Fic: Of Duck Band-Aids and Hair Dye for skyfuls_s
Title: Of Duck Band-Aids and Hair Dye
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Brittany Pierce
Summary: Quinn washes her hands methodically, carefully. "Wash your hands," her father always says, and she always does.
Word Count: 1,773
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me.
Author's Note: Written for skyfuls_s for the glee_rare_pairs exchange.
Quinn washes her hands methodically, carefully. "Wash your hands", her father always says, and she always does. "You never know who could have touched that," he says. She does not know what kind of people can pollute a banister -a pen, a newspaper, a dollar- with such contaminating intensity that a wash of hands is needed after the slightest contact, but that is not the point. Wash your hands, he says, so she always does. Cold water slides over her fingers and at the other side of the door the footsteps of dozens of students, and the voices, and the metallic snap of lockers opening and closing again.
"Quinn."
"Yes?"
She doesn't need to look up to know it's Brittany. She has that low, conflicted tone; hard to mistake.
"I need help," she says with a chorus of rustled pages, and Quinn, refusing to look at her, figures she has raised a textbook to illustrate her words. Clutching it with her long, pale fingers. She had been wearing a yellow band-aid with a white duck on her ring finger during first period.
"Q", she calls again. "Help me with History."
Giving up, Quinn turns around; there's only so much time you can avoid looking at one of your best friends without them noticing.
"You don't have to help me if you don't want to," she adds. The band-aid is still clinging tight to her finger. She is so tall. It is not the first time Quinn has thought how tall Brittany is. She remembers the way her knees bent, just a little bit... just a little bit. "...in the desk, and then she gave us all these questions and I don't even know what some of them mean."
Quinn blinks. It's the only thing that could betray the fact that she had not been listening to any of the explanantion.
"Why didn't you ask her, then? Teachers are supposed to help students, you know?"
"You are smarter. You always get the best marks in tests."
"But she is the one who grades my tests."
"But she can look in the book. That's cheating."
Quinn refrains from trying to explain. That was the tricky thing about Brittany; you explained something to her and she understood... and at the same time she didn't.
"Alright, I will help you. I have some time now, about twenty minutes. Is that ok?"
Brittany nods and offers a wide, sweet smile, and Quinn remembers it's not the only smile the girl has. She has a different smile. A crooked smile, and ferocious. Quinn checks her reflection in the mirror one more time before leaving the bathroom; in the hallways mistakes are not allowed.
As they walk side by side, faces turn in their wake. The looks empower her and drag her down at the same time. She feels them on her skin like hands, and holds her head high. They don't know, she repeats to herself over and over. They can't know. As they approach the library, a skinny girl with glasses steps out, closing the door carefully. She smiles when Brittany covers her hand with her own over the door, right before it closes.
"Good morning, Brittany."
"Hey," is everything Brittany gives in return, and a little smile. Quinn waits until the girl is out of hearing range:
"Who's that?"
"I made out with her once."
Of course she did.
"What do you like, exactly?"
"Are you asking about food, colors or baby animals?"
"I am talking about boys or girls."
"Oh. I just like people."
As they walk into the library, Quinn tries it in her head. Mom, dad, I just like people. She feels the urge of going back and washing her hands again. But she stays, sits down and starts explaining History to Brittany, trying to ignore their knees bumping every time Brittany gets an answer right. She stays, explains History and refuses to look up when one lock of Brittany's hair escapes the ponytail and her fingers -and the white duck- return it to its place.
She had made out with Brittany, too, but it had been different, accidental. It had happened at a party, during a spin-the-bottle game and while they were both drunk. Well, Brittany had been drunk; she was just pretending to be drunk because it was the only way people stopped trying to make you drink. And if one needed to get precise with the details, it had happened during a spin-the-bottle game, but they were not exactly playing at the moment since they were making out in a different room.
Quinn had been afraid of what Brittany would say and to whom, but when she phoned her the next evening it was soon evident that Brittany did not remember it, not even when Quinn made some subtle references to spark her memories. Quinn had felt relieved at first, but that same night, as she washed her hands and kissed her parents goodnight, her mind was ruffled again. She could not decide if she wanted Brittany to remember or herself to forget.
Had Brittany been that drunk? She remembered her tongue was cold and tasted like alcohol inside her mouth, and her breathe was hot against her neck, but the words she had whispered were clear and the way her body pressed her against the wall, firm. She had pushed a lock of blonde hair away from her face, and her knees had bent so slightly, so gently, to level their faces. Quinn remembered her crooked, ferocious smile, and how their knees had bumped, and how her own body had arched against her; remembered to have thought if she was, after all, drunk, and the cheers in the next room where a game of spin-the-bottle had just started. She remembered everything then, pressing her thighs together in bed, wishing for a sleep that would not come; and she remembers it now, rushing through the exercises so she can get away from the library, Brittany and the looks that drag her down.
When they finish and Brittany closes the History book it's almost time to go back to class, so they exit the library together. Quinn consults her watch; there's still time to stop and fix her hair, and wash her hands.
"A Glee Club" says Brittany. Quinn follows her gaze and spots the creepy Spanish teacher whose name she can never recall. He is pinning a sheet of paper on the bulletin board. New Directions, it says in the header.
"Like someone is going to sign up," she murmurs bitterly, eyeing the poor fool with contempt.
*****
Quinn washes her hands now that no Skanks are present. "Wash your hands," her father used to say, so she does. She suspects she is now one of those individuals able to pollute a banister -a pen, a newspaper, a dollar- with a superficial touch. But she does not care about him anymore. She washes her hands. Old habits die hard.
"Quinn."
"Yeah?" Brittany. Of course it would be Brittany. Quinn leans against the sink and ruffles her pink hair indolently. "What is it?"
"I need help with homework."
"You do, do you?" she crosses her arms. "Mister Schue sent you?"
"Why would he send me?"
"He's been pestering me with joining Glee again, go back to being the mild little blonde girl... I'm tired of his crap and his sermons about being myself again."
"You are not you...?"
"Yes, yes, I am me! I am me for the first time in my life! Now I can do whatever I want, for a change!"
"You can do whatever you want if you dye your hair pink?"
"No, I can do whatever I want because I don't care. I don't care and I don't have to worry about if people will judge me, because everybody is judging me already, anyway. Now..." she looks around her, confused by her own fury, "...now I can do all the things I've wanted to do."
"But... you've done nothing, right? You just dyed your hair and bought new clothes."
Quinn looks at her, outraged. Brittany is not smiling and the veil of clumsy confusion that usually shades her face is gone.
"Of course I've done things!"
"Like what? What have you done? You are just the same and you are still scared of everything, you are just distracting people so they don't notice it..."
"You are wrong," she nods, almost to herself. "You don't know anything."
"Well, then tell me! I mean, I know you have been smoking and you don't shower that much lately, but I don't think those are things you've always wanted to do."
"It isn't that easy! I just do what I please when the opportunity...!"
"Then do it," Brittany lets her textbook fall into one of the sinks and steps closer. "Do it now."
"What do you...?"
"You know."
Quinn shakes her head softly. She does know, but Brittany is not supposed to; not her, not anyone. She is looking at her, just standing there, so close, too close.
"How do you know?"
"We've been best friends for years, Q. Do you think I am blind? Come on, show me the real you."
"We can't. Someone could walk in..."
"Coward."
She turns around and Quinn is almost able to see the curtain of blonde hair in slow motion, time stretching impossibly in her mind. She remembers the crooked smile, the duck band-aid and the cold tongue that tasted like alcohol. She watches her walk away, slowly, firmly. Something snaps inside her.
Before she has time to realize what she is doing, she has grabbed Brittany by the arm and is kissing her furiously. She wants to yell that she is not a coward, but she does not think she will ever be able to tear her mouth away from Brittany's; it's nothing like she remembers it, but warm and sweet. She steps back, blindly, and her hips hit the sink, and Brittany's hands slide their way over her stomach and Quinn thinks about hungry animals.
"You stink," Brittany murmurs against her mouth, and she is not sure if she has heard the words or drank them, but grabs Brittany's hands by the wrists and pushes her back towards one of the bathroom stalls; she won't be trapped again. The stall door moans as they fall against it and Brittany moans too, when her back hits the wall, and Quinn has never heard anything sweeter.
"You've improved." Her smile is back, the crooked smile, and Quinn devours it.
"I was drunk," she says. Brittany smiles again, fingers sinking into pink hair.
"No, you weren't."
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Brittany Pierce
Summary: Quinn washes her hands methodically, carefully. "Wash your hands," her father always says, and she always does.
Word Count: 1,773
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me.
Author's Note: Written for skyfuls_s for the glee_rare_pairs exchange.
Quinn washes her hands methodically, carefully. "Wash your hands", her father always says, and she always does. "You never know who could have touched that," he says. She does not know what kind of people can pollute a banister -a pen, a newspaper, a dollar- with such contaminating intensity that a wash of hands is needed after the slightest contact, but that is not the point. Wash your hands, he says, so she always does. Cold water slides over her fingers and at the other side of the door the footsteps of dozens of students, and the voices, and the metallic snap of lockers opening and closing again.
"Quinn."
"Yes?"
She doesn't need to look up to know it's Brittany. She has that low, conflicted tone; hard to mistake.
"I need help," she says with a chorus of rustled pages, and Quinn, refusing to look at her, figures she has raised a textbook to illustrate her words. Clutching it with her long, pale fingers. She had been wearing a yellow band-aid with a white duck on her ring finger during first period.
"Q", she calls again. "Help me with History."
Giving up, Quinn turns around; there's only so much time you can avoid looking at one of your best friends without them noticing.
"You don't have to help me if you don't want to," she adds. The band-aid is still clinging tight to her finger. She is so tall. It is not the first time Quinn has thought how tall Brittany is. She remembers the way her knees bent, just a little bit... just a little bit. "...in the desk, and then she gave us all these questions and I don't even know what some of them mean."
Quinn blinks. It's the only thing that could betray the fact that she had not been listening to any of the explanantion.
"Why didn't you ask her, then? Teachers are supposed to help students, you know?"
"You are smarter. You always get the best marks in tests."
"But she is the one who grades my tests."
"But she can look in the book. That's cheating."
Quinn refrains from trying to explain. That was the tricky thing about Brittany; you explained something to her and she understood... and at the same time she didn't.
"Alright, I will help you. I have some time now, about twenty minutes. Is that ok?"
Brittany nods and offers a wide, sweet smile, and Quinn remembers it's not the only smile the girl has. She has a different smile. A crooked smile, and ferocious. Quinn checks her reflection in the mirror one more time before leaving the bathroom; in the hallways mistakes are not allowed.
As they walk side by side, faces turn in their wake. The looks empower her and drag her down at the same time. She feels them on her skin like hands, and holds her head high. They don't know, she repeats to herself over and over. They can't know. As they approach the library, a skinny girl with glasses steps out, closing the door carefully. She smiles when Brittany covers her hand with her own over the door, right before it closes.
"Good morning, Brittany."
"Hey," is everything Brittany gives in return, and a little smile. Quinn waits until the girl is out of hearing range:
"Who's that?"
"I made out with her once."
Of course she did.
"What do you like, exactly?"
"Are you asking about food, colors or baby animals?"
"I am talking about boys or girls."
"Oh. I just like people."
As they walk into the library, Quinn tries it in her head. Mom, dad, I just like people. She feels the urge of going back and washing her hands again. But she stays, sits down and starts explaining History to Brittany, trying to ignore their knees bumping every time Brittany gets an answer right. She stays, explains History and refuses to look up when one lock of Brittany's hair escapes the ponytail and her fingers -and the white duck- return it to its place.
She had made out with Brittany, too, but it had been different, accidental. It had happened at a party, during a spin-the-bottle game and while they were both drunk. Well, Brittany had been drunk; she was just pretending to be drunk because it was the only way people stopped trying to make you drink. And if one needed to get precise with the details, it had happened during a spin-the-bottle game, but they were not exactly playing at the moment since they were making out in a different room.
Quinn had been afraid of what Brittany would say and to whom, but when she phoned her the next evening it was soon evident that Brittany did not remember it, not even when Quinn made some subtle references to spark her memories. Quinn had felt relieved at first, but that same night, as she washed her hands and kissed her parents goodnight, her mind was ruffled again. She could not decide if she wanted Brittany to remember or herself to forget.
Had Brittany been that drunk? She remembered her tongue was cold and tasted like alcohol inside her mouth, and her breathe was hot against her neck, but the words she had whispered were clear and the way her body pressed her against the wall, firm. She had pushed a lock of blonde hair away from her face, and her knees had bent so slightly, so gently, to level their faces. Quinn remembered her crooked, ferocious smile, and how their knees had bumped, and how her own body had arched against her; remembered to have thought if she was, after all, drunk, and the cheers in the next room where a game of spin-the-bottle had just started. She remembered everything then, pressing her thighs together in bed, wishing for a sleep that would not come; and she remembers it now, rushing through the exercises so she can get away from the library, Brittany and the looks that drag her down.
When they finish and Brittany closes the History book it's almost time to go back to class, so they exit the library together. Quinn consults her watch; there's still time to stop and fix her hair, and wash her hands.
"A Glee Club" says Brittany. Quinn follows her gaze and spots the creepy Spanish teacher whose name she can never recall. He is pinning a sheet of paper on the bulletin board. New Directions, it says in the header.
"Like someone is going to sign up," she murmurs bitterly, eyeing the poor fool with contempt.
*****
Quinn washes her hands now that no Skanks are present. "Wash your hands," her father used to say, so she does. She suspects she is now one of those individuals able to pollute a banister -a pen, a newspaper, a dollar- with a superficial touch. But she does not care about him anymore. She washes her hands. Old habits die hard.
"Quinn."
"Yeah?" Brittany. Of course it would be Brittany. Quinn leans against the sink and ruffles her pink hair indolently. "What is it?"
"I need help with homework."
"You do, do you?" she crosses her arms. "Mister Schue sent you?"
"Why would he send me?"
"He's been pestering me with joining Glee again, go back to being the mild little blonde girl... I'm tired of his crap and his sermons about being myself again."
"You are not you...?"
"Yes, yes, I am me! I am me for the first time in my life! Now I can do whatever I want, for a change!"
"You can do whatever you want if you dye your hair pink?"
"No, I can do whatever I want because I don't care. I don't care and I don't have to worry about if people will judge me, because everybody is judging me already, anyway. Now..." she looks around her, confused by her own fury, "...now I can do all the things I've wanted to do."
"But... you've done nothing, right? You just dyed your hair and bought new clothes."
Quinn looks at her, outraged. Brittany is not smiling and the veil of clumsy confusion that usually shades her face is gone.
"Of course I've done things!"
"Like what? What have you done? You are just the same and you are still scared of everything, you are just distracting people so they don't notice it..."
"You are wrong," she nods, almost to herself. "You don't know anything."
"Well, then tell me! I mean, I know you have been smoking and you don't shower that much lately, but I don't think those are things you've always wanted to do."
"It isn't that easy! I just do what I please when the opportunity...!"
"Then do it," Brittany lets her textbook fall into one of the sinks and steps closer. "Do it now."
"What do you...?"
"You know."
Quinn shakes her head softly. She does know, but Brittany is not supposed to; not her, not anyone. She is looking at her, just standing there, so close, too close.
"How do you know?"
"We've been best friends for years, Q. Do you think I am blind? Come on, show me the real you."
"We can't. Someone could walk in..."
"Coward."
She turns around and Quinn is almost able to see the curtain of blonde hair in slow motion, time stretching impossibly in her mind. She remembers the crooked smile, the duck band-aid and the cold tongue that tasted like alcohol. She watches her walk away, slowly, firmly. Something snaps inside her.
Before she has time to realize what she is doing, she has grabbed Brittany by the arm and is kissing her furiously. She wants to yell that she is not a coward, but she does not think she will ever be able to tear her mouth away from Brittany's; it's nothing like she remembers it, but warm and sweet. She steps back, blindly, and her hips hit the sink, and Brittany's hands slide their way over her stomach and Quinn thinks about hungry animals.
"You stink," Brittany murmurs against her mouth, and she is not sure if she has heard the words or drank them, but grabs Brittany's hands by the wrists and pushes her back towards one of the bathroom stalls; she won't be trapped again. The stall door moans as they fall against it and Brittany moans too, when her back hits the wall, and Quinn has never heard anything sweeter.
"You've improved." Her smile is back, the crooked smile, and Quinn devours it.
"I was drunk," she says. Brittany smiles again, fingers sinking into pink hair.
"No, you weren't."