Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don't Want To Be Your Hero) (23/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (23/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
When Quinn wakes the next morning, the first thing on her mind is why on earth the whole of New Directions has piled in beside her bed. And also why her bed feels obnoxiously like a poorly-covered hardwood floor. Scrunching her nose up in displeasure, she rolls sideways and does her very best to ignore the too-vibrant-for-morning conversation thundering nearby.
Puck, turns out, does not possess an indoor voice.
She growls a little, burrowing under one arm. Last night wasn’t exactly the featherbed of all sleep situations, and she feels like-well. Like…
Like I spent several hours listening to Rachel Berry moan my name.
Well, shit.
It floods back like a hair-triggered, nearly forgotten dream, enveloping her in a sudden stream of sounds and smells that have nothing whatsoever to do with the inconsiderate fools wandering the living room. The living room, she recalls now, where she must have fallen asleep, warm and comfortable with Rachel’s head against her chest.
That aspect is rather noticeably absent, which explains why she’s so damn cold and-
Oh Jesus, Mary, and beautiful, benevolent God in Heaven, please tell me I’m not-
Her eyes squeeze shut in preparation for the worst, then flutter cautiously open. There’s a pant leg, and a little ways above it, a shirt. Both very conveniently on her body. Thank. You. God.
There is also a booted foot parked inches from her nose; tilting her head back, Quinn looks up and up until she can see Finn Hudson’s doofily smiling face. She sighs.
“Good morning!” he rumbles, ever the ten-year-old trapped in an NBA all-star’s body. “Sleep well?”
“Mmph,” she manages, curling up and nuzzling her head against the stark carpet. He gives a happy little stomp.
“You gotta get up. Can’t be sleepin’ forever.”
“Says who, Mom?” she grumbles, eyes closing again. Her night with Rachel was (glorious. amazing. mind-blowing.) long, and consisted of very little sleep. On top of the past few days, she can’t say she could exactly afford the lack of shut-eye, even if she’s pretty sappily sure she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Damn that midget, she thinks with agitated fondness. Rachel Berry certainly knows how to creep under a girl’s skin.
“Got a little somethin’ somethin’ to be sharing, girly?” Puck sneers, plopping himself down on the floor next to her head and pinching her cheek as even her grandmother would never dare. She turns the full force of the inimitable Fabray glare on him, secretly impressed when his grin only expands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure,” Puck taunts almost jovially, like he has no problem putting all his worries aside for a few moments of tormenting her like an ass. It suits him, she supposes, and it’s nice to see him smile after yesterday.
Even if she does want to punt that same smile right off his smug face.
A bumbling thud issues from her other side, and she realizes Finn’s desire to plant himself on the floor as well has done nothing but trap her between two overgrown middle schoolers. Both of whom, by the way, seem to have nothing better to do than to grin at her knowingly, nudging her like the frat boys she suspects they should be.
“What?” she snaps when Finn actually giggles.
“Dude,” Puck says. “Seriously. Spill. You’re sleepin’ on the floor for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Quinn grumbles. “Because there’s only so much sex a person can listen to from the next bed over before their brain bleeds out.”
“Nice try, Blondie,” Santana drawls with impeccable timing, stalking straight to the kitchen and rummaging for a coffee mug. “Even we have to take a break when shit gets real.”
Puck cranes his neck around, eyebrow arched. “Since when?”
The dark-haired woman takes a long, delicate sip. “Since I said so, asswipe. Besides, Britt’s and my business? Still none of yours.”
“You’re a cold one, Lopez,” he teases, clapping a hand mockingly over his heart when she flips him the bird. Finn shuffles, gaze still fixed pointedly on Quinn.
“But really. Why’d you sleep out here?”
“Maybe I like floors,” she snaps. It’s exactly the wrong thing to say-too rash, too defensive-and from the way Finn’s eyebrows shoot up into his spikey hairline, she knows she’s digging herself too deep.
Still, she presses on. She’s not the worst liar in the world; maybe if she just keeps talking, these numbskulls will be impressed by her floral use of language and her wide, sleepy eyes. She can gracefully spin a whole sordid tale about spinal trauma, maybe from a jarring floor hockey incident in the ninth grade. Hopefully, somewhere in the middle, Finn’s ever-reliable ADD will kick in. Or Puck will remember he hasn’t yet jerked off today. Or Santana will inexplicably morph into a bull and gore her through the gut with her horns.
That last part is probably the most likely because, smart-ass comments or no, the glint in those dark eyes remains far too heavy for Quinn to think yesterday’s incident has been forgotten. She winces and looks away.
“I’ll have you know,” she begins haughtily, “that floors happen to be better for my back. I’ve got this condition from the time Mel Florence hip-checked me into a wall in gym class, and-“
“She’s lying,” Mike Chang announces calmly from the couch, barely looking up from the spread of papers in his lap. Quinn jumps.
“How the hell long has he been here?”
“Just admit it,” Puck jeers, leaning back on his hands and smirking like a king. “You and Berry did the nasty. You made the beast with two backs. Knocked boots. Got freak-ay.”
“If a beast has two backs, where does its face go?” Brittany wonders, gliding in to join them as she towel-rubs her hair dry. Finn frowns worriedly.
“How can you eat if you don’t have a face?”
“They’re probably endangered,” Brittany informs him sagely, catching the mug Santana over-hands her way and nodding. He bites his lip, clearly unsettled. Quinn rolls her eyes.
It’s a little scary, sometimes, to think that the fate of who-the-fuck-ever rests in the hands of these losers.
“Oh, hey, Quinn,” Brittany adds like she’s only just noticed the shorter blonde. “How was sex with Rachel?”
“I did not have sex with Rachel!” Quinn exclaims rather weakly, sitting bolt upright and scowling. “I don’t understand why you all-“
“Lying again,” Mike comments placidly. Hazel eyes turn on him, flashing.
“Stop doing that.”
“Stop lying,” he replies cheerfully. Puck throws his head back and guffaws.
“Watch it, boys,” Santana taunts, ponytail swinging as she sashays into the room and drops down in her usual armchair. “Piss her off and she might throttle you to death.”
Wiping away what Quinn views as a completely unnecessary tear of mirth, Puck grins. “Yeah? How does that feel?”
“Fuckin’ tickles, asshole,” the Latina drawls. Quinn winces.
“I’m still really sorry about-“
Santana snorts, cutting her off with a flailing hand. “Oh, fuck off, Fabray. I don’t need your numbnuts apologies. Just don’t ever fuckin’ do it again, got it?”
“It’s hard to heal,” Brittany adds, sipping coffee even as she stretches first one leg, then the other. Santana’s eyes drift to watch her, and Quinn feels another pang of guilt; she can see that guarded something lurking there again, locked carefully away behind a habitual dash of arousal. Hurting Santana hurt Brittany too-and that’s something Quinn knows none of them can let go of easily. Least of all the woman who just shot down her remorse like it was little more than a fast food suggestion.
Last night was amazing, Quinn reflects with a barely-contained sigh, but this is reality. Half of them still don’t trust her-at least, not the way she wishes she could trust herself-and Mercedes is still gone. This is still their weird, mutated collective of a life, and Quinn still doesn’t like it in the least.
It’s sort of a relief when Brittany, temporarily satisfied with her stretching, hoists herself up on the counter and regards her curiously. “What’s it like?”
Quinn tilts her head, questioning. Tucking her hand beneath her chin, Brittany beams.
“Doin’ Rach.”
The rumpled blonde coughs, shaking her head. “I, uh. Don’t. Is that appropriate?”
“Is fucking our leader appropriate?” Santana returns. Brittany gives a dreamy little sigh.
“I’m glad you guys figured it out. It’s no fun waiting around forever while people are stupid and nervous with each other. Now everybody gets sex and is happy!”
“Not everybody,” Puck mutters. Finn stares at the floor, the tips of his ears crimson. Brittany shrugs.
“You could always ask Kurt.”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely never,” Puck swears, head jolting up like she’s just flung boiling hot coffee on him. “The last thing I need is a dick in my life outside of Number Wah.”
“You named your dick?” Santana cackles. “That’s the most pathetic thing I have ever heard.”
Brittany blinks. “How is that much different from you asking me to call you commander-“
“Just is.” Hastily, Santana grins. “Just. Go with me on this one, babe, huh?”
“As charming as this insight to your sex life is,” Quinn mutters, “believe me when I say ew.”
“Insight is awesome!” Brittany chirps, too adorably excited for Quinn to look down her nose at. “We could teach you all sorts of stuff! Especially sharing a room-hey, hey! We could even do stuff at the same time, and then-“
Okay, adorable retracted. “I think I need a shower!” Quinn blurts, right as Santana launches herself from the chair and crosses the room in record time to muzzle her girlfriend with a gentle hand.
The last thing she hears before slamming and locking the bathroom door is Puck’s sing-song, “Want me to send Berry in after you?”
Good morning to you bitches, too.
She heaves a sigh, resting her weight upon the counter and staring tiredly into the mirror. She’s not used to this-which goes without saying, and has since meeting Rachel in the diner, but it goes further than that. It’s not just the superpowers and the danger; she’s never dealt with this. The normal parts. The sleeping with a beautiful girl part. The distinct lack of certain strings part. The having people around who seem to care-and not in a creepy frat-boy way, deep down, even where Puck is concerned-part.
High school was a roller coaster ride of activity ranging from captain of the cheerleading squad to student body president, and college was party central, but sometimes the old clichés hold true for a reason. Being popular doesn’t mean having genuine friends, nor does it imply that anyone wants to really know you. It certainly doesn’t mean anyone would die for you.
Those people out there, the ones who grin and tease like such ordinary young men and women, they’ve seen things. They’ve lost people in ways Quinn wouldn’t have thought to imagine a few days ago. They’ve signed on for something big. She’s not sure how to go about scrawling her signature on that same line. She’s not sure she’s ready.
But there’s no denying her feelings for the people back in that room. Death really has a way of pulling people together, she supposes wryly, even people as angry and absurd as Santana Lopez or Finn Hudson. They’re bizarre, and totally not the kinds of friends she would choose if given the option, but maybe that’s fitting. They don’t seem like friends in the first place, not even with each other.
They seem like family.
And then there’s Rachel. Crazy, thesaurus-mouthed, angel-voiced Rachel, with the scariest brain-in more ways than one-Quinn has come across in a long time. There’s something there, she can feel it, and it’s not like anything she’s dealt with before. Years of off-and-on attempts at companionship, endless dates that went nowhere, a few hints at home, but never has she found someone who makes her feel like Rachel does.
Hell, not even half as undone, now that she thinks of it.
Which is decidedly terrifying, but what can a girl do? Especially with this…thing inside her, pacing appreciatively, still riding the high delivered from some sincerely magnificent orgasms. The power likes sex, definitely, but more than that, it likes Rachel. It loved last night: taking Rachel, claiming her, marking her with teeth and scratches and each heady, wanton thrust.
Last night made it happy, and it made her happy, and how weird is it to think of herself in such divided terms? She wishes she could shake it, particularly since no one else seems to be pulling a Sybil impersonation, but it’s rough. Whatever it is, the gift, or the curse, or the beast, it’s strong and getting stronger every day. It’s strong, and it’s hungry, and she wants to embrace it the way everyone else has, make it part of the larger Quinn Fabray picture, but right now, she’s stuck feeling a little like a kid with her nose plastered up against a Monet. There used to be lilies here, once upon a time, but all she can see are paint blobs.
It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure it would still be confusing even if she didn’t have this howling, ravenous energy beating beneath her breast; for the sake of all that is holy, she thinks she’s falling in love.
Shit, Quinn Fabray’s not exactly partial to that idea.
It’s not even the girl part that’s throwing her for a loop, she muses as she undresses and clumsily settles under the showerhead. Not that she’s ever been into one before for real, not that she’s ever done anything but look (everyone looks, she reminds herself, that’s perfectly natural) before, but something about it feels…
Easy.
Except it’s not. It’s anything but. Rachel Berry is relationship calculus, for crying out loud, and Quinn suspects this would be so even if she wasn’t constantly worried about the brunette getting herself brutally murdered upon exiting the apartment. Rachel Berry is probably the least reasonable person in the world to fall in love with.
Which might work, she thinks with a tiny, stupid grin, because falling in love is probably the least reasonable thing in the world for a person to do in the first place.
It’s dumb, and it’s crazy, and like everything else going on lately, it is completely out of her hands. Normally, that would be terrifying, but she’s a little past the norm. There are bigger monsters under the bed to worry about.
Besides, unless she’s gone completely daffy, she doesn’t think it’d be off the mark to suggest Rachel might be falling too.
She realizes she’s grinning like an absolute moron, water in her ears and eyes, her skin smarting under the too-hot spray. This is absurd.She’s got bigger things to worry about.
But isn’t the point of love that it doesn’t get much bigger?
It’s hard to get her mind on straight, she thinks as she switches the water off and quietly dresses once more. She’s not really equipped for this sort of thing, not when she grew up hearing psalms instead of what her father called the ‘trite and deluded hashings of romantics’. She’s pretty sure it’s the stirrings of love chewing away at her sanity-it’s hard to imagine that anything else could have this kind of power. Why else would she crave the company of a woman who is quite obviously mad?
Not that she can necessarily rule that one out for herself. The point is, she could use a second opinion here.
Given the circumstances, Rachel seems as good a choice as any to talk it over with. Towel still draped around her shoulders, Quinn pries open the door and asks the first person she runs into where the girl might be.
Matt arches a brow and points his index finger straight down. Quinn thanks him, privately wondering how much more difficult it might’ve been just to say, “Basement.” These strong, silent types are creepier than they seem to realize.
It’s annoying how violently her heart jackhammers as she makes her way down. This shouldn’t be scary; it’s Rachel. Rachel, who is beautiful, and kind, and marginally horrifying with the whole mental control thing in her court, but otherwise-well, she’s your average, run-of-the-mill, martial-arts-expert tiny person.
Yes, okay, there might be a gem of wisdom in cherishing such anxiety.
She stumbles on the last step and nearly takes a mouthful of tile in penance. The energy inside gives a low rumble of disapproval, almost as if it’s embarrassed to be connected with someone so blatantly nervous. Relax, she imagines she can hear it whisper, remember last night. Remember how she felt beneath you, squirming and gasping. Remember how she was yours.
It’s strangely comforting.
And strangely not.
Hearing voices is still a bad sign, right?
As she nears the door, she throws her shoulders back and ruffles her hair with all ten trembling fingers. Suck it up, she snaps inwardly, rotating her upper body like a weight lifter gearing up for the big heft. She cares about you, at least. And she seemed to like the sex. It’s a start. Just go in there-
The thought dies right there in the middle as her ears take over for her brain. There are voices on the other side of that door, nudged ever so slightly ajar, and those voices are both familiar and a little bit frantic.
Or, at least, Kurt’s certainly is.
“There’s nothing to talk about. This is the only way.”
“Valid though that may be,” Rachel’s voice comes steadily, “it certainly merits contemplation. We will not go into this blindly.”
“Delivering orders again, Berry?” Santana’s rough tone responds. The door’s angle means Quinn can’t see her very well, but the image is clear enough in her mind: hair tousled, eyes stony, arms crossed over her chest. She frowns.
“You know as well as I that giving orders is the most productive manner of accomplishment sometimes-“
“Don’t care,” Kurt interrupts sharply. “We’re not talking about this. It’s the best way to get at him, and I say we go for it. Now.”
“That would be extremely foolhardy,” Rachel replies. Quinn thinks she sounds exhausted-guiltily, she knows she is to blame, at least in part-but firm. It’s that strength that she so appreciates in the brunette, surprising and frustrating though it can be.
“Foolhardy, my ass,” Santana fires back. “He’s right. She’s our best shot.”
She?
“She’s a goddamn weapon, you saw what she can do-“
Oh.
The warmth cycling in Quinn’s gut goes frigid in the next instant, her fingers curling against her palms at her sides. Leaning closer, she risks placing her forehead against the door and peering through the crack.
She can see Kurt now, pacing the floor with his hands circling above his uncharacteristically-rumpled hair. Santana, less visible, leans against a punching bag; occasionally, a thump carries through, assumably the product of one of her over-energetic fists.
Rachel is completely out of view, but her voice is as rich and certain as ever.
“I don’t believe you’re listening to me-“
“No,” Kurt cuts her off, “you’re not listening to me.”
“Us,” Santana corrects. His head shakes violently from side to side.
“Us. Rachel, this isn’t a game. He took Mercedes in a second, and you know how strong she was. You know how difficult that-we don’t have time to play around anymore, you have to see that.”
“No one is playing,” Rachel says, too calmly. “I’m simply suggesting we assess the situation before charging in headfirst.”
“You aren’t suggesting anything,” Kurt shrills. “You never do! You wouldn’t know a suggestion if it conked you over that ridiculously child-sized head.”
“Childish insults,” Santana observes wryly. “Count me in.”
“Listen to me,” Rachel snaps, “the both of you. You need to look at the bigger picture here. Quinn is an asset. A powerful one. And we may be able to utilize that asset, but right now, storming in will only get more people killed. We need to work out a plan. That power…that power makes her…she’s more dangerous than we understand.
“She’s a killer.”
For a hazy moment, Quinn can’t believe what she’s hearing. Rachel Berry; Rachel, the girl she just slept with; Rachel, the woman who has told her from day one that she is not evil, not a hazard-Rachel, the woman who has been preaching help and caution from day one…
And she’s saying this?
Worse, this isn’t just another conversation. Kurt sounds ferocious, even desperate; Santana, aggressive even beyond her usual visage. They’re plotting something in there, a comeback, and they’re planning on using her to go through with it.
Rachel is planning on using her.
Don’t leap, her rational mind tries to protest, don’t go there just yet, but it’s far too late. The beast is roaring inside, all sexual urges replaced in the blink of an eye by sheer rage. She wants to cage you, it hisses, wants to pin you down and make use of you like a tool.
We are no tool.
She remembers that night in bed, Rachel’s hot little hand glued to her arm, the promise whispered between them. I hurt someone-anyone-and I am out of here. The end.
How silly of her, how naive, to think at the time that simply hurting someone would be the worst of her problems. Look how quickly Santana has bounced back; causing a little pain isn’t the issue here, not the way she thought.
It was bad enough knowing Rayne wants her for God knows what end, but this? This is absurd. These are supposed to be her friends. These people are supposed to protect her. Isn’t that why Rachel turned up in the first place, battered and serious, pledging security?
Instead, they’re planning the opposite: to turn her like some kind of concentrated missile on the very man she wants desperately to stay away from. Her fists clench tighter at the thought, her head bent and trembling.
Get out, the voice inside her head whispers. Now. Who’s looking?
She chances a paranoid look over her shoulder, fully expecting to see Matt or Mike standing there with their freakish ninja silence skills. Astoundingly, the hall remains empty. Perfectly so, in fact.
No one will know until we’re gone.
Voices are such a bad sign, she thinks again, but it feels right now like the least on her ever-growing list of problems. Terrifying or no, that voice has a distinct point.
If she leaves now, she can run. She can get away, and maybe it won’t be for good, but it’s definitely better than sitting here numbly while she waits for those three to pass their plan along to the others. She’s helpless here, completely unproductive.
She needs time to think-and she sure as hell needs to do it somewhere far, far away from the influence of Rachel fucking Berry.
Teeth gritted, vision blurry with rage, she turns on her heel and moves stealthily back the way she came.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
When Quinn wakes the next morning, the first thing on her mind is why on earth the whole of New Directions has piled in beside her bed. And also why her bed feels obnoxiously like a poorly-covered hardwood floor. Scrunching her nose up in displeasure, she rolls sideways and does her very best to ignore the too-vibrant-for-morning conversation thundering nearby.
Puck, turns out, does not possess an indoor voice.
She growls a little, burrowing under one arm. Last night wasn’t exactly the featherbed of all sleep situations, and she feels like-well. Like…
Like I spent several hours listening to Rachel Berry moan my name.
Well, shit.
It floods back like a hair-triggered, nearly forgotten dream, enveloping her in a sudden stream of sounds and smells that have nothing whatsoever to do with the inconsiderate fools wandering the living room. The living room, she recalls now, where she must have fallen asleep, warm and comfortable with Rachel’s head against her chest.
That aspect is rather noticeably absent, which explains why she’s so damn cold and-
Oh Jesus, Mary, and beautiful, benevolent God in Heaven, please tell me I’m not-
Her eyes squeeze shut in preparation for the worst, then flutter cautiously open. There’s a pant leg, and a little ways above it, a shirt. Both very conveniently on her body. Thank. You. God.
There is also a booted foot parked inches from her nose; tilting her head back, Quinn looks up and up until she can see Finn Hudson’s doofily smiling face. She sighs.
“Good morning!” he rumbles, ever the ten-year-old trapped in an NBA all-star’s body. “Sleep well?”
“Mmph,” she manages, curling up and nuzzling her head against the stark carpet. He gives a happy little stomp.
“You gotta get up. Can’t be sleepin’ forever.”
“Says who, Mom?” she grumbles, eyes closing again. Her night with Rachel was (glorious. amazing. mind-blowing.) long, and consisted of very little sleep. On top of the past few days, she can’t say she could exactly afford the lack of shut-eye, even if she’s pretty sappily sure she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Damn that midget, she thinks with agitated fondness. Rachel Berry certainly knows how to creep under a girl’s skin.
“Got a little somethin’ somethin’ to be sharing, girly?” Puck sneers, plopping himself down on the floor next to her head and pinching her cheek as even her grandmother would never dare. She turns the full force of the inimitable Fabray glare on him, secretly impressed when his grin only expands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure,” Puck taunts almost jovially, like he has no problem putting all his worries aside for a few moments of tormenting her like an ass. It suits him, she supposes, and it’s nice to see him smile after yesterday.
Even if she does want to punt that same smile right off his smug face.
A bumbling thud issues from her other side, and she realizes Finn’s desire to plant himself on the floor as well has done nothing but trap her between two overgrown middle schoolers. Both of whom, by the way, seem to have nothing better to do than to grin at her knowingly, nudging her like the frat boys she suspects they should be.
“What?” she snaps when Finn actually giggles.
“Dude,” Puck says. “Seriously. Spill. You’re sleepin’ on the floor for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Quinn grumbles. “Because there’s only so much sex a person can listen to from the next bed over before their brain bleeds out.”
“Nice try, Blondie,” Santana drawls with impeccable timing, stalking straight to the kitchen and rummaging for a coffee mug. “Even we have to take a break when shit gets real.”
Puck cranes his neck around, eyebrow arched. “Since when?”
The dark-haired woman takes a long, delicate sip. “Since I said so, asswipe. Besides, Britt’s and my business? Still none of yours.”
“You’re a cold one, Lopez,” he teases, clapping a hand mockingly over his heart when she flips him the bird. Finn shuffles, gaze still fixed pointedly on Quinn.
“But really. Why’d you sleep out here?”
“Maybe I like floors,” she snaps. It’s exactly the wrong thing to say-too rash, too defensive-and from the way Finn’s eyebrows shoot up into his spikey hairline, she knows she’s digging herself too deep.
Still, she presses on. She’s not the worst liar in the world; maybe if she just keeps talking, these numbskulls will be impressed by her floral use of language and her wide, sleepy eyes. She can gracefully spin a whole sordid tale about spinal trauma, maybe from a jarring floor hockey incident in the ninth grade. Hopefully, somewhere in the middle, Finn’s ever-reliable ADD will kick in. Or Puck will remember he hasn’t yet jerked off today. Or Santana will inexplicably morph into a bull and gore her through the gut with her horns.
That last part is probably the most likely because, smart-ass comments or no, the glint in those dark eyes remains far too heavy for Quinn to think yesterday’s incident has been forgotten. She winces and looks away.
“I’ll have you know,” she begins haughtily, “that floors happen to be better for my back. I’ve got this condition from the time Mel Florence hip-checked me into a wall in gym class, and-“
“She’s lying,” Mike Chang announces calmly from the couch, barely looking up from the spread of papers in his lap. Quinn jumps.
“How the hell long has he been here?”
“Just admit it,” Puck jeers, leaning back on his hands and smirking like a king. “You and Berry did the nasty. You made the beast with two backs. Knocked boots. Got freak-ay.”
“If a beast has two backs, where does its face go?” Brittany wonders, gliding in to join them as she towel-rubs her hair dry. Finn frowns worriedly.
“How can you eat if you don’t have a face?”
“They’re probably endangered,” Brittany informs him sagely, catching the mug Santana over-hands her way and nodding. He bites his lip, clearly unsettled. Quinn rolls her eyes.
It’s a little scary, sometimes, to think that the fate of who-the-fuck-ever rests in the hands of these losers.
“Oh, hey, Quinn,” Brittany adds like she’s only just noticed the shorter blonde. “How was sex with Rachel?”
“I did not have sex with Rachel!” Quinn exclaims rather weakly, sitting bolt upright and scowling. “I don’t understand why you all-“
“Lying again,” Mike comments placidly. Hazel eyes turn on him, flashing.
“Stop doing that.”
“Stop lying,” he replies cheerfully. Puck throws his head back and guffaws.
“Watch it, boys,” Santana taunts, ponytail swinging as she sashays into the room and drops down in her usual armchair. “Piss her off and she might throttle you to death.”
Wiping away what Quinn views as a completely unnecessary tear of mirth, Puck grins. “Yeah? How does that feel?”
“Fuckin’ tickles, asshole,” the Latina drawls. Quinn winces.
“I’m still really sorry about-“
Santana snorts, cutting her off with a flailing hand. “Oh, fuck off, Fabray. I don’t need your numbnuts apologies. Just don’t ever fuckin’ do it again, got it?”
“It’s hard to heal,” Brittany adds, sipping coffee even as she stretches first one leg, then the other. Santana’s eyes drift to watch her, and Quinn feels another pang of guilt; she can see that guarded something lurking there again, locked carefully away behind a habitual dash of arousal. Hurting Santana hurt Brittany too-and that’s something Quinn knows none of them can let go of easily. Least of all the woman who just shot down her remorse like it was little more than a fast food suggestion.
Last night was amazing, Quinn reflects with a barely-contained sigh, but this is reality. Half of them still don’t trust her-at least, not the way she wishes she could trust herself-and Mercedes is still gone. This is still their weird, mutated collective of a life, and Quinn still doesn’t like it in the least.
It’s sort of a relief when Brittany, temporarily satisfied with her stretching, hoists herself up on the counter and regards her curiously. “What’s it like?”
Quinn tilts her head, questioning. Tucking her hand beneath her chin, Brittany beams.
“Doin’ Rach.”
The rumpled blonde coughs, shaking her head. “I, uh. Don’t. Is that appropriate?”
“Is fucking our leader appropriate?” Santana returns. Brittany gives a dreamy little sigh.
“I’m glad you guys figured it out. It’s no fun waiting around forever while people are stupid and nervous with each other. Now everybody gets sex and is happy!”
“Not everybody,” Puck mutters. Finn stares at the floor, the tips of his ears crimson. Brittany shrugs.
“You could always ask Kurt.”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely never,” Puck swears, head jolting up like she’s just flung boiling hot coffee on him. “The last thing I need is a dick in my life outside of Number Wah.”
“You named your dick?” Santana cackles. “That’s the most pathetic thing I have ever heard.”
Brittany blinks. “How is that much different from you asking me to call you commander-“
“Just is.” Hastily, Santana grins. “Just. Go with me on this one, babe, huh?”
“As charming as this insight to your sex life is,” Quinn mutters, “believe me when I say ew.”
“Insight is awesome!” Brittany chirps, too adorably excited for Quinn to look down her nose at. “We could teach you all sorts of stuff! Especially sharing a room-hey, hey! We could even do stuff at the same time, and then-“
Okay, adorable retracted. “I think I need a shower!” Quinn blurts, right as Santana launches herself from the chair and crosses the room in record time to muzzle her girlfriend with a gentle hand.
The last thing she hears before slamming and locking the bathroom door is Puck’s sing-song, “Want me to send Berry in after you?”
Good morning to you bitches, too.
She heaves a sigh, resting her weight upon the counter and staring tiredly into the mirror. She’s not used to this-which goes without saying, and has since meeting Rachel in the diner, but it goes further than that. It’s not just the superpowers and the danger; she’s never dealt with this. The normal parts. The sleeping with a beautiful girl part. The distinct lack of certain strings part. The having people around who seem to care-and not in a creepy frat-boy way, deep down, even where Puck is concerned-part.
High school was a roller coaster ride of activity ranging from captain of the cheerleading squad to student body president, and college was party central, but sometimes the old clichés hold true for a reason. Being popular doesn’t mean having genuine friends, nor does it imply that anyone wants to really know you. It certainly doesn’t mean anyone would die for you.
Those people out there, the ones who grin and tease like such ordinary young men and women, they’ve seen things. They’ve lost people in ways Quinn wouldn’t have thought to imagine a few days ago. They’ve signed on for something big. She’s not sure how to go about scrawling her signature on that same line. She’s not sure she’s ready.
But there’s no denying her feelings for the people back in that room. Death really has a way of pulling people together, she supposes wryly, even people as angry and absurd as Santana Lopez or Finn Hudson. They’re bizarre, and totally not the kinds of friends she would choose if given the option, but maybe that’s fitting. They don’t seem like friends in the first place, not even with each other.
They seem like family.
And then there’s Rachel. Crazy, thesaurus-mouthed, angel-voiced Rachel, with the scariest brain-in more ways than one-Quinn has come across in a long time. There’s something there, she can feel it, and it’s not like anything she’s dealt with before. Years of off-and-on attempts at companionship, endless dates that went nowhere, a few hints at home, but never has she found someone who makes her feel like Rachel does.
Hell, not even half as undone, now that she thinks of it.
Which is decidedly terrifying, but what can a girl do? Especially with this…thing inside her, pacing appreciatively, still riding the high delivered from some sincerely magnificent orgasms. The power likes sex, definitely, but more than that, it likes Rachel. It loved last night: taking Rachel, claiming her, marking her with teeth and scratches and each heady, wanton thrust.
Last night made it happy, and it made her happy, and how weird is it to think of herself in such divided terms? She wishes she could shake it, particularly since no one else seems to be pulling a Sybil impersonation, but it’s rough. Whatever it is, the gift, or the curse, or the beast, it’s strong and getting stronger every day. It’s strong, and it’s hungry, and she wants to embrace it the way everyone else has, make it part of the larger Quinn Fabray picture, but right now, she’s stuck feeling a little like a kid with her nose plastered up against a Monet. There used to be lilies here, once upon a time, but all she can see are paint blobs.
It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure it would still be confusing even if she didn’t have this howling, ravenous energy beating beneath her breast; for the sake of all that is holy, she thinks she’s falling in love.
Shit, Quinn Fabray’s not exactly partial to that idea.
It’s not even the girl part that’s throwing her for a loop, she muses as she undresses and clumsily settles under the showerhead. Not that she’s ever been into one before for real, not that she’s ever done anything but look (everyone looks, she reminds herself, that’s perfectly natural) before, but something about it feels…
Easy.
Except it’s not. It’s anything but. Rachel Berry is relationship calculus, for crying out loud, and Quinn suspects this would be so even if she wasn’t constantly worried about the brunette getting herself brutally murdered upon exiting the apartment. Rachel Berry is probably the least reasonable person in the world to fall in love with.
Which might work, she thinks with a tiny, stupid grin, because falling in love is probably the least reasonable thing in the world for a person to do in the first place.
It’s dumb, and it’s crazy, and like everything else going on lately, it is completely out of her hands. Normally, that would be terrifying, but she’s a little past the norm. There are bigger monsters under the bed to worry about.
Besides, unless she’s gone completely daffy, she doesn’t think it’d be off the mark to suggest Rachel might be falling too.
She realizes she’s grinning like an absolute moron, water in her ears and eyes, her skin smarting under the too-hot spray. This is absurd.She’s got bigger things to worry about.
But isn’t the point of love that it doesn’t get much bigger?
It’s hard to get her mind on straight, she thinks as she switches the water off and quietly dresses once more. She’s not really equipped for this sort of thing, not when she grew up hearing psalms instead of what her father called the ‘trite and deluded hashings of romantics’. She’s pretty sure it’s the stirrings of love chewing away at her sanity-it’s hard to imagine that anything else could have this kind of power. Why else would she crave the company of a woman who is quite obviously mad?
Not that she can necessarily rule that one out for herself. The point is, she could use a second opinion here.
Given the circumstances, Rachel seems as good a choice as any to talk it over with. Towel still draped around her shoulders, Quinn pries open the door and asks the first person she runs into where the girl might be.
Matt arches a brow and points his index finger straight down. Quinn thanks him, privately wondering how much more difficult it might’ve been just to say, “Basement.” These strong, silent types are creepier than they seem to realize.
It’s annoying how violently her heart jackhammers as she makes her way down. This shouldn’t be scary; it’s Rachel. Rachel, who is beautiful, and kind, and marginally horrifying with the whole mental control thing in her court, but otherwise-well, she’s your average, run-of-the-mill, martial-arts-expert tiny person.
Yes, okay, there might be a gem of wisdom in cherishing such anxiety.
She stumbles on the last step and nearly takes a mouthful of tile in penance. The energy inside gives a low rumble of disapproval, almost as if it’s embarrassed to be connected with someone so blatantly nervous. Relax, she imagines she can hear it whisper, remember last night. Remember how she felt beneath you, squirming and gasping. Remember how she was yours.
It’s strangely comforting.
And strangely not.
Hearing voices is still a bad sign, right?
As she nears the door, she throws her shoulders back and ruffles her hair with all ten trembling fingers. Suck it up, she snaps inwardly, rotating her upper body like a weight lifter gearing up for the big heft. She cares about you, at least. And she seemed to like the sex. It’s a start. Just go in there-
The thought dies right there in the middle as her ears take over for her brain. There are voices on the other side of that door, nudged ever so slightly ajar, and those voices are both familiar and a little bit frantic.
Or, at least, Kurt’s certainly is.
“There’s nothing to talk about. This is the only way.”
“Valid though that may be,” Rachel’s voice comes steadily, “it certainly merits contemplation. We will not go into this blindly.”
“Delivering orders again, Berry?” Santana’s rough tone responds. The door’s angle means Quinn can’t see her very well, but the image is clear enough in her mind: hair tousled, eyes stony, arms crossed over her chest. She frowns.
“You know as well as I that giving orders is the most productive manner of accomplishment sometimes-“
“Don’t care,” Kurt interrupts sharply. “We’re not talking about this. It’s the best way to get at him, and I say we go for it. Now.”
“That would be extremely foolhardy,” Rachel replies. Quinn thinks she sounds exhausted-guiltily, she knows she is to blame, at least in part-but firm. It’s that strength that she so appreciates in the brunette, surprising and frustrating though it can be.
“Foolhardy, my ass,” Santana fires back. “He’s right. She’s our best shot.”
She?
“She’s a goddamn weapon, you saw what she can do-“
Oh.
The warmth cycling in Quinn’s gut goes frigid in the next instant, her fingers curling against her palms at her sides. Leaning closer, she risks placing her forehead against the door and peering through the crack.
She can see Kurt now, pacing the floor with his hands circling above his uncharacteristically-rumpled hair. Santana, less visible, leans against a punching bag; occasionally, a thump carries through, assumably the product of one of her over-energetic fists.
Rachel is completely out of view, but her voice is as rich and certain as ever.
“I don’t believe you’re listening to me-“
“No,” Kurt cuts her off, “you’re not listening to me.”
“Us,” Santana corrects. His head shakes violently from side to side.
“Us. Rachel, this isn’t a game. He took Mercedes in a second, and you know how strong she was. You know how difficult that-we don’t have time to play around anymore, you have to see that.”
“No one is playing,” Rachel says, too calmly. “I’m simply suggesting we assess the situation before charging in headfirst.”
“You aren’t suggesting anything,” Kurt shrills. “You never do! You wouldn’t know a suggestion if it conked you over that ridiculously child-sized head.”
“Childish insults,” Santana observes wryly. “Count me in.”
“Listen to me,” Rachel snaps, “the both of you. You need to look at the bigger picture here. Quinn is an asset. A powerful one. And we may be able to utilize that asset, but right now, storming in will only get more people killed. We need to work out a plan. That power…that power makes her…she’s more dangerous than we understand.
“She’s a killer.”
For a hazy moment, Quinn can’t believe what she’s hearing. Rachel Berry; Rachel, the girl she just slept with; Rachel, the woman who has told her from day one that she is not evil, not a hazard-Rachel, the woman who has been preaching help and caution from day one…
And she’s saying this?
Worse, this isn’t just another conversation. Kurt sounds ferocious, even desperate; Santana, aggressive even beyond her usual visage. They’re plotting something in there, a comeback, and they’re planning on using her to go through with it.
Rachel is planning on using her.
Don’t leap, her rational mind tries to protest, don’t go there just yet, but it’s far too late. The beast is roaring inside, all sexual urges replaced in the blink of an eye by sheer rage. She wants to cage you, it hisses, wants to pin you down and make use of you like a tool.
We are no tool.
She remembers that night in bed, Rachel’s hot little hand glued to her arm, the promise whispered between them. I hurt someone-anyone-and I am out of here. The end.
How silly of her, how naive, to think at the time that simply hurting someone would be the worst of her problems. Look how quickly Santana has bounced back; causing a little pain isn’t the issue here, not the way she thought.
It was bad enough knowing Rayne wants her for God knows what end, but this? This is absurd. These are supposed to be her friends. These people are supposed to protect her. Isn’t that why Rachel turned up in the first place, battered and serious, pledging security?
Instead, they’re planning the opposite: to turn her like some kind of concentrated missile on the very man she wants desperately to stay away from. Her fists clench tighter at the thought, her head bent and trembling.
Get out, the voice inside her head whispers. Now. Who’s looking?
She chances a paranoid look over her shoulder, fully expecting to see Matt or Mike standing there with their freakish ninja silence skills. Astoundingly, the hall remains empty. Perfectly so, in fact.
No one will know until we’re gone.
Voices are such a bad sign, she thinks again, but it feels right now like the least on her ever-growing list of problems. Terrifying or no, that voice has a distinct point.
If she leaves now, she can run. She can get away, and maybe it won’t be for good, but it’s definitely better than sitting here numbly while she waits for those three to pass their plan along to the others. She’s helpless here, completely unproductive.
She needs time to think-and she sure as hell needs to do it somewhere far, far away from the influence of Rachel fucking Berry.
Teeth gritted, vision blurry with rage, she turns on her heel and moves stealthily back the way she came.