Fic: Deep breath, count to ten, start again (repeat as needed)
Title: Deep breath, count to ten, start again (repeat as needed)
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairings: Quinn Fabray, Tina. C. (minor mentions of Finn, Rachel and Artie)
Genre: Friendship, angst
Rating: G, it's harmless
Warnings/Spoilers: Set during 1x08 'Mash-Up', so if you're up to date, you're golden.
Word Count: 1090
Summary: The thing is, she knows exactly who this is, exactly who this person who pretends to be chaste and whiter-than-white actually ended up being. She dabs the tissue at her swollen eyes, mascara clumps onto it, and she’s not oblivious to the imagery- she’s just not going to mention it. Quinn gets some help from someone whose used to crying in bathroom stalls.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: This is an hour of non-stop writing, so all mistakes are mine. ^_^ Hope you like it.
She stares back into the mirror like she cannot recognise who this is, this red, bloated, tear-stained person whose growing another person in her uterus like some punch line to a cheap joke that nobody asked to hear. The thing is, she knows exactly who this is, exactly who this person who pretends to be chaste and whiter-than-white actually ended up being. She dabs the tissue at her swollen eyes, mascara clumps onto it, and she’s not oblivious to the imagery- she’s just not going to mention it.
The stall behind her flushes, she must have been a bigger state than she thought when she ran in here because she had no idea that there was anyone else present to her little melodrama. (The three times she’s cried in here in the past few weeks, she wedged a plant pot against the door and turned the drier on.) She shuts her eyes and hears, “everything’s gonna be okay” in Finn’s voice ringing through her head like she has since he whispered it to her the other day. But that was then, and this is now, and now comes with ever-present mutters and name-calling and a grape-flavoured slushie in the face.
The creak of the stall door brings her back to right now and she turns, jaw clenched and ready for insult, and prepares the generic comeback she can sling at them (“Yeah, well, no one mentioned your mother’s [insert appropriate characteristic/facial feature/deformity here], when she stopped screwing around long enough to pop you out on your trailer floor, did they?); sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t, but the person tends to shut up long enough for her to think of something more creative or make a nice enough exit. She looks through her wet eyelashes at Tina, whose taking her in in that quiet, thoughtful, careful way Quinn’s come to expect. Girl doesn’t smile, or talk, or laugh that much, and when she does it’s usually with the wheelchair kid, so she’s not going to ask her to put her arms around her and hold her tight and not mention how much her hair smells like grape.
Face powder still dripping down her face (she just applied the stuff ten minutes ago), tracing lines down her cheeks, she turns away from her and lets her wash her hands. She’s not going to hug her, but she’s not going to laugh at her anyway so she figures she’ll let her by. And neither of them can mention this again. She’s focussing so hard on not crying around her that she jumps back when there’s a pack of tissues thrust in front of her face.
“Wha--”
“They’re s-s-softer.” she starts, taking one out as if to demonstrate, and holding it for her, “Toilet roll will scratch your f-face.”
Quinn runs her thumb over the flower pattern embossed on the tissue and looks up, “Thank you…” she murmurs quietly.
“Oh. And--” She cuts herself off and starts rummaging through her bag, before long she’s pulling out a pencil case (pink, and both of them are very aware of how out of place it looks with the rest of her) and slugging her bag over her shoulder. Her nails are long and bright blue and Quinn keeps her gaze on them as Tina plucks out a tube and a sachet from the mesh purse and holds them out. “This is waterproof.” She gestures to her right hand, “and you can use these to t-take off what you’ve got on already.”
“I don’t know if there’s much left to take off.” Quinn smiles faintly (the trace of someone who isn‘t a tragic little Oprah story behind her sad eyes) and starts to take off her old mascara, clumped in her long eyelashes. The wipes are the same as hers at home and smell familiar; she remembers the night she slept with Puck and she had a similar situation to deal with, make-up wise, except no one else was there to hand her wipes and look at her with as much sympathy (sympathy, not pity) as Tina is right now. She holds out her other hand, and turns to the mirror, the colour is a little darker than she would use but it does its job and she stands back and blinks into her own reflection for a second.
The shade is just one of a million reasons she doesn’t want to look at herself.
“You can k-keep it.”
“No, I… I couldn’t.”
She reaches back into her case and pulls out another two tubes, “Artie… says I’m obsessive. B-But--”
“A girl can never have too much make-up.” she whispers, and Tina’s face pulls up into a smile. If either of them were the kind of person who wrote in a diary, bonding over mascara would probably go down as one of today’s most unexpected moments.
“Yeah.” She puts her case back into her bag, and the zip cuts through the silence (neither awkward nor comfortable), she glances up through her hair, “I wouldn’t be here right now.” There’s less adoration in her tone than Quinn is used to, but more honesty, “I’d be in bed, thinking about transferring schools or something. I think you’re pretty amazing.” she says, before shrugging, “For what it’s worth.”
Tina isn’t going to give her a hug or not mention the smell of grape, but she means exactly what she says.
The way Quinn looks at her now, eyes welling up for a completely different reason, it’s apparently worth a lot. This time, she can’t get out the ‘thank you’ but she nods and looks down at her feet and Tina knows it’s there. She breathes in deep, a tear trickling down her cheek, “Hey…” she points to her face, turning back into the mirror, “It works.”
Tina smiles and pulls her bag onto her shoulders despite the fact that it hasn’t fallen, “I’ll see you in G-Glee, Quinn.”
“Yeah.” She watches the streaks of blue and black sway and walk out, and puts the tube of mascara into her bag. She looks up at herself one more time, before taking a deep breath and straightening out the creases of her uniform.
She doesn’t reapply again that day. It doesn’t collect on the tissues that she blots herself with. She’s still wiping slushie off of herself at lunchtime. And Finn still looks at Rachel in a way that makes her cringe. And Sue doesn’t speak to her. But her make-up doesn’t smudge.
So, there’s one thing that’s going right.
Please, read and review ^_^
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairings: Quinn Fabray, Tina. C. (minor mentions of Finn, Rachel and Artie)
Genre: Friendship, angst
Rating: G, it's harmless
Warnings/Spoilers: Set during 1x08 'Mash-Up', so if you're up to date, you're golden.
Word Count: 1090
Summary: The thing is, she knows exactly who this is, exactly who this person who pretends to be chaste and whiter-than-white actually ended up being. She dabs the tissue at her swollen eyes, mascara clumps onto it, and she’s not oblivious to the imagery- she’s just not going to mention it. Quinn gets some help from someone whose used to crying in bathroom stalls.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: This is an hour of non-stop writing, so all mistakes are mine. ^_^ Hope you like it.
She stares back into the mirror like she cannot recognise who this is, this red, bloated, tear-stained person whose growing another person in her uterus like some punch line to a cheap joke that nobody asked to hear. The thing is, she knows exactly who this is, exactly who this person who pretends to be chaste and whiter-than-white actually ended up being. She dabs the tissue at her swollen eyes, mascara clumps onto it, and she’s not oblivious to the imagery- she’s just not going to mention it.
The stall behind her flushes, she must have been a bigger state than she thought when she ran in here because she had no idea that there was anyone else present to her little melodrama. (The three times she’s cried in here in the past few weeks, she wedged a plant pot against the door and turned the drier on.) She shuts her eyes and hears, “everything’s gonna be okay” in Finn’s voice ringing through her head like she has since he whispered it to her the other day. But that was then, and this is now, and now comes with ever-present mutters and name-calling and a grape-flavoured slushie in the face.
The creak of the stall door brings her back to right now and she turns, jaw clenched and ready for insult, and prepares the generic comeback she can sling at them (“Yeah, well, no one mentioned your mother’s [insert appropriate characteristic/facial feature/deformity here], when she stopped screwing around long enough to pop you out on your trailer floor, did they?); sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t, but the person tends to shut up long enough for her to think of something more creative or make a nice enough exit. She looks through her wet eyelashes at Tina, whose taking her in in that quiet, thoughtful, careful way Quinn’s come to expect. Girl doesn’t smile, or talk, or laugh that much, and when she does it’s usually with the wheelchair kid, so she’s not going to ask her to put her arms around her and hold her tight and not mention how much her hair smells like grape.
Face powder still dripping down her face (she just applied the stuff ten minutes ago), tracing lines down her cheeks, she turns away from her and lets her wash her hands. She’s not going to hug her, but she’s not going to laugh at her anyway so she figures she’ll let her by. And neither of them can mention this again. She’s focussing so hard on not crying around her that she jumps back when there’s a pack of tissues thrust in front of her face.
“Wha--”
“They’re s-s-softer.” she starts, taking one out as if to demonstrate, and holding it for her, “Toilet roll will scratch your f-face.”
Quinn runs her thumb over the flower pattern embossed on the tissue and looks up, “Thank you…” she murmurs quietly.
“Oh. And--” She cuts herself off and starts rummaging through her bag, before long she’s pulling out a pencil case (pink, and both of them are very aware of how out of place it looks with the rest of her) and slugging her bag over her shoulder. Her nails are long and bright blue and Quinn keeps her gaze on them as Tina plucks out a tube and a sachet from the mesh purse and holds them out. “This is waterproof.” She gestures to her right hand, “and you can use these to t-take off what you’ve got on already.”
“I don’t know if there’s much left to take off.” Quinn smiles faintly (the trace of someone who isn‘t a tragic little Oprah story behind her sad eyes) and starts to take off her old mascara, clumped in her long eyelashes. The wipes are the same as hers at home and smell familiar; she remembers the night she slept with Puck and she had a similar situation to deal with, make-up wise, except no one else was there to hand her wipes and look at her with as much sympathy (sympathy, not pity) as Tina is right now. She holds out her other hand, and turns to the mirror, the colour is a little darker than she would use but it does its job and she stands back and blinks into her own reflection for a second.
The shade is just one of a million reasons she doesn’t want to look at herself.
“You can k-keep it.”
“No, I… I couldn’t.”
She reaches back into her case and pulls out another two tubes, “Artie… says I’m obsessive. B-But--”
“A girl can never have too much make-up.” she whispers, and Tina’s face pulls up into a smile. If either of them were the kind of person who wrote in a diary, bonding over mascara would probably go down as one of today’s most unexpected moments.
“Yeah.” She puts her case back into her bag, and the zip cuts through the silence (neither awkward nor comfortable), she glances up through her hair, “I wouldn’t be here right now.” There’s less adoration in her tone than Quinn is used to, but more honesty, “I’d be in bed, thinking about transferring schools or something. I think you’re pretty amazing.” she says, before shrugging, “For what it’s worth.”
Tina isn’t going to give her a hug or not mention the smell of grape, but she means exactly what she says.
The way Quinn looks at her now, eyes welling up for a completely different reason, it’s apparently worth a lot. This time, she can’t get out the ‘thank you’ but she nods and looks down at her feet and Tina knows it’s there. She breathes in deep, a tear trickling down her cheek, “Hey…” she points to her face, turning back into the mirror, “It works.”
Tina smiles and pulls her bag onto her shoulders despite the fact that it hasn’t fallen, “I’ll see you in G-Glee, Quinn.”
“Yeah.” She watches the streaks of blue and black sway and walk out, and puts the tube of mascara into her bag. She looks up at herself one more time, before taking a deep breath and straightening out the creases of her uniform.
She doesn’t reapply again that day. It doesn’t collect on the tissues that she blots herself with. She’s still wiping slushie off of herself at lunchtime. And Finn still looks at Rachel in a way that makes her cringe. And Sue doesn’t speak to her. But her make-up doesn’t smudge.
So, there’s one thing that’s going right.
Please, read and review ^_^