Fic: Summer Mornings (2/3) - Part 1
Title: Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Tries To Grab Quinn Fabray’s Attention-With Lemonade And A Carwash-And Other Silly Schemes
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: PG-13
Length: 7,750 (or my excuse for not updating sooner)
Spoilers: Season 1, definitely
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: This silliness was preceded by Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Finds a New Reason for Exercising Vigorously Every Morning-That Reason is Quinn Fabray-Jogging (first 10 mornings) & A Summer Morning-In Which Rachel Berry Wrestles With Words-But The Words Fight Back-And Win (the 11th morning) and was brought to you by the letter I & the letter M & the number 4.
This is dedicated to everyone who ever had a deep, unsettling crush on a girl, did things they normally wouldn't do, and felt like a complete idiot. Also, jbluish. (And no, I wasn't talking about you, ians_grace47, but this is your birthday present :)
The twelfth morning
You don’t know what to say.
You spend half of your day yesterday planning for this morning and the other half staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop.
You conjure a list of possible scenarios wherein Quinn may “accidentally” find you on your lawn the moment she passes by, then you narrow it down to a few dozen, present 63 proposals to yourself, choose the activity that is the most inconspicuous and the least suspicious, and schedule every single one of what will be your actions with the precision of an iPhone touch screen. But still-
You don’t have anything to say.
Try hard as you may, you spend hours and hours attempting to write a speech, focusing on your blank screen, periodically writing a sentence or two, fixing your gaze upon them for a period of time until the words don’t make sense anymore, clicking on Backspace to erase them letter by letter, typing phrases like “If you” or “I am,” deleting everything again, and giving up altogether. Therefore-
You have nothing to say.
...which is why you’re awake a lot earlier than you should and standing in front of your vanity mirror, practicing several lines of salutation in multiple variations.
You try, “Hello, Quinn,” where you smile from ear to ear, flashing your teeth so white it’s blinding, and batting your long eyelashes the envy of countless girls if only they care to notice. But you realize it wouldn’t work on her.
You also try, “Oh hi there! Fancy seeing you here...” feigning surprise. But you admit that your look of wonderment seems...unnatural...and strange, even for your standards.
You even try, “Sup, Q?” and being badass like Puck. But it only ever ends up just...bad...or just...ass...and not the two together.
And you struggle through all of them.
What if she completely ignores me?
But what if she responds?
Or worse-
What if she engages in small talk?!
You fear you’re going to have a serious case of word vomit.
The instant she says, “Hello, Rach-“, you’ll probably say, “Shut up, just shut up! You had me at hello! You...had me...at hello.”
You do finally settle on that simple hello.
Then you turn away from your mirror to look at your clock.
It’s time.
You check your appearance once again: buttoned up white polo shirt-check, white skirt-check, white ankle socks-check, white sneakers-check.
Did I forget anything?
Wait, wait, a racket?
Ooh, now I remember!
What, a sun visor?!
You snatch your timer from the dresser and walk out of your bedroom.
It takes 30 seconds for you to get to your main door, two seconds to open it, a minute and a half to get to your dad’s tool shed, three seconds to open it, and a minute and 45 seconds to drag your prop out and onto your front lawn.
You go to the far end to start there, knowing that by the time you turn around to face the opposite direction, she’ll be running towards you, hopefully, in slow motion.
You start the engine and an obnoxious whirring sound cuts off the serenity of the morning like a knife.
A second later, the second-floor window above you opens and-
“Rachel Barbra Berry,” a tall, black man peers over it, punctuating every syllable of your name.
“Dad! I didn’t know you were home...”
You turn off your contraption immediately.
“What in the world are you doing with a lawnmower?”
“Mowing the lawn?” You answer sheepishly.
He softens a little.
“I can see that, honey. And I know how excited you get when you do things for the first time. But can you please try it some other day?”
NO!!!
“But, Dad-“
“-or at a later time.”
“But-“
“Please, honey. I really need some sleep.”
“Of course...”
You grudgingly push the lawnmower back to where it came from while silently berating yourself for being unprepared for this kind of repercussion.
I knew it! I knew I should’ve gone for Item No. 15, version 4.
You stop dead in your tracks three feet away from the tool shed and rush back out on the street.
She’s already two houses away from yours.
And she’s wearing pink.
You feel a tiny prick to your heart.
This could’ve been the day...
The thirteenth morning
You wake up with very puffy eyes.
And it’s your dad’s fault.
You come home yesterday afternoon with your daddy, who picks you up from dance class after work, to find your dad sitting comfortably in the middle of the sofa with a grin on his face.
He runs to both of you once he sees you, squashes you with a big hug, kisses you on your foreheads, and then tells you to go get changed.
You and your daddy exchange quizzical looks when you appear outside your bedroom doors at the same time, after changing into much cozier outfits, and tentatively march downstairs back to the living room.
Your dad motions for both of you to take seats on either side of him, patting the sofa with his hands.
And as soon as you do, the doorbell rings and in comes a delivery guy holding two boxes of Fat Jack’s Pizzas and six cans of soda and juice. He places them on the coffee table in front of you and leaves right away, but not after he returns your dad’s high five.
This is so much better than your “I’m sorry” cookies (patent pending).
Your dad is probably feeling a bit guilty about preventing you from acting on your newfound interest of mowing the lawn. But he’s also just happy to spend time with his two favorite people in the world.
You all grab a slice of pizza, open a can of your choice of drinks, and settle snugly on the sofa as your dad takes the remote, turns on the TV, and presses play.
You gasp when you see the still shot of a very snowy winter in New York and hear the title song to An Affair to Remember.
It’s a family favorite. And your dad simply loves what it does to you and your daddy.
Soon after the movie starts, the two of you wrap your arms around his waist and lean your heads on his shoulders, squeezing him in and beaming in appreciation.
Forty-one minutes and seven slices of pizza later, the smiles disappear and the tears begin to fall and continue to do so for the next six minutes.
At the 53-minute mark, you’re both at it again.
Almost two minutes after, your daddy looks you in the eyes and mouths, “Are you in love with him?”
You mouth back, “I’m not now…”
Your dad is doing his best not to roll his eyes.
An hour and 18 minutes into the movie, you and your daddy are sobbing uncontrollably.
Your dad tries hard to contain his laughter.
By the hour and 42-minute mark, he finally starts weeping while you and your daddy are bawling like babies and completely losing it during the last 12 minutes.
When the movie ends and it goes back to the DVD menu, you and your daddy automatically turn your heads to your dad and all he can do is sigh and get the remote.
You watch another movie and cry all over again.
Hence, you have puffy eyes this morning.
Now those were the days when people knew how to be in love.
You examine your reflection in the mirror.
They knew it. Time, distance…nothing could separate them…because they knew. It was right. It was real. It was…
…Just a movie, a movie where Rosie tells you that you’re a basket case.
You wish things are just as easy in real life as they are in the movies. But they aren’t.
In a movie, the leading lady most certainly doesn’t have to deal with a slightly protruding stomach from eating five slices of pizza the night before, regardless if it’s a pizza without cheese.
You can’t possibly wear a skimpy, baby blue bikini top and a matching short skirt now, can you?
You pick a yellow and blue argyle polo shirt from your closet, put it on, and tuck it in.
You know perfectly well how to ruin what could’ve been a very nice outfit.
But apart from your bulging stomach, you believe your plan for this morning will go on without a hitch. Your dad and daddy know what you are about to do and they approve, even if they don’t know what’s got into you. To them, it’s like the time you want a pair of Levi’s after watching The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants at the age of 11. And just like Alexis Bledel, you want to go to a summer camp where you’ll learn how to ride a Vespa and a mule. Your penchant for these things doesn’t last very long.
You slip into a very nice-looking pair of flip flops and proceed to the driveway.
You equip yourself with soap, a sponge, a bucket, and a piece of chamois and you bring out the hose.
This is the second time that you’ll ever wash a car but the first time you’re doing it alone.
You know exactly what you’re doing and are confident that you do, having read the article on wikiHow.
Before long, you’re done with filling the bucket with water, adding the soap, and hosing off the car.
You’re now washing the car by hand, using the sponge you dipped into the bucket of suds.
And you remember the very first time you washed a car at the Glee Club Choreographer Fundraiser.
You remember wearing a raincoat. You don’t remember why. You remember the unsuccessful gayvention or gay-intervention. You remember Mercedes busting Kurt’s window. You remember the Cheerios. You remember their outfits or lack thereof. And you remember staring at a certain Cheerio playing with soap and-
“Hey, Berry.”
You whip around at the sound of her voice.
“Quinn!”
She doesn’t stop running and she doesn’t look back.
“Quinn…”
You notice the ear buds and you notice the cord.
“…Hello…”
You trail off as you continue to stare at the back of the girl who keeps on occupying your thoughts.
It’s hard to tell how you feel with the expression on your face or lack thereof.
You watch her long, blonde hair bouncing with soft curls. You watch her toned triceps flexing with her movement. You watch her shoulder blades outside the X glistening. You watch her tiny waist drawing attention to her round but-
You take a deep breath.
And slowly but surely, your lips curve into a smile.
She said ‘hey…’
Not Rupaul, not Stubbles, not Man-hands nor Treasure Trail.
She said ‘hey!’
You put your hands together, make a timid hop, and squeal like a little girl.
You dream of hearing her say your name one day…
The fourteenth morning
Your hands are tired from pressing a lot of lemons last night.
You roll each and every lemon to warm them up and get their juices flowing. Then you cut them in half and squeeze them one by one.
You press and twist and wring so many lemons that in the end, you have four cups of lemon juice.
That’s a lot of pressed lemons.
And you feel incredibly proud of yourself this morning.
You line up ten plastic cups on a table you set up on the sidewalk in front of your house and you fill each cup up to the line below the brim. You put the other 50 cups neatly into three stacks on the side. You unfold your chair, sit down, and open the cooler beside you once…twice…three times…before you spot her running figure turning up in your street.
You wait until she’s close enough before smiling and waving enthusiastically. The progress from yesterday morning, along with your accomplishment last night, really gives you a much needed boost in confidence. Your smile seems to have become permanent overnight.
She sees you and her eyebrows furrow and her lips part a little.
You swear by Barbra Streisand that you can perceive a hint of a smile and a glint in her eyes there, somewhere, trying to stay hidden in the icy façade. Whether it’s out of pure joy from seeing you or out of-oh, please…anything but-malice, you can’t know for sure. But you remain positive and strengthen your resolve on “pure joy,” even if it’s tucked underneath a mild scowl.
She’s coming closer and you can see her wearing a gray Capri and a white tank top, with her usual white trainers. The only thing that’s different is the iPod band strapped to her right arm. You don’t recall ever wanting to be an accessory your whole life-until now.
You take a deep breath to shake off your nerves, remind yourself to try and be spontaneous, and greet her once she’s within hearing distance.
“Good morning, Quinn!”
She stops two feet away from the table, removes an ear bud, and jogs in place.
“Berry,” she responds dryly.
Your heart is beating to the rhythm of her feet.
“May I offer you some refreshment?”
You gesture toward the plastic cups with your hands.
“And what’s that supposed to be?”
She turns slightly toward the cups then back to you and continues jogging in place.
“It’s lemonade.”
“Oh,” she nods as you rake her form with a sweeping glance.
“Would you like a cup or two before you-or three? You can have as many cups as you want, actually.”
She stops.
“No thanks. I don’t-”
“-that’s okay! It’s free…I’m not selling them…”
“…and why not?”
She starts stretching, beginning with a standing leg curl. Oh, God.
“Well…they’re…it’s…this is… what they call…”
…extremely distracting.
“…a drinking station?” She suggests.
“Yes precisely! For the runners…”
She lowers her right leg.
“…of the marathon,” you finish off.
Okay, now you’re stretching it.
“There’s a marathon?” She asks with a perfectly raised eyebrow.
“Uhuh,” you nod briskly. “You didn’t join?”
You’re dying inside.
“Uhm, no, if I did, I would have a number…right…here,” she draws a square from the middle of her chest outward.
“Right…” You can’t help but follow the line her thumbs make.
“And,” she adds.
You snap your eyes back to her face.
“I’d need electrolyte replacement drinks to keep me hydrated. Or, you know, water.”
She lifts her left leg this time.
“Well, this is five parts water.”
“And it’s acidic,” she retorts.
“But it has lots of vitamin C,” you reason.
“Which helps prevent…?”
“...Scurvy.”
She chuckles.
“Scurvy is a serious disease, Quinn!”
She lowers her left leg.
“I know, Berry. I know.” She tries to rein in her smirk.
“Should I get you a glass of water instead?”
She shakes her head, looking like she’s in deep thought.
“…Gatorade?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, how about some lemonade? I squeezed the lemons myself.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Only when I’m absolutely forced to, but I’m a very good loser…”
She looks straight into your eyes and smiles what you believe is a very meaningful smile.
Then she replies.
“Better than I am...”
Your eyelids betray you by fluttering.
Quinn Fabray has seen The Way We Were? And more importantly, she liked it enough to quote it?
You try to regain your composure with your next line.
“Well, I’ve had…more practice.”
You search her face for a confirmation-any indication-that she knows about Hubbell and Katie: a tilt, a crease, a twinkle, a quiver, a twitch, a sigh. But there isn’t any. Her eyes remain just as bright and her smile just as soft.
“I think I better get going.”
“Oh, of course, it’s a beautiful morning after all…” You try to sound convincing.
“Yes,” you hear her catch her breath, “beautiful…”
“Yes…for running outdoors…smelling the fresh air…enjoying the scenery…”
She nods slowly.
“You should try it sometime,” she tells you as her right shoulder rises a tad before she turns on her heel and gets on her way.
And you watch her run away from you for the nth time this summer.
After a couple of seconds, or a few minutes, or maybe an hour-you don’t really know-you remember to close your mouth and perform a long overdue face plant on the table.
The fifteenth morning
You can do this.
That’s what you keep telling yourself this morning.
You can do this, even if you feel more ridiculous, a thousand times more ridiculous, than the short time you had to wear that yellow disco jumpsuit. And this, unfortunately, isn’t so easy to discard.
You can do this, even if there are probably a million reasons why you shouldn’t. But there’s only one reason why you should. And somehow, it outweighs all the rest.
You can do this, even if you suck at small talk. And since you do not settle for mediocre, you are immensely terrible at it. Words may be overrated anyhow.
So you’ll attempt the impossible: you’ll try to be silent and you’ll try to observe. Or at the very least, you’ll try not to put your foot in your mouth.
Good luck with that.
Here she comes…
You’re out on your lawn doing jumping jacks in your new Free City sweatpants and a tank top that says, “Thanks for looking.”
By your count, you’re only at number 23 but already, your pulse is racing like you’ve done a hundred and your palms are sweating like it’s high noon.
You switch to lunges.
It’s a good thing you don’t have dumbbells with you.
Oh, my goodness! She just glanced my way…
The crease on her forehead is unmistakable, even from afar.
How do I look? Am I looking stupid? Will she know what I’m up to? Oh, God. I must look stupid. What if she says no? Oh shoot! I don’t have a backup plan. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. I knew I forgot something. Oh, God. She’s almost here! Why can’t I simply just-
“Hi,” you say.
“Hello,” she says.
You carry on with your lunges.
Her eyebrows are still knitted together and her lips are pursed. But you’re glad to see that her eyes seem to evoke a different sentiment.
In truth, she actually looks like she’s constipated.
But she still manages to look like a goddess.
How does she do it?
She slows down as she nears.
Here goes nothing…
“I’m taking you up on your offer,” you announce.
She stops abruptly. “What offer?!”
It bites.
“You said that I should try running outdoors.”
“Oh…that…”
“Yes. And I wholeheartedly agree with you that it is an experience I should try to…participate…in…”
Stop it, stop it right now!
“Is that why you’re stretching?” She asks.
“Yes. And I am thoroughly stretched!”
I did not just say that. I did not just say that.
She looks away, biting her upper lip, shakes her head, and takes a step forward.
You make a last ditch effort.
“May I join you for a run?”
She takes a deep breath and looks over her shoulder.
“If you can keep up…”
You immediately rush by her side.
And you absolutely cannot contain the huge smile creeping on your face.
You stay silent for a while because you should and because miracles do happen.
But you can feel her presence looming over you.
And it’s beginning to overwhelm.
It’s like you’re the only two people in the world.
Why is that...?
Every fiber of your being is acutely aware of her proximity.
And you grow more and more conscious of the fact that your movements match each other’s, in rhythm and in action.
Seeing her in your periphery is no longer enough.
You carefully shift your eyes to your right.
She glances back at you.
You quickly look away.
Then ever so slowly, you turn to her again.
She tries to catch your eyes.
You avert your gaze in a flash.
“What?”
“What ‘what’?
She sighs in annoyance and trains her eyes forward.
You do the same.
But you can’t help it. Your eyes are drawn to her.
“Okay, Berry. What is it? Cough it up.”
“I…I, uhm…I’ve noticed that you don’t have your iPod with you.”
Nice save.
“Oh. I…I, uhm…I forgot to bring it with me.”
You nod and direct your eyes to your surroundings as a diversion.
And you take it all in.
“I never knew…”
“Never knew what?” She asks.
“Oh, sorry, it was nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”
“So what’s new?” She says with a smirk.
You turn to her and pout.
She freezes.
“Kidding…I’m kidding.”
It’s your turn to sigh.
Then you breathe in deeply as you let your eyes roam.
“Okay, seriously, what is it?” She insists.
You hesitate before answering.
“It’s just that…Well, I never knew that trees could be as beautiful in the summer as they are in the spring or fall. And I’ve just realized that, right now, they look amazing!”
She looks around then stares back at you.
It takes a moment before she asks.
“How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“How do you live each day with this kind of passion? Don’t you find it exhausting?”
You’re slightly taken aback.
You know that line; you’ve heard it several times before.
What movie is that from?
You strain to remember what it is but you can’t. So you settle for your own words.
“I don’t know any other way to live my life, Quinn…”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face.
Your statement leaves her speechless.
Then she locks her hazel eyes on yours.
And your heart stops for a split second before it starts hammering wildly against your chest.
You feel like you’re the only person around for miles and miles.
You feel like you matter.
But then you lose your tempo and you sway a little and your right arm inadvertently brushes against her left.
She turns away and bows her head down and the spell is broken.
Silence takes over and it’s heavy.
What the hell just happened?
Before you realize it, you are both gathering speed.
Even then, she quickens her pace.
You persevere.
She goes faster yet again.
You pick up your pace.
She increases her speed even more.
You try to keep up.
Until, finally, she pulls away and you can no longer step up to the chase.
A couple more strides and you bring yourself to a halt, winded and aching.
You gasp for air as you bring your hands down to your knees.
She stops about 40 feet ahead of you, turns her body around, and watches you in the distance.
“I thought you never give up,” she shouts.
No.
“I guess I was wrong,” you holler back.
You meet her gaze.
Then everything comes to a standstill.
It takes a while before one of you makes a move and she’s the first to budge.
No.
You can’t decipher the expression on her face before she turns around and takes off without you.
This is too much for your little heart to take.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
The sixteenth morning
Your first instinct is to reach for your iPod and look for James Ingram.
Then you settle back to your bed as the first notes start to play.
You don’t want to do anything.
You don’t want to eat. You don’t want to sleep, not that you can, even if you try. You don’t want to get out of bed.
Unfortunately for you, you know what time it is because your docking station has the clock.
For someone as intelligent as you are, it’s a mystery how you’re very much capable of being stupid sometimes.
As if the agony of hearing Just Once isn’t enough to tear you apart, make you want to get a rope, and look for a beautiful, tall tree, you saunter towards your window.
Of course, she’s there.
And your heart skips a beat.
This time she’s wearing a tight black knee shorts, a relatively scanty black tank, and a new pair of Nike cross-trainers, with a loose, neat ponytail on and without an iPod in her hand or on her arm.
She looks absolutely divine.
You’re crouching lower and lower towards the base of your window until you are almost on your knees as she gets closer and closer to your house.
She turns her head towards your lawn.
You automatically hide.
And as you cower below your window, a myriad of images from an unattainable future rushes through your mind without your bidding: the sweetest smiles, some hand-holding, possessive waist-grabbing, lots of cuddling, a perfect date night, another perfect date night, three weeks on an LGBT cruise, a summer road trip across America, a blissful life in New York, beautiful daughters, successful careers, and the one constant fantasy of always, always, always having mind-blowing, earth-shattering-
Oh, my…
You’re screwed.
Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be Quinn Fabray?!
This is absurd!
…So absurd that you want to board up your windows.
This is crazy!
…Crazy enough to make you want to pack your things and move to Minnesota.
This is silly!
…As silly as wanting to forget it.
This is unbelievable and outrageous and irrational and illogical and…and…incredible…and amazing…
This always is.
Your face scrunches up and you start bumping your forehead against the wall.
Your lovely little moment of deep contemplation suddenly gets interrupted by a loud clang somewhere around your house, followed by muffled laughter.
You absentmindedly get up to follow the sound and it leads you to the kitchen where your dad and daddy are sitting side by side, reading the paper, and clearly enjoying their breakfast.
You rush towards them, fling both arms around their necks, and rest your head on their shoulders.
“Aw, honey…”
They shift in their chairs to cradle you in their arms and you end up sitting on your dad’s lap while your legs are up on your daddy’s.
“What’s the matter, Rachel-bear?”
You snap back up to look at them.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course, we do,” they state in unison.
“…Even if you won’t be able to do anything to help?”
“…Even if that’s the case, yes.”
“Okay. Well, the truth is,” you take a deep breath, “actually…I’m in love.”
They look at each other, your dad fighting to keep his sniggers in check and your daddy absolutely failing at it.
“This is not a laughing matter, Daddy!”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that…I’m a little relieved.”
“And so am I,” your dad concurs.
“And may I ask why?”
“Well, it could’ve been something worse.”
You look mutinous.
“…Worse than the total agony of being in love?”
“Oh.”
“Nah…”
“You’re right.”
“Yeah, total agony…”
They keep their faces straight this time, which is no mean feat, seeing as they’re two gay men.
“Is it someone from school?”
“Yes.”
“And what does he…she…feel about you?”
“She…doesn’t even call me by my name. She despises me. Well…she did. But lately, she’s been acting a bit…civil…towards me. She’s the prettiest girl in school and everyone worships her because she’s heaven. At least, they used to. But she’s still heaven…and hell…on occasion…every day, actually. But mostly, heaven…”
“Basically, you’re screwed, aren’t you?”
“David!”
“What?”
“Never mind your imprudent daddy, what are you going to do about this, honey?”
“I don’t know anymore…”
You lean on them again, looking so forlorn that they both give you a nice, warm hug to console you.
“There’s always something to be done, hon.”
“There always is. Did you try to be friends with her?”
“I did…not too long ago…and to say that it was a disaster is an understatement.”
They’re looking at each other again.
“Well then…uh…have you tried asking her out?”
“That would probably be social suicide.”
“Oh, right…”
Your dad implores your daddy to say something else. Your daddy clears his throat before speaking.
“Clearly there’s no other option but to kidnap her and keep her tied up in your room until she agrees to marry you.”
You look up with a grin forming on your lips.
“It’s a route I’ve considered.”
“And quite rightly rejected on the grounds of…”
“…Hygiene.”
You giggle along with your daddy and say, “Thank you, Daddy!” before you plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Dad,” you plant a kiss on his cheek. “I love you! I feel much better now.”
Then just like that, you walk out of your kitchen, leaving the two men flabbergasted.
And you don’t hear the conversation that follows as they try to go back to reading the paper.
“She’s not really thinking about kidnapping that poor girl, is she?”
“Of course, she’s not!”
“Okay. But something tells me we’ve had this discussion before.”
“We haven’t. But we did hear it from a movie.”
“What movie?”
“Love, Actually.”
“…The one where Hugh Grant is Prime Minister?”
“Yes and Emma Thompson is married to Alan Rickman.”
“And Liam Neeson-”
“-has a very adorable stepson.”
“Ah, that…” He considers this for a moment. “You mean to tell me that our daughter identifies with a twelve-year-old boy?”
“Don’t look at me like that, darling. She just loves romantic movies,” he takes a pause, “and we both raised her…”
The other man just sighs then carelessly flips another page.
The seventeenth morning
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: PG-13
Length: 7,750 (or my excuse for not updating sooner)
Spoilers: Season 1, definitely
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: This silliness was preceded by Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Finds a New Reason for Exercising Vigorously Every Morning-That Reason is Quinn Fabray-Jogging (first 10 mornings) & A Summer Morning-In Which Rachel Berry Wrestles With Words-But The Words Fight Back-And Win (the 11th morning) and was brought to you by the letter I & the letter M & the number 4.
This is dedicated to everyone who ever had a deep, unsettling crush on a girl, did things they normally wouldn't do, and felt like a complete idiot. Also, jbluish. (And no, I wasn't talking about you, ians_grace47, but this is your birthday present :)
The twelfth morning
You don’t know what to say.
You spend half of your day yesterday planning for this morning and the other half staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop.
You conjure a list of possible scenarios wherein Quinn may “accidentally” find you on your lawn the moment she passes by, then you narrow it down to a few dozen, present 63 proposals to yourself, choose the activity that is the most inconspicuous and the least suspicious, and schedule every single one of what will be your actions with the precision of an iPhone touch screen. But still-
You don’t have anything to say.
Try hard as you may, you spend hours and hours attempting to write a speech, focusing on your blank screen, periodically writing a sentence or two, fixing your gaze upon them for a period of time until the words don’t make sense anymore, clicking on Backspace to erase them letter by letter, typing phrases like “If you” or “I am,” deleting everything again, and giving up altogether. Therefore-
You have nothing to say.
...which is why you’re awake a lot earlier than you should and standing in front of your vanity mirror, practicing several lines of salutation in multiple variations.
You try, “Hello, Quinn,” where you smile from ear to ear, flashing your teeth so white it’s blinding, and batting your long eyelashes the envy of countless girls if only they care to notice. But you realize it wouldn’t work on her.
You also try, “Oh hi there! Fancy seeing you here...” feigning surprise. But you admit that your look of wonderment seems...unnatural...and strange, even for your standards.
You even try, “Sup, Q?” and being badass like Puck. But it only ever ends up just...bad...or just...ass...and not the two together.
And you struggle through all of them.
What if she completely ignores me?
But what if she responds?
Or worse-
What if she engages in small talk?!
You fear you’re going to have a serious case of word vomit.
The instant she says, “Hello, Rach-“, you’ll probably say, “Shut up, just shut up! You had me at hello! You...had me...at hello.”
You do finally settle on that simple hello.
Then you turn away from your mirror to look at your clock.
It’s time.
You check your appearance once again: buttoned up white polo shirt-check, white skirt-check, white ankle socks-check, white sneakers-check.
Did I forget anything?
Wait, wait, a racket?
Ooh, now I remember!
What, a sun visor?!
You snatch your timer from the dresser and walk out of your bedroom.
It takes 30 seconds for you to get to your main door, two seconds to open it, a minute and a half to get to your dad’s tool shed, three seconds to open it, and a minute and 45 seconds to drag your prop out and onto your front lawn.
You go to the far end to start there, knowing that by the time you turn around to face the opposite direction, she’ll be running towards you, hopefully, in slow motion.
You start the engine and an obnoxious whirring sound cuts off the serenity of the morning like a knife.
A second later, the second-floor window above you opens and-
“Rachel Barbra Berry,” a tall, black man peers over it, punctuating every syllable of your name.
“Dad! I didn’t know you were home...”
You turn off your contraption immediately.
“What in the world are you doing with a lawnmower?”
“Mowing the lawn?” You answer sheepishly.
He softens a little.
“I can see that, honey. And I know how excited you get when you do things for the first time. But can you please try it some other day?”
NO!!!
“But, Dad-“
“-or at a later time.”
“But-“
“Please, honey. I really need some sleep.”
“Of course...”
You grudgingly push the lawnmower back to where it came from while silently berating yourself for being unprepared for this kind of repercussion.
I knew it! I knew I should’ve gone for Item No. 15, version 4.
You stop dead in your tracks three feet away from the tool shed and rush back out on the street.
She’s already two houses away from yours.
And she’s wearing pink.
You feel a tiny prick to your heart.
This could’ve been the day...
The thirteenth morning
You wake up with very puffy eyes.
And it’s your dad’s fault.
You come home yesterday afternoon with your daddy, who picks you up from dance class after work, to find your dad sitting comfortably in the middle of the sofa with a grin on his face.
He runs to both of you once he sees you, squashes you with a big hug, kisses you on your foreheads, and then tells you to go get changed.
You and your daddy exchange quizzical looks when you appear outside your bedroom doors at the same time, after changing into much cozier outfits, and tentatively march downstairs back to the living room.
Your dad motions for both of you to take seats on either side of him, patting the sofa with his hands.
And as soon as you do, the doorbell rings and in comes a delivery guy holding two boxes of Fat Jack’s Pizzas and six cans of soda and juice. He places them on the coffee table in front of you and leaves right away, but not after he returns your dad’s high five.
This is so much better than your “I’m sorry” cookies (patent pending).
Your dad is probably feeling a bit guilty about preventing you from acting on your newfound interest of mowing the lawn. But he’s also just happy to spend time with his two favorite people in the world.
You all grab a slice of pizza, open a can of your choice of drinks, and settle snugly on the sofa as your dad takes the remote, turns on the TV, and presses play.
You gasp when you see the still shot of a very snowy winter in New York and hear the title song to An Affair to Remember.
It’s a family favorite. And your dad simply loves what it does to you and your daddy.
Soon after the movie starts, the two of you wrap your arms around his waist and lean your heads on his shoulders, squeezing him in and beaming in appreciation.
Forty-one minutes and seven slices of pizza later, the smiles disappear and the tears begin to fall and continue to do so for the next six minutes.
At the 53-minute mark, you’re both at it again.
Almost two minutes after, your daddy looks you in the eyes and mouths, “Are you in love with him?”
You mouth back, “I’m not now…”
Your dad is doing his best not to roll his eyes.
An hour and 18 minutes into the movie, you and your daddy are sobbing uncontrollably.
Your dad tries hard to contain his laughter.
By the hour and 42-minute mark, he finally starts weeping while you and your daddy are bawling like babies and completely losing it during the last 12 minutes.
When the movie ends and it goes back to the DVD menu, you and your daddy automatically turn your heads to your dad and all he can do is sigh and get the remote.
You watch another movie and cry all over again.
Hence, you have puffy eyes this morning.
Now those were the days when people knew how to be in love.
You examine your reflection in the mirror.
They knew it. Time, distance…nothing could separate them…because they knew. It was right. It was real. It was…
…Just a movie, a movie where Rosie tells you that you’re a basket case.
You wish things are just as easy in real life as they are in the movies. But they aren’t.
In a movie, the leading lady most certainly doesn’t have to deal with a slightly protruding stomach from eating five slices of pizza the night before, regardless if it’s a pizza without cheese.
You can’t possibly wear a skimpy, baby blue bikini top and a matching short skirt now, can you?
You pick a yellow and blue argyle polo shirt from your closet, put it on, and tuck it in.
You know perfectly well how to ruin what could’ve been a very nice outfit.
But apart from your bulging stomach, you believe your plan for this morning will go on without a hitch. Your dad and daddy know what you are about to do and they approve, even if they don’t know what’s got into you. To them, it’s like the time you want a pair of Levi’s after watching The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants at the age of 11. And just like Alexis Bledel, you want to go to a summer camp where you’ll learn how to ride a Vespa and a mule. Your penchant for these things doesn’t last very long.
You slip into a very nice-looking pair of flip flops and proceed to the driveway.
You equip yourself with soap, a sponge, a bucket, and a piece of chamois and you bring out the hose.
This is the second time that you’ll ever wash a car but the first time you’re doing it alone.
You know exactly what you’re doing and are confident that you do, having read the article on wikiHow.
Before long, you’re done with filling the bucket with water, adding the soap, and hosing off the car.
You’re now washing the car by hand, using the sponge you dipped into the bucket of suds.
And you remember the very first time you washed a car at the Glee Club Choreographer Fundraiser.
You remember wearing a raincoat. You don’t remember why. You remember the unsuccessful gayvention or gay-intervention. You remember Mercedes busting Kurt’s window. You remember the Cheerios. You remember their outfits or lack thereof. And you remember staring at a certain Cheerio playing with soap and-
“Hey, Berry.”
You whip around at the sound of her voice.
“Quinn!”
She doesn’t stop running and she doesn’t look back.
“Quinn…”
You notice the ear buds and you notice the cord.
“…Hello…”
You trail off as you continue to stare at the back of the girl who keeps on occupying your thoughts.
It’s hard to tell how you feel with the expression on your face or lack thereof.
You watch her long, blonde hair bouncing with soft curls. You watch her toned triceps flexing with her movement. You watch her shoulder blades outside the X glistening. You watch her tiny waist drawing attention to her round but-
You take a deep breath.
And slowly but surely, your lips curve into a smile.
She said ‘hey…’
Not Rupaul, not Stubbles, not Man-hands nor Treasure Trail.
She said ‘hey!’
You put your hands together, make a timid hop, and squeal like a little girl.
You dream of hearing her say your name one day…
The fourteenth morning
Your hands are tired from pressing a lot of lemons last night.
You roll each and every lemon to warm them up and get their juices flowing. Then you cut them in half and squeeze them one by one.
You press and twist and wring so many lemons that in the end, you have four cups of lemon juice.
That’s a lot of pressed lemons.
And you feel incredibly proud of yourself this morning.
You line up ten plastic cups on a table you set up on the sidewalk in front of your house and you fill each cup up to the line below the brim. You put the other 50 cups neatly into three stacks on the side. You unfold your chair, sit down, and open the cooler beside you once…twice…three times…before you spot her running figure turning up in your street.
You wait until she’s close enough before smiling and waving enthusiastically. The progress from yesterday morning, along with your accomplishment last night, really gives you a much needed boost in confidence. Your smile seems to have become permanent overnight.
She sees you and her eyebrows furrow and her lips part a little.
You swear by Barbra Streisand that you can perceive a hint of a smile and a glint in her eyes there, somewhere, trying to stay hidden in the icy façade. Whether it’s out of pure joy from seeing you or out of-oh, please…anything but-malice, you can’t know for sure. But you remain positive and strengthen your resolve on “pure joy,” even if it’s tucked underneath a mild scowl.
She’s coming closer and you can see her wearing a gray Capri and a white tank top, with her usual white trainers. The only thing that’s different is the iPod band strapped to her right arm. You don’t recall ever wanting to be an accessory your whole life-until now.
You take a deep breath to shake off your nerves, remind yourself to try and be spontaneous, and greet her once she’s within hearing distance.
“Good morning, Quinn!”
She stops two feet away from the table, removes an ear bud, and jogs in place.
“Berry,” she responds dryly.
Your heart is beating to the rhythm of her feet.
“May I offer you some refreshment?”
You gesture toward the plastic cups with your hands.
“And what’s that supposed to be?”
She turns slightly toward the cups then back to you and continues jogging in place.
“It’s lemonade.”
“Oh,” she nods as you rake her form with a sweeping glance.
“Would you like a cup or two before you-or three? You can have as many cups as you want, actually.”
She stops.
“No thanks. I don’t-”
“-that’s okay! It’s free…I’m not selling them…”
“…and why not?”
She starts stretching, beginning with a standing leg curl. Oh, God.
“Well…they’re…it’s…this is… what they call…”
…extremely distracting.
“…a drinking station?” She suggests.
“Yes precisely! For the runners…”
She lowers her right leg.
“…of the marathon,” you finish off.
Okay, now you’re stretching it.
“There’s a marathon?” She asks with a perfectly raised eyebrow.
“Uhuh,” you nod briskly. “You didn’t join?”
You’re dying inside.
“Uhm, no, if I did, I would have a number…right…here,” she draws a square from the middle of her chest outward.
“Right…” You can’t help but follow the line her thumbs make.
“And,” she adds.
You snap your eyes back to her face.
“I’d need electrolyte replacement drinks to keep me hydrated. Or, you know, water.”
She lifts her left leg this time.
“Well, this is five parts water.”
“And it’s acidic,” she retorts.
“But it has lots of vitamin C,” you reason.
“Which helps prevent…?”
“...Scurvy.”
She chuckles.
“Scurvy is a serious disease, Quinn!”
She lowers her left leg.
“I know, Berry. I know.” She tries to rein in her smirk.
“Should I get you a glass of water instead?”
She shakes her head, looking like she’s in deep thought.
“…Gatorade?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, how about some lemonade? I squeezed the lemons myself.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Only when I’m absolutely forced to, but I’m a very good loser…”
She looks straight into your eyes and smiles what you believe is a very meaningful smile.
Then she replies.
“Better than I am...”
Your eyelids betray you by fluttering.
Quinn Fabray has seen The Way We Were? And more importantly, she liked it enough to quote it?
You try to regain your composure with your next line.
“Well, I’ve had…more practice.”
You search her face for a confirmation-any indication-that she knows about Hubbell and Katie: a tilt, a crease, a twinkle, a quiver, a twitch, a sigh. But there isn’t any. Her eyes remain just as bright and her smile just as soft.
“I think I better get going.”
“Oh, of course, it’s a beautiful morning after all…” You try to sound convincing.
“Yes,” you hear her catch her breath, “beautiful…”
“Yes…for running outdoors…smelling the fresh air…enjoying the scenery…”
She nods slowly.
“You should try it sometime,” she tells you as her right shoulder rises a tad before she turns on her heel and gets on her way.
And you watch her run away from you for the nth time this summer.
After a couple of seconds, or a few minutes, or maybe an hour-you don’t really know-you remember to close your mouth and perform a long overdue face plant on the table.
The fifteenth morning
You can do this.
That’s what you keep telling yourself this morning.
You can do this, even if you feel more ridiculous, a thousand times more ridiculous, than the short time you had to wear that yellow disco jumpsuit. And this, unfortunately, isn’t so easy to discard.
You can do this, even if there are probably a million reasons why you shouldn’t. But there’s only one reason why you should. And somehow, it outweighs all the rest.
You can do this, even if you suck at small talk. And since you do not settle for mediocre, you are immensely terrible at it. Words may be overrated anyhow.
So you’ll attempt the impossible: you’ll try to be silent and you’ll try to observe. Or at the very least, you’ll try not to put your foot in your mouth.
Good luck with that.
Here she comes…
You’re out on your lawn doing jumping jacks in your new Free City sweatpants and a tank top that says, “Thanks for looking.”
By your count, you’re only at number 23 but already, your pulse is racing like you’ve done a hundred and your palms are sweating like it’s high noon.
You switch to lunges.
It’s a good thing you don’t have dumbbells with you.
Oh, my goodness! She just glanced my way…
The crease on her forehead is unmistakable, even from afar.
How do I look? Am I looking stupid? Will she know what I’m up to? Oh, God. I must look stupid. What if she says no? Oh shoot! I don’t have a backup plan. This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. I knew I forgot something. Oh, God. She’s almost here! Why can’t I simply just-
“Hi,” you say.
“Hello,” she says.
You carry on with your lunges.
Her eyebrows are still knitted together and her lips are pursed. But you’re glad to see that her eyes seem to evoke a different sentiment.
In truth, she actually looks like she’s constipated.
But she still manages to look like a goddess.
How does she do it?
She slows down as she nears.
Here goes nothing…
“I’m taking you up on your offer,” you announce.
She stops abruptly. “What offer?!”
It bites.
“You said that I should try running outdoors.”
“Oh…that…”
“Yes. And I wholeheartedly agree with you that it is an experience I should try to…participate…in…”
Stop it, stop it right now!
“Is that why you’re stretching?” She asks.
“Yes. And I am thoroughly stretched!”
I did not just say that. I did not just say that.
She looks away, biting her upper lip, shakes her head, and takes a step forward.
You make a last ditch effort.
“May I join you for a run?”
She takes a deep breath and looks over her shoulder.
“If you can keep up…”
You immediately rush by her side.
And you absolutely cannot contain the huge smile creeping on your face.
You stay silent for a while because you should and because miracles do happen.
But you can feel her presence looming over you.
And it’s beginning to overwhelm.
It’s like you’re the only two people in the world.
Why is that...?
Every fiber of your being is acutely aware of her proximity.
And you grow more and more conscious of the fact that your movements match each other’s, in rhythm and in action.
Seeing her in your periphery is no longer enough.
You carefully shift your eyes to your right.
She glances back at you.
You quickly look away.
Then ever so slowly, you turn to her again.
She tries to catch your eyes.
You avert your gaze in a flash.
“What?”
“What ‘what’?
She sighs in annoyance and trains her eyes forward.
You do the same.
But you can’t help it. Your eyes are drawn to her.
“Okay, Berry. What is it? Cough it up.”
“I…I, uhm…I’ve noticed that you don’t have your iPod with you.”
Nice save.
“Oh. I…I, uhm…I forgot to bring it with me.”
You nod and direct your eyes to your surroundings as a diversion.
And you take it all in.
“I never knew…”
“Never knew what?” She asks.
“Oh, sorry, it was nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”
“So what’s new?” She says with a smirk.
You turn to her and pout.
She freezes.
“Kidding…I’m kidding.”
It’s your turn to sigh.
Then you breathe in deeply as you let your eyes roam.
“Okay, seriously, what is it?” She insists.
You hesitate before answering.
“It’s just that…Well, I never knew that trees could be as beautiful in the summer as they are in the spring or fall. And I’ve just realized that, right now, they look amazing!”
She looks around then stares back at you.
It takes a moment before she asks.
“How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“How do you live each day with this kind of passion? Don’t you find it exhausting?”
You’re slightly taken aback.
You know that line; you’ve heard it several times before.
What movie is that from?
You strain to remember what it is but you can’t. So you settle for your own words.
“I don’t know any other way to live my life, Quinn…”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face.
Your statement leaves her speechless.
Then she locks her hazel eyes on yours.
And your heart stops for a split second before it starts hammering wildly against your chest.
You feel like you’re the only person around for miles and miles.
You feel like you matter.
But then you lose your tempo and you sway a little and your right arm inadvertently brushes against her left.
She turns away and bows her head down and the spell is broken.
Silence takes over and it’s heavy.
What the hell just happened?
Before you realize it, you are both gathering speed.
Even then, she quickens her pace.
You persevere.
She goes faster yet again.
You pick up your pace.
She increases her speed even more.
You try to keep up.
Until, finally, she pulls away and you can no longer step up to the chase.
A couple more strides and you bring yourself to a halt, winded and aching.
You gasp for air as you bring your hands down to your knees.
She stops about 40 feet ahead of you, turns her body around, and watches you in the distance.
“I thought you never give up,” she shouts.
No.
“I guess I was wrong,” you holler back.
You meet her gaze.
Then everything comes to a standstill.
It takes a while before one of you makes a move and she’s the first to budge.
No.
You can’t decipher the expression on her face before she turns around and takes off without you.
This is too much for your little heart to take.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
The sixteenth morning
Your first instinct is to reach for your iPod and look for James Ingram.
Then you settle back to your bed as the first notes start to play.
You don’t want to do anything.
You don’t want to eat. You don’t want to sleep, not that you can, even if you try. You don’t want to get out of bed.
Unfortunately for you, you know what time it is because your docking station has the clock.
For someone as intelligent as you are, it’s a mystery how you’re very much capable of being stupid sometimes.
As if the agony of hearing Just Once isn’t enough to tear you apart, make you want to get a rope, and look for a beautiful, tall tree, you saunter towards your window.
Of course, she’s there.
And your heart skips a beat.
This time she’s wearing a tight black knee shorts, a relatively scanty black tank, and a new pair of Nike cross-trainers, with a loose, neat ponytail on and without an iPod in her hand or on her arm.
She looks absolutely divine.
You’re crouching lower and lower towards the base of your window until you are almost on your knees as she gets closer and closer to your house.
She turns her head towards your lawn.
You automatically hide.
And as you cower below your window, a myriad of images from an unattainable future rushes through your mind without your bidding: the sweetest smiles, some hand-holding, possessive waist-grabbing, lots of cuddling, a perfect date night, another perfect date night, three weeks on an LGBT cruise, a summer road trip across America, a blissful life in New York, beautiful daughters, successful careers, and the one constant fantasy of always, always, always having mind-blowing, earth-shattering-
Oh, my…
You’re screwed.
Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be Quinn Fabray?!
This is absurd!
…So absurd that you want to board up your windows.
This is crazy!
…Crazy enough to make you want to pack your things and move to Minnesota.
This is silly!
…As silly as wanting to forget it.
This is unbelievable and outrageous and irrational and illogical and…and…incredible…and amazing…
This always is.
Your face scrunches up and you start bumping your forehead against the wall.
Your lovely little moment of deep contemplation suddenly gets interrupted by a loud clang somewhere around your house, followed by muffled laughter.
You absentmindedly get up to follow the sound and it leads you to the kitchen where your dad and daddy are sitting side by side, reading the paper, and clearly enjoying their breakfast.
You rush towards them, fling both arms around their necks, and rest your head on their shoulders.
“Aw, honey…”
They shift in their chairs to cradle you in their arms and you end up sitting on your dad’s lap while your legs are up on your daddy’s.
“What’s the matter, Rachel-bear?”
You snap back up to look at them.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course, we do,” they state in unison.
“…Even if you won’t be able to do anything to help?”
“…Even if that’s the case, yes.”
“Okay. Well, the truth is,” you take a deep breath, “actually…I’m in love.”
They look at each other, your dad fighting to keep his sniggers in check and your daddy absolutely failing at it.
“This is not a laughing matter, Daddy!”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that…I’m a little relieved.”
“And so am I,” your dad concurs.
“And may I ask why?”
“Well, it could’ve been something worse.”
You look mutinous.
“…Worse than the total agony of being in love?”
“Oh.”
“Nah…”
“You’re right.”
“Yeah, total agony…”
They keep their faces straight this time, which is no mean feat, seeing as they’re two gay men.
“Is it someone from school?”
“Yes.”
“And what does he…she…feel about you?”
“She…doesn’t even call me by my name. She despises me. Well…she did. But lately, she’s been acting a bit…civil…towards me. She’s the prettiest girl in school and everyone worships her because she’s heaven. At least, they used to. But she’s still heaven…and hell…on occasion…every day, actually. But mostly, heaven…”
“Basically, you’re screwed, aren’t you?”
“David!”
“What?”
“Never mind your imprudent daddy, what are you going to do about this, honey?”
“I don’t know anymore…”
You lean on them again, looking so forlorn that they both give you a nice, warm hug to console you.
“There’s always something to be done, hon.”
“There always is. Did you try to be friends with her?”
“I did…not too long ago…and to say that it was a disaster is an understatement.”
They’re looking at each other again.
“Well then…uh…have you tried asking her out?”
“That would probably be social suicide.”
“Oh, right…”
Your dad implores your daddy to say something else. Your daddy clears his throat before speaking.
“Clearly there’s no other option but to kidnap her and keep her tied up in your room until she agrees to marry you.”
You look up with a grin forming on your lips.
“It’s a route I’ve considered.”
“And quite rightly rejected on the grounds of…”
“…Hygiene.”
You giggle along with your daddy and say, “Thank you, Daddy!” before you plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Dad,” you plant a kiss on his cheek. “I love you! I feel much better now.”
Then just like that, you walk out of your kitchen, leaving the two men flabbergasted.
And you don’t hear the conversation that follows as they try to go back to reading the paper.
“She’s not really thinking about kidnapping that poor girl, is she?”
“Of course, she’s not!”
“Okay. But something tells me we’ve had this discussion before.”
“We haven’t. But we did hear it from a movie.”
“What movie?”
“Love, Actually.”
“…The one where Hugh Grant is Prime Minister?”
“Yes and Emma Thompson is married to Alan Rickman.”
“And Liam Neeson-”
“-has a very adorable stepson.”
“Ah, that…” He considers this for a moment. “You mean to tell me that our daughter identifies with a twelve-year-old boy?”
“Don’t look at me like that, darling. She just loves romantic movies,” he takes a pause, “and we both raised her…”
The other man just sighs then carelessly flips another page.
The seventeenth morning