Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don't Want To Be Your Hero) (29/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (29/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Flannigan’s Diner is still the exact opposite of a family venue in many ways, still a little darker and a little danker than a twenty-three-year-old college graduate might prefer, but Quinn minds it less now than she ever did. There’s something solid about this place, something she long took for granted, and now that she is back…
It’s weird, maybe, to cherish a job that still pays barely more than minimum wage, but she can’t help it. The diner is normal-kind of the very peak of normalcy, as the case stands-and, ever since coming back three weeks ago, Quinn feels like it’s all she could possibly need.
The clientele doesn’t know that anything was ever different, of course; to them, she’s just another forgettably pretty face. But her co-workers-Carl in particular-walk around her like she’s made of glass. Like they expect another dark-eyed, battered soul to tread through their doors at an ungodly hour to wisk her away.
They don’t say it out loud, but she knows they thought the worst. She can’t blame them. They weren’t exactly wrong.
They ask sometimes (who in their right mind wouldn’t?), but Mike, of all people, is exceptional at crafting lies. A few bashful shrugs and a quick sob story about a cancer-riddled aunt she doesn’t have, and every one of them had no choice but to throw in the towel. There are holes, of course-why didn’t she call? Take a leave of absence?-but of everyone in their little group, Quinn figures her lie is the easiest and least harmful.
The others have had troubles, she knows. Some of them haven’t contacted their families in years; Kurt, Finn, Puck-they haven’t had an easy time of it. Rachel’s patented mental obstructions had to be removed, new memories had to be built, and somewhere along the way, she thinks Finn actually received a slap from the mother he left behind with nothing more than a letter. Reintegrating with ordinary life isn’t the easiest thing they’ve ever done.
She supposes she’s lucky that way. It hasn’t been so long, for her. Some of them…they seem to have forgotten what it’s like.
Rachel has found it particularly difficult; her point-blank bravado doesn’t wear as well in everyday living as on the battlefield, which would be understandable, except she doesn’t seem to realize it. She is loud, and forceful, and every move she makes is so meticulously calculated that it seems to frighten or piss off the people around her. Quinn thinks it’s hilarious, how she comes home at night and finds Rachel on her couch, complaining about how often her piano player rolls his eyes at her, clearly judging her “eloquence and charm.”
Quinn has met Brad, and she’s fairly certain he judges everyone that way, but it’s no use telling that to Rachel.
There is a lot wrong with the way they’re living now, she knows. They’re doing the best they can, and some of it is wonderful. For all her bluster and lack of social graces, Rachel sings like an angel, and everybody knows it; whenever Quinn gets an off night, she spends them at the piano bar down the block, pretending no one else exists in that room. And the others are getting by, too. Finn and Puck have gotten jobs in construction; Kurt works in a nearby library; Tina is poking around in educational realms, seeking out her GED. Things could definitely be worse.
But it still isn’t perfect. She dreams every night of the things she’s seen and done, horrific nightmares of Artie and Matt, visions where the beast lingers close to her ear and whispers commands she can’t resist. She isn’t alone there: sometimes she hears Brittany whimpering from the next room over in a way that is decidedly not sex-related (after three weeks sharing her old apartment with those two animals, she definitely knows the difference). And from what Puck tells her, Kurt hasn’t been sleeping much at all; they find him in the same place every morning, perched at the kitchen table with pale cheeks and a half-drained cup of coffee.
Things are wrong. Maybe things will always be wrong, on some level. Just because Rayne is out of their hair doesn’t mean life is hunky-dory. People still hate powers. The stories on the news are just skimmings off the top, Quinn knows; more often than not, hate crimes are going unreported and unanswered for. Rayne never would have been a threat if that weren’t the case.
This isn’t the world she signed on for, but really, how does that make her any different from the rest of the people living in this not-so-charmed city?
Her shift goes by surprisingly fast-they’ve been doing that a lot lately, probably because it is infinitely less difficult waiting tables than fighting a hoard of uniformed maniacs. When it’s up, Carl catches her eye and flicks a hearty wave with the hand not occupied with glasses.
“Good?”
“Great,” she responds with a grin. He arches an eyebrow.
“You know, every time you say that, I worry a little more about you.”
She can only laugh, reaching around the counter to clock out. “More or less than you worry about crazies sticking my head in a jar?”
“A shelf,” he corrects, ruffling her hair unexpectedly. “Jars are expensive.”
Shaking her head, she gives his shoulder a friendly shove. “See you tomorrow.”
The walk home makes her less nervous than it used to. Somehow, muggings don’t seem as terrifying when you’re sitting on enough awesome force to take down a grizzly bear without breaking a sweat.
Not that Santana’s amused by that. Still.
She is unsurprised, upon reaching her apartment, to be met with an explosion of sound before she can even get the door open. The first time it happened, it scared the shit out of her; living alone for so long kind of dampens expectations when it comes to visitors, after all. She more than half thought squatters had taken up residence in her apartment while she was off indulging her inner Justice League, right up until Brittany flung open the door and tackled her.
Now, though, it’s perfectly natural to walk into a living room packed with open pizza boxes and chattering friends. Technically speaking, they don’t live together-separate apartments in the same complex still makes for space, which seemed essential after the old headquarters. Despite herself, Quinn can’t help feeling glad to be in her own home, unburdened by a whole pack of people.
It’s chaotic enough with only Santana and Brittany sharing her bathroom. They get along freakishly well, despite Santana constantly throwing barbs her way, and it is so much less lonely than her life once was. She's lucky.
Still, she can’t imagine what it would be like to share rent with six other lunatics on top of what she's got.
None of which means a thing in terms of how often they see one another. With Tina and Rachel across the hall and all four boys wrecking havoc two floors down, this place feels scarily like a university dorm sometimes. If it didn’t mean a constant reel of on-order movie nights and a girlfriend who, though adamant in her refusal to ‘U-Haul’ (Quinn still isn’t overly clear on what that means, understanding only that Rachel is certain it would spell automatic death for their still-shiny relationship), stays over more often than not…
But the fact of the matter is, they’ve been through a lot together, and it would feel downright wrong to go back to spending nights alone with processed snacks and bad Meg Ryan romances.
“Quinn!” Puck bellows as she fumbles through the door and drops her coat on the first available chair. Somehow, he always sounds so shocked that she’s made it home. She still isn’t sure if that should be insulting or not.
“You leave any for me?” she asks mildly, trudging to the couch and flopping down with her head in Rachel’s lap. The brunette grunts, tapping her fingers against Quinn’s forehead.
“Gently, next time, please?”
“Lard-ass,” Santana snipes from the floor, attention zeroed in on the second-hand PlayStation Quinn never agreed upon owning. Bouncing at her side, Brittany gives her a sharply reprimanding prod.
“A dollar in the jar.”
“B, insult jars are, like, the stupidest idea ever,” Santana whines. Brittany beams.
“You only think that because you’re the only one who ever calls people names.”
She’s actually the only one who tends to gets caught, but Quinn sees no point in saying so now. She plasters her most obnoxious smile on as Santana, grumbling, yanks a crumpled bill out of her pocket hard enough to tear it at the edge.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Quinn sing-songs, laughing when Santana stretches to punch her in the thigh. Rachel makes a face.
“How on earth you manage to live together without spilling blood, I’ll never know.”
“The only reason we don’t spill blood is because I don’t want to accidentally burn the whole building down in the process,” Tina observes lightly, flicking a page in her magazine. Mike bumps her shoulder, chuckling. Rachel looks miffed.
“I’m a perfectly fine roommate, thank you very much!”
“You get up at five in the morning and sing. Every single day.” Tina flashes a smile. “Sooner or later, I am going to duct tape you to your bed.”
Quinn nearly chokes swallowing her laugh when Rachel turns her ever-pitiful pout her way. “Quinn? Tell them I’m a good roommate!”
“You are beautiful in many ways,” Quinn dodges artfully, craning up to press a kiss against Rachel’s neck. “And that is all that matters.”
The brunette slumps grouchily into the couch cushions. “That wasn’t a good answer.”
“Think it was the only answer,” Puck teases, not-so-discreetly slapping his palm against Quinn’s. She shakes out the sting, grinning.
“All of you are insane,” Kurt sniffs distractedly, bent over a chess board with his chin propped against his good hand. The other, which he landed on three weeks earlier, is cradled in a bedazzled sling. Broken or not, he seems to be thoroughly trouncing Finn, who keeps slapping his knee unhappily whenever a piece is stripped from the board.
“Battleship!” he announces furiously. “Next time, we are playing Battleship, and I am killing you.”
“Not if you insist upon putting all your boats in adjacent rows,” Kurt drawls, nudging a bishop into place. Quinn giggles, pleased when he glances up and shoots her a wink.
They are ridiculous, she knows; her parents would never approve, if they cared enough to check in with how she lives her life. This bizarre little team is every inch the bohemian opposite of what she was raised to be, and she knows it.
But, of course, no one raised her to be a comic book refugee either. No one raised her to kill a man with her bare hands, or to wake each night claimed by a sweat-drenched panic attack, or to comfort herself by rolling over and snuggling with another girl. Really, she wasn’t raised to be any of this.
Rachel’s hand twines with hers, the love seeping through her skin and warming her all over. Quinn smiles.
This isn’t perfect. The world is still a mess. Their friends are still dead. The voice in her head will probably never go away for good. But there are more people in this room than she has been able to count on since she can remember, and there is a genuinely good-hearted woman who loves her, and any one of them would give everything to keep her safe. Just as she would do for them.
It isn’t perfect, but it definitely doesn’t suck.
Kurt nudges his queen to block in Finn’s king just as Santana roars with triumph and gesticulates at the television screen with her controller. Beaming, Brittany clambers into her lap and presses their lips together like it’s the only thing that matters. Hand mindlessly stroking Quinn’s hair back, Rachel laughs.
Swaddled in the middle of the most chaotic family she could possibly want, Quinn closes her eyes and drifts contentedly to sleep.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Flannigan’s Diner is still the exact opposite of a family venue in many ways, still a little darker and a little danker than a twenty-three-year-old college graduate might prefer, but Quinn minds it less now than she ever did. There’s something solid about this place, something she long took for granted, and now that she is back…
It’s weird, maybe, to cherish a job that still pays barely more than minimum wage, but she can’t help it. The diner is normal-kind of the very peak of normalcy, as the case stands-and, ever since coming back three weeks ago, Quinn feels like it’s all she could possibly need.
The clientele doesn’t know that anything was ever different, of course; to them, she’s just another forgettably pretty face. But her co-workers-Carl in particular-walk around her like she’s made of glass. Like they expect another dark-eyed, battered soul to tread through their doors at an ungodly hour to wisk her away.
They don’t say it out loud, but she knows they thought the worst. She can’t blame them. They weren’t exactly wrong.
They ask sometimes (who in their right mind wouldn’t?), but Mike, of all people, is exceptional at crafting lies. A few bashful shrugs and a quick sob story about a cancer-riddled aunt she doesn’t have, and every one of them had no choice but to throw in the towel. There are holes, of course-why didn’t she call? Take a leave of absence?-but of everyone in their little group, Quinn figures her lie is the easiest and least harmful.
The others have had troubles, she knows. Some of them haven’t contacted their families in years; Kurt, Finn, Puck-they haven’t had an easy time of it. Rachel’s patented mental obstructions had to be removed, new memories had to be built, and somewhere along the way, she thinks Finn actually received a slap from the mother he left behind with nothing more than a letter. Reintegrating with ordinary life isn’t the easiest thing they’ve ever done.
She supposes she’s lucky that way. It hasn’t been so long, for her. Some of them…they seem to have forgotten what it’s like.
Rachel has found it particularly difficult; her point-blank bravado doesn’t wear as well in everyday living as on the battlefield, which would be understandable, except she doesn’t seem to realize it. She is loud, and forceful, and every move she makes is so meticulously calculated that it seems to frighten or piss off the people around her. Quinn thinks it’s hilarious, how she comes home at night and finds Rachel on her couch, complaining about how often her piano player rolls his eyes at her, clearly judging her “eloquence and charm.”
Quinn has met Brad, and she’s fairly certain he judges everyone that way, but it’s no use telling that to Rachel.
There is a lot wrong with the way they’re living now, she knows. They’re doing the best they can, and some of it is wonderful. For all her bluster and lack of social graces, Rachel sings like an angel, and everybody knows it; whenever Quinn gets an off night, she spends them at the piano bar down the block, pretending no one else exists in that room. And the others are getting by, too. Finn and Puck have gotten jobs in construction; Kurt works in a nearby library; Tina is poking around in educational realms, seeking out her GED. Things could definitely be worse.
But it still isn’t perfect. She dreams every night of the things she’s seen and done, horrific nightmares of Artie and Matt, visions where the beast lingers close to her ear and whispers commands she can’t resist. She isn’t alone there: sometimes she hears Brittany whimpering from the next room over in a way that is decidedly not sex-related (after three weeks sharing her old apartment with those two animals, she definitely knows the difference). And from what Puck tells her, Kurt hasn’t been sleeping much at all; they find him in the same place every morning, perched at the kitchen table with pale cheeks and a half-drained cup of coffee.
Things are wrong. Maybe things will always be wrong, on some level. Just because Rayne is out of their hair doesn’t mean life is hunky-dory. People still hate powers. The stories on the news are just skimmings off the top, Quinn knows; more often than not, hate crimes are going unreported and unanswered for. Rayne never would have been a threat if that weren’t the case.
This isn’t the world she signed on for, but really, how does that make her any different from the rest of the people living in this not-so-charmed city?
Her shift goes by surprisingly fast-they’ve been doing that a lot lately, probably because it is infinitely less difficult waiting tables than fighting a hoard of uniformed maniacs. When it’s up, Carl catches her eye and flicks a hearty wave with the hand not occupied with glasses.
“Good?”
“Great,” she responds with a grin. He arches an eyebrow.
“You know, every time you say that, I worry a little more about you.”
She can only laugh, reaching around the counter to clock out. “More or less than you worry about crazies sticking my head in a jar?”
“A shelf,” he corrects, ruffling her hair unexpectedly. “Jars are expensive.”
Shaking her head, she gives his shoulder a friendly shove. “See you tomorrow.”
The walk home makes her less nervous than it used to. Somehow, muggings don’t seem as terrifying when you’re sitting on enough awesome force to take down a grizzly bear without breaking a sweat.
Not that Santana’s amused by that. Still.
She is unsurprised, upon reaching her apartment, to be met with an explosion of sound before she can even get the door open. The first time it happened, it scared the shit out of her; living alone for so long kind of dampens expectations when it comes to visitors, after all. She more than half thought squatters had taken up residence in her apartment while she was off indulging her inner Justice League, right up until Brittany flung open the door and tackled her.
Now, though, it’s perfectly natural to walk into a living room packed with open pizza boxes and chattering friends. Technically speaking, they don’t live together-separate apartments in the same complex still makes for space, which seemed essential after the old headquarters. Despite herself, Quinn can’t help feeling glad to be in her own home, unburdened by a whole pack of people.
It’s chaotic enough with only Santana and Brittany sharing her bathroom. They get along freakishly well, despite Santana constantly throwing barbs her way, and it is so much less lonely than her life once was. She's lucky.
Still, she can’t imagine what it would be like to share rent with six other lunatics on top of what she's got.
None of which means a thing in terms of how often they see one another. With Tina and Rachel across the hall and all four boys wrecking havoc two floors down, this place feels scarily like a university dorm sometimes. If it didn’t mean a constant reel of on-order movie nights and a girlfriend who, though adamant in her refusal to ‘U-Haul’ (Quinn still isn’t overly clear on what that means, understanding only that Rachel is certain it would spell automatic death for their still-shiny relationship), stays over more often than not…
But the fact of the matter is, they’ve been through a lot together, and it would feel downright wrong to go back to spending nights alone with processed snacks and bad Meg Ryan romances.
“Quinn!” Puck bellows as she fumbles through the door and drops her coat on the first available chair. Somehow, he always sounds so shocked that she’s made it home. She still isn’t sure if that should be insulting or not.
“You leave any for me?” she asks mildly, trudging to the couch and flopping down with her head in Rachel’s lap. The brunette grunts, tapping her fingers against Quinn’s forehead.
“Gently, next time, please?”
“Lard-ass,” Santana snipes from the floor, attention zeroed in on the second-hand PlayStation Quinn never agreed upon owning. Bouncing at her side, Brittany gives her a sharply reprimanding prod.
“A dollar in the jar.”
“B, insult jars are, like, the stupidest idea ever,” Santana whines. Brittany beams.
“You only think that because you’re the only one who ever calls people names.”
She’s actually the only one who tends to gets caught, but Quinn sees no point in saying so now. She plasters her most obnoxious smile on as Santana, grumbling, yanks a crumpled bill out of her pocket hard enough to tear it at the edge.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Quinn sing-songs, laughing when Santana stretches to punch her in the thigh. Rachel makes a face.
“How on earth you manage to live together without spilling blood, I’ll never know.”
“The only reason we don’t spill blood is because I don’t want to accidentally burn the whole building down in the process,” Tina observes lightly, flicking a page in her magazine. Mike bumps her shoulder, chuckling. Rachel looks miffed.
“I’m a perfectly fine roommate, thank you very much!”
“You get up at five in the morning and sing. Every single day.” Tina flashes a smile. “Sooner or later, I am going to duct tape you to your bed.”
Quinn nearly chokes swallowing her laugh when Rachel turns her ever-pitiful pout her way. “Quinn? Tell them I’m a good roommate!”
“You are beautiful in many ways,” Quinn dodges artfully, craning up to press a kiss against Rachel’s neck. “And that is all that matters.”
The brunette slumps grouchily into the couch cushions. “That wasn’t a good answer.”
“Think it was the only answer,” Puck teases, not-so-discreetly slapping his palm against Quinn’s. She shakes out the sting, grinning.
“All of you are insane,” Kurt sniffs distractedly, bent over a chess board with his chin propped against his good hand. The other, which he landed on three weeks earlier, is cradled in a bedazzled sling. Broken or not, he seems to be thoroughly trouncing Finn, who keeps slapping his knee unhappily whenever a piece is stripped from the board.
“Battleship!” he announces furiously. “Next time, we are playing Battleship, and I am killing you.”
“Not if you insist upon putting all your boats in adjacent rows,” Kurt drawls, nudging a bishop into place. Quinn giggles, pleased when he glances up and shoots her a wink.
They are ridiculous, she knows; her parents would never approve, if they cared enough to check in with how she lives her life. This bizarre little team is every inch the bohemian opposite of what she was raised to be, and she knows it.
But, of course, no one raised her to be a comic book refugee either. No one raised her to kill a man with her bare hands, or to wake each night claimed by a sweat-drenched panic attack, or to comfort herself by rolling over and snuggling with another girl. Really, she wasn’t raised to be any of this.
Rachel’s hand twines with hers, the love seeping through her skin and warming her all over. Quinn smiles.
This isn’t perfect. The world is still a mess. Their friends are still dead. The voice in her head will probably never go away for good. But there are more people in this room than she has been able to count on since she can remember, and there is a genuinely good-hearted woman who loves her, and any one of them would give everything to keep her safe. Just as she would do for them.
It isn’t perfect, but it definitely doesn’t suck.
Kurt nudges his queen to block in Finn’s king just as Santana roars with triumph and gesticulates at the television screen with her controller. Beaming, Brittany clambers into her lap and presses their lips together like it’s the only thing that matters. Hand mindlessly stroking Quinn’s hair back, Rachel laughs.
Swaddled in the middle of the most chaotic family she could possibly want, Quinn closes her eyes and drifts contentedly to sleep.