachel scoffs. "As if Queen is anywhere near as upsetting as Boobra. Boobra!" she repeats indignantly, flinging her arms out. She narrowly misses hitting Quinn with her flailing hand, but she's too upset to feel remorse, especially when she notices the way her fiancée is biting into her lower lip in a desperate attempt to stifle her amusement. "Are you laughing?" she demands with narrowed eyes.
Quinn purses her lips and inhales sharply through her nose. "No," she attempts, but it comes out on a stuttering snicker.
"Quinn!"
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Quinn shakes her head. It's a full thirty seconds of muffled giggling before she manages to compose herself. "You have to admit," she says, reining in another giggle, "it's a little bit funny."
"It is not!" Rachel does not appreciate the mirth dancing in her eyes when Quinn should be every bit as upset as she is, and she resolves to do something about it, reaching for her cellphone where it sits at the corner of the coffee table. "I'm calling Candace right this minute to fix this travesty and advise her to never recommend such a sloppy, unprofessional business to anyone else."
Quinn clears her throat, now fully composed. "It would probably be faster to just call the printer ourselves. I have a contact name. She even gave me a card and told me to give her a call if we had any complaints."
"Well, why didn't you tell me that to begin with?" Rachel demands, holding out her open hand expectantly. "Name and number please." She'll give them one chance to make this right before she calls Candace to strike their name from the list of reputable printers forever.
"Her name is April," Quinn says, fumbling in the pocket of her discarded briefcase for a moment before retrieving the aforementioned business card.
Rachel snatches it from Quinn's hand the moment it's offered. "Well, Miss April will be getting an ear," her rant comes to an abrupt halt when she actually reads the name on the card. "Fool?"
The fucking card actually reads April Fool.
Rachel drags in a very deep breath, closes her eyes, and silently counts to ten very slowly as she exhales. Her brain quickly calculates the date, realizing that yesterday was, in fact, the thirty-first of March, which makes today—
"Quinn," she says sharply, shooting a heated glare at her grinning fiancée "Is this…one of your ridiculous pranks?"
An irritating smile curls Quinn's mouth. "The phone number actually spells out 'love you,' if you were wondering."
"I wasn't," Rachel snaps, dropping her phone on the sofa cushion before flinging the business card harmlessly at Quinn's smirking face.
Quinn laughs outright.
"I can't believe you did this," Rachel accuses, pressing a hand to her roiling stomach with a frown.
Quinn's smile sobers into a more sympathetic expression. "If you shuffle down past the first ten or so," she tips her chin towards the box on the table, "you'll find the real invitations with perfect spelling and punctuation."
Not feeling particularly trusting of Quinn at the moment, Rachel quickly pulls the box onto her lap and does exactly as she suggested, breathing out an audible sigh of relief when she sees her (and Quinn's) correct name. It doesn't stop her from aiming a reproachful look at the woman beside her. "Lucy Quinn Fabray, did you actually pay for joke invitations just to trick me on this hellish day?"
Quinn looks far too delighted with herself. "Only twenty. The woman at the print shop gave me a really great discount because she thought it was hilarious."
That hardly makes Rachel feel the slightest bit better. "Well, you can marry the woman at the print shop because you won't be marrying me." She tosses the box back on the table with a heavy thud before getting up from the sofa and stalking into the kitchen to pour herself a good, stiff drink of—well, something. She's not sure they have anything stronger than a half-empty bottle of wine.
Unsurprisingly, Quinn follows right on her heels. "Oh, come on. It was funny."
"To you. Lucy Queen," she recites incredulously, shaking her head—her quest for a drink momentarily forgotten. "I should have known." This is exactly in line with the immature stunts that her ridiculous fiancée insists on perpetrating against her every year on this godforsaken day. "I can't believe you actually told some stranger to change my middle name…the name that I was given in honor of the great Barbra Streisand…to Boobra!"
Quinn's gaze drops to Rachel's chest, and she grins unrepentantly. "They are two of your best features."
Rachel's eyes narrow, and she crosses her arm testily over the features in question. "It's too bad you've just lost the privilege of touching them for the foreseeable future."
Quinn laughs off the threat, completely unperturbed, and she steps further into Rachel's space with a look that's all seduction, easily backing Rachel up against the refrigerator. "I don't know." Her body presses into Rachel as hands trail down over her hips, their faces close enough for Rachel to catalog every fleck of green in hazel eyes. "I think I've demonstrated how very good I am at making amends for all my," her lips graze Rachel's mouth with the ghost of a kiss, "naughty tricks."
Unfortunately—but actually, very fortunately—for Rachel, that has proven to be true, so she's helpless to stop the catch in her breath or the spark of heat that runs through her body. "And you will be making amends for this one," she acknowledges in a purposely sultry tone, very deliberately cupping her palms under Quinn's breasts and letting them linger for one provocative moment before pushing Quinn back a step, "by hand addressing every single one of our real invitations."
"I guess that means you're still planning to marry me after all."
Rachel huffs out a long suffering sigh. "We've made far too many non-refundable deposits to cancel everything now." And also, she happens to be completely and irrevocably in love with this exasperating woman despite her horrible, terrible, unamusing addiction to April Foolery. "But you, Quinn Fabray," she pokes an accusatory finger into the center of her fiancée's chest, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her own lips, "will be paying for this particular indiscretion for a very long time."
Quinn's grin transforms into an adoring smile, and her arms are back around Rachel in a heartbeat, eyes sparkling with happiness. "'Til death do us part, I'm sure."
Rachel feels all of her (perfectly righteous) indignation slip away as she gives into the siren's call of Quinn's affection. "Longer," she vows, settling into the loving embrace.
"I look forward to it," Quinn husks, offering up her first act of contrition with an ardent kiss—before she inevitably ruins it. "I mean, that's an awful lot of April Fool's Days to plan for."
Rachel shoves her away with an indignant growl. "You'll run out of tricks eventually, Quinn Fabray."
Laughing, Quinn tugs her back in by her belt loops. "You love my tricks."
"Not these ones," Rachel denies with a pout—although she does admittedly love this more playful side of Quinn. She only wishes it didn't appear once a year at her expense.
"Why, Rachel Berry," Quinn exclaims, faux scandalized, "what other tricks could you possibly be referring to?"
They both know exactly which of Quinn's various tricks (and treats) Rachel does, in fact, love, and had Quinn chosen anything other than their wedding invitations to trick her with this year, Rachel might be more inclined to let her flirt her way out of trouble—again—but, "At the moment," Rachel covers Quinn's hands with her own and gently extricates them from her body, "the trick that involves your excellent writing skills addressing one hundred and fifty wedding invitations."
The smile that Quinn has been sporting since she'd revealed her little joke finally fades into a frown, and her brows furrow adorably. "You were serious about that?"
"As serious as an uncalled for slight to the distinguished name of Barbra Streisand."
The look of resignation that appears on Quinn's face is mildly satisfying. "I guess that's fair."
"More than," Rachel agrees, allowing herself to smile fully as she lifts a hand Quinn's cheek and gives it a placating pat. "So you'd best get writing, baby." She lets her hand fall to Quinn's shoulder, using it for leverage as she leans in closer. "Oh, and don't tire out your hand too much. I'll require it later tonight for those other amends you promised me."
Quinn still has some major groveling to do, and Rachel plans to take full advantage when she comes home from the theater.
"I think I can manage," Quinn muses, her lips curling into a sexy smirk once again. "I'm very creative that way. I might not even need my hand."
Rachel hums in approval, already imagining the many creative ways Quinn could choose to make this up to her. "You're very lucky I love you in spite of your atrocious sense of humor."
Quinn laughs at that, tugging Rachel back into her arms. "I have a fabulous sense of humor, but believe me, I know exactly how lucky I am that you love me." She drops a playful kiss onto the tip of Rachel's nose. "And I am so in love with you, Rachel Barbra Berry, that I will happily address all of our wedding invitations and finalize the seating chart by hand and personally put together every single wedding favor because I can't wait to marry you."
"Well, now I can't even be annoyed with you anymore," Rachel complains with a smile, her entire body warming in the adoration that shines from hazel eyes, and she loops her arms over Quinn's shoulders. "I can't wait to marry you either."
"Pranks and all?" Quinn teases.
Rachel sighs dramatically. "The vows do say for better or worse." Her fingertips play with silky hair at Quinn's nape. "If this is your worst, then I'm still pretty lucky."
After all, she gets to be Quinn's wife in two months time. She'll grudgingly suffer through this one vexing day every year if it means getting to bask in tender loving happiness the other three hundred and sixty four. She'd be a fool to pass up that deal.