fic: Kingdom Up For Sale (2/9)
Title: Kingdom Up For Sale (2/9)
Author: professor_spork
Beta: beingfacetious
Character/Pairing: Quinn-centric gen, featuring Quinn/Sam friendship, canon!Fuinn, and vague hintings at potential Faberry if you squint, with guest appearances by the rest of the gleeks.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She owes him, and he needs her. And if it turns out that maybe she needs him, too… well. Sam and Quinn, from Comeback to Rumours.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Author’s Notes: So, once upon a time-and by once upon a time I mean right after Rumours came out-I set out to write a fic about Quinn helping Sam babysit, because I thought that dynamic would be really interesting to explore. Somehow, this evolved into a massive exploration of all of Quinn's issues three months in the making. I have no regrets. The title is a lyric from Gold Dust Woman, off the Rumours LP, because-well. Relevant.
( 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 )
She isn’t sure what she was expecting to feel when she walked into the motel room Sam now calls home, but it wasn’t rage.
It’s just… she’d been to the Evans house. It hadn’t been big, but it had been cozy and nice and a home. They’ve clearly tried to make the motel room the same, but it’s not, at all, and even as it breaks her heart it’s not sadness that she’s feeling-it’s indignation. These are good people, and all of a sudden all she wants to do is burn down the world for doing this to them.
Her train of thought is derailed by a tiny blonde body launching itself at her and attaching to her legs.
“Quinn!”
“Hey, Stacey.”
“Hi! It’s been ages. And you said you’d teach me how to French braid and we never did and then Sammy said you weren’t his girlfriend anymore.”
“I’m not,” Quinn affirms mildly, and Stacey frowns.
“But-”
“But I never forgot about the braids.” She grins, and leans in like she has a secret. “What do you think-is Sam’s hair long enough that we can practice on him?”
“Hey!” Sam protests.
And maybe, just maybe, she can do this.
(Because that’s the plan. Every day, after school, right here. Sam starts his job on Wednesday, and then she’s on her own with them. She has to make sure she’s not the bad guy long before that happens.
She’ll never forget that she is, but hopefully, if she’s lucky, they will.)
-
It’s awkward, at first, but powering through uncomfortable moments is something of a Fabray specialty, and it’s not long before Quinn’s doing Stacey’s nails on the floor while Sam and Stevie play some incredibly complicated board game called Race for the Galaxy. Quinn had tried to follow along, at first, but it appears to be all about interstellar real estate and she just can’t fathom the appeal on any level.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, Stace?”
“Why did you and Sam break up?”
Her eyes immediately flicker to Sam’s, and they trade an alarmed look.
“We… decided we were better off as friends,” Sam finally says, and Quinn’s completely unprepared for how guilty that makes her feel.
“Did you fall out of love?”
Quinn concentrates hard on applying a topcoat to Stacey’s fingers, giving herself time to think. How do you explain to a girl who still believes in Disney princess true love that you cheated on her brother, with whom you were never really in love to begin with?
“It’s like… it’s like Pocahontas. She and John Smith were really good for each other, but in the end she marries John Rolfe.”
“Sam says sequels don’t count, though,” Stacey says, scrunching her nose in distaste, and Quinn suppresses a smile.
“But it’s not made up; that’s what actually happened to the real Pocahontas.”
Her eyes go wide. “There was a real Pocahontas?”
“Of course there was! Haven’t you learned about her in school?”
Stacey shakes her head.
“Stevie?”
“Didn’t she invent corn?”
“Uh, first of all that was Squanto, and secondly he didn’t invent corn, he just showed the Pilgrims how to plant it.”
“I thought Squanto helped Lewis and Clark cross America?”
“That was Sacagawea.”
“Really? But she’s a girl!”
“Hey,” Sam reprimands, “don’t say stuff like that. It’s un-feminist.”
“What’s a feminist?” Stevie asks, cocking his head to the side.
“They’re ladies who yell at boys for being jerks,” Stacey says loftily, blowing on her fingers to dry her nail polish.
“I’m not a lady! Sam!”
“Dudes can be feminists too, Half-Pint. It just means that you treat everyone like you’re supposed to.”
“Like the Golden Rule?”
“Yeah.”
Quinn smiles brokenly, doing her best to enjoy the moment and ignore the building pressure in her chest. (It’s just that it hurts. Being reminded of what a family’s supposed to look like, when she’s had so many chances at one and has screwed it up or given it away every single time.)
-
Dinner is simple milk and cereal, which gives Quinn an entirely different kind of heartache. She tries to beg off, planning to have a late supper when she gets home, but then Sam pulls the Yeah, I’m not hungry either card and it sucks, knowing that the only way to get him to eat is if she does. They stare each other down across the coffee table, matching each other bite for bite, and it’s just…
The sad thing is that she knows it’s normal, to be this fucked up.
-
He waits until Stevie and Stacey are asleep before he mentions anything about it.
“Don’t pull that stunt again. With the cereal. That was messed up.”
She looks him right in the eye. “No, what’s messed up is the fact that you’re still trying to skip meals when you promised me you’d cut that out.”
“I didn’t promise you anything, Quinn-you assaulted me in the hallway, shoved your opinion down my throat and walked away.”
“It’s not an opinion, it’s-”
“God, just shut UP!” he growls, doing his best to keep his voice down. “You don’t understand. You don’t have a clue what this feels like. The pressure I’m under.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, she says, “I know what it’s like to get kicked out of your house, Sam.”
… and now he feels like a total jerk. But the two situations are apples and oranges, and it’s not fair for her to try and equate them.
“I know you do. Sorry. I know. But not like me.”
She just nods.
“You’re right. Not like you. At least you all have each other,” she murmurs, eyes flickering to Stevie and Stacey, asleep on the fold-out couch. “When my parents found out about… My dad gave me an hour. One hour, to pack up a life.”
“What did you take with you?” he asks, not daring so much as a glance at his guitar, propped up in the corner. He thinks he can trust her-he knows she wants him to-but the first rule of being near Quinn Fabray is show no weakness, and he knows she’ll pick up on it in a heartbeat.
She starts worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, and he relaxes a little. It means she’s trying. It’s one of her few tells, actually-being honest is so contrary to Quinn’s nature that she tries to bite back the words until literally the last moment.
“You know,” she finally says, “That sucked worst of all. There wasn’t really anything to take.”
“Harsh,” he whispers, which is the understatement of the century, but really-what else is there to say?
“Yeah…” she trails off, before running a hand up and down her forearm. “I’ve missed you, Sam,” she mumbles.
It cost her something to say that, and he smiles in appreciation. “Yeah. You want me to walk you to your car?”
“In a sec. But I just need a minute to…”
“Okay.”
-
True to his word, he escorts her out to the parking lot five minutes later, hands shoved deeply in his pockets. She can’t get over the lingering feeling that some things have been left unsaid, however, and so she pauses at her door, fumbling uselessly with her key ring.
“So… is this working, so far?”
He can’t bring himself to stop staring at his shoes. “I… yeah. I think so.”
“We probably shouldn’t talk to each other in school, at least for a while.”
“Why? Because Finn will think you’re cheating on him?”
She winces, but: deserved that. “No, because I don’t want Santana to kill me. When Mercedes went out with Puck, I had to warn her so that she knew to be on the lookout before she got murdered.”
Sam looks up, interested. “Mercedes went out with Puck?”
“For, like, five seconds. Not that that stopped Santana from going after her, which is all sorts of hilarious because Santana wasn’t even really with Puck by then. She broke up with him because of his credit score.”
Sam sucks in a breath, and-oh.
She’s never really been the kind of person to put her foot in her mouth, because her policy has always been to withhold her words as long as possible. Distract, deflect, defend-that’s how you keep power. She’s put herself in plenty of corners and burned a lot of bridges by saying too little, but saying too much? She has absolutely no idea how to deal with this.
“Sam, I…”
“I think the words you’re looking for are I’m sorry.”
She stiffens. “What are you, my life coach, now?”
She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, their hypocrisy repulsive even to her, but it barely seems to phase him.
“No, I just thought we were trying to be friends.”
If it were anyone else, it would have sounded snide or passive-aggressive, but it’s Sam, so it just sounds honest. (She always forgets how simple things are, in Sam’s world. You make a promise and you keep it. She’s not sure she’ll ever get used to that, and part of her is terrified of being taken at her word.)
“…Sorry.”
“S’cool,” he shrugs, and she believes him. After a moment, he ventures, “So, like… what happened?”
“Mercedes realized that Puck’s an asshole and she can do way better?”
“No, I mean, with Santana.”
“Oh. They… sang a song about it in glee club.”
“Seriously?” Sam asks, cracking up.
Quinn can’t help but smile in response. “Seriously. They did The Boy Is Mine.”
It isn’t even that funny, in the grand scheme of things, but it has the two of them in hysterics for a good two minutes.
-
The second night… well, things don’t go quite according to plan.
It’s fine for the first few hours. There’s homework to be done and an intense game of Egyptian Ratscrew to be played. But then the kids get restless, and…
“Sammy, we’re bored.”
… and then that happens.
“Want me to sing to you? Hey; since Quinn is here, we can even do duets!” Beaming, he goes to grab his guitar. “What do you think, Quinn? Any requests? You like Madonna, right?”
Quinn suddenly flashes back to another night of babysitting, and the words want to see a real live music video, and the only thing more overwhelming than the sudden tidal wave of anxiety that crashes through her veins is her intense need to be elsewhere. She knows she says “I don’t feel well” as she gets up and practically flees to the bathroom, but she can barely hear it over the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.
She locks the door behind her and grips the sink hard to keep her hands from shaking, staring blankly at herself in the mirror. It feels like there’s a vacuum in her chest where her heart should be, pulling in and in and in like a black hole, knocking the wind out of her and squeezing her to death.
This is a panic attack, she thinks, but knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Quinn?” Sam murmurs, knocking on the door.
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and part of her hates him for that.
Bottling everything for the moment, she presses her mouth into a firm, thin line and opens the door a few inches. She has to lean against the jamb to keep herself steady, but what matters is that she doesn’t break his gaze, exhaling slowly through her nose to keep from hyperventilating. “See? Fine.”
“You say that, but… Quinn, it’s like your eyes are screaming at me.”
Fuck you. “I just need a second,” she says through gritted teeth, and then closes the door in his face and locks it again.
Secure as she’s going to be, she sinks to the floor; it feels like an unforgivable display of weakness, but there’s no one here to judge her but her, and that’s nothing she’s not used to.
She can’t breathe.
She used to be so good at this. At keeping her shit together. It was practically rule one in the Fabray household: fake it ‘til you make it. Maintain composure at all costs. Now it’s all she can do to press her forehead against the cool tile of Sam’s bathroom floor and try not to feel like she’s having a heart attack, and nothing even happened. It’s just a stupid duet.
She loses track of how long she lays there, struggling for air.
Another knock. “…Quinn?”
“One second,” she croaks, before hesitantly trying to get up. She’s unsteady on her feet, but she feels sort of like a human being again, and that’s just going to have to do.
She squeezes her eyes shut, squares her shoulders, and opens the door, strolling right past Sam into the living room.
“Sorry, guys,” she says in a falsely chipper voice, smile plastered on her face. “What do you want to hear us sing?”
“A Whole New World!” Stacey requests happily, and Quinn ignores the probing look Sam shoots at her.
And really, she shouldn’t be surprised that the guy who once described a Justin Bieber song as a hugely emotional anthem that sums up our generation knows the chords to, like, every single Disney song ever recorded.
-
An hour later, Sam’s parents come home to find their eldest son singing and dancing around the motel room with his guitar, encouraging his siblings to get down to business to defeat the Huns while his ex-girlfriend occasionally chimes in to tell him to be a man.
“You call this calming them down for bed?” Mrs. Evans finally says in a weak voice, and the two teens freeze in place.
“Mom! Dad! We were just-”
“-they weren’t tired, and we thought it might help to-”
“-didn’t mean for it to go on this long, guess we just got distracted-”
“-but they’re all washed up and ready for bed, so-”
“-how was job hunting?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Lots of lures out, no bites yet. How are you doing, Quinn?” Mr. Evans asks awkwardly, and she just can’t take his well-meaning attempts at being civil to the bitch who cheated on his son. She just can’t.
“I’m fine, but I’m actually-Mom probably expected me home a while ago, so I’m just gonna… go. Thank you for having me.” She says the last part because she was raised a certain way and it’s just reflex, and winces at how it sounds. “Um. Goodnight.”
She’s halfway to her car when Sam catches up to her.
“Jeez, Quinn, slow down! Why are you running away?”
“I’m not running away, I’m just leaving. Everything’s fine.”
“Look, about what happened earlier…”
She walks a little faster. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not. I’m not stupid, Quinn. And I don’t want to be a jerk about this, but… come on. I see the way you look at Stacey. It’s not that hard to figure out. And I feel like maybe you’d feel better if you tal-”
She stops walking to turn around and glare at him sharply, finger in his face. “Don’t you dare.”
“Whoa, wait, I wasn’t-”
“I know that this is you trying to be a good guy and everything, but I don’t need your help and I don’t need your opinion, so just back off. You will never understand, and we. Do not. Talk. About. This.”
(She knows she’s being intensely hypocritical again, but… she can’t do this. She doesn’t go here.)
He holds his palms up in surrender. “Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry. Message received.”
She sighs, and slumps against her car door. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick you up.”
“Huh?” Sam blinks, completely caught off-guard.
“Obviously you’re not taking the bus anymore, because none of the routes go near here. And… it doesn’t make sense for your parents to waste time and gas taking you all to school when you’re on my way, anyway. ”
“Quinn…”
“Just please let me do this, okay?”
He frowns, but they both know he’s in no place to argue with her logic. “Okay.”
-
Her first night alone with them goes pretty well, all things considered. She brings her laptop with her, and after helping them with their homework she spends the evening introducing them to the wonder that is cute animals on the internet-ninja cats and dramatic chipmunks and slow lorises getting tickled.
She knows there’s food in their tiny kitchenette she could make, but the idea of using that up when she’s able to pay for dinner is just… she can’t. She doesn’t say a word; just asks Stevie and Stacey what they want and then orders it.
And that’s it, really. After dinner she lets them watch some kids movie streaming on Netflix while she does her Pre-Calc and Spanish, and then she tucks them in.
A half hour later, they’re still tossing and turning restlessly, and she’s working on a history report, pretending not to notice.
“Quinn, will you sing for us?” Stevie finally asks in a quiet voice.
She frowns, bracing herself for a repeat of last night, but the anxiety never comes. She still doesn’t like the idea of singing without at least Sam’s guitar backing her up, but on the other hand, Stevie’s a pretty shy kid, and he never asks for anything. And besides, this is mostly them feeling lonely and missing Sam, so…
“Tell you what,” she says, getting up and unplugging her laptop, “I have something to show you. Make room?”
The two of them scooch to either side of the fold-out couch and she nestles herself between them, balancing her computer on her knees. Stacey immediately tucks herself under Quinn’s left arm and snuggles in, and Stevie rests a tentative head on her right shoulder.
“Are we going to watch another movie?” Stacey asks sleepily.
“Sort of. Sam and I are going to sing for you.”
“But Sammy’s not here.”
“Not right now,” Quinn allows. “But I have a video of the two of us singing at Sectionals-our first big glee club concert this year. Do you want to see that?”
“Yeah!”
Rachel’s dads have never missed a single performance of hers, and recordings of everything New Directions has ever done are up on her MySpace page. Quinn’d been worried, for a second, that because Rachel hadn’t had any solos she’d have neglected to upload the videos, but apparently her anal retentive need to have a complete archive of her life’s work trumped her bruised ego.
“Here we go,” Quinn says, and pushes play.
It’s… really bizarre, actually, watching herself. She’s had plenty of experience analyzing old Cheerios routines with Coach Sylvester, but that generally involved a lot of angry rewinding and diagrams drawn over paused images with a laser pointer. It was critical. Mean, even. This is…
Nothing quite prepared her for how happy the other Quinn looks, dancing on that stage with Sam.
She barely recognizes herself at all.
-
Sam’s a bit surprised, when he comes home, to find Quinn rooting through his backpack, his Spanish homework already in front of her.
“Um, Quinn? What are you doing?”
“Checking your homework; what does it look like I’m doing?”
“You can’t just go through my shit like that; it’s not okay.”
“I’m not going through your shit, I’m checking your homework. You’re welcome.”
He remembers when they were dating-how she’d stay late with him to go over his work, teaching him algebra shortcuts and editing his essays. I’m on the honor roll, she’d say harshly, so if I’m going to be dating someone in lower-level classes, he should at least be passing them.
He was telling the truth, when he said she was the best thing that happened to him since he moved to Lima. Most of the time Quinn’s abrasive at best, but he’s always seen right through her. She’s not who she pretends to be at all. (And besides, he kind of appreciates it-the fact that she doesn’t give him that stupid ‘pander to the dyslexic kid’ look and baby talk him. She doesn’t take no for an answer and forces him to try.)
“You’re a good person, Quinn,” he murmurs quietly, moving to sit next to her on the floor.
She takes a deep breath in and out, staring down at the loose collection of papers in her hands. “No, I’m not.”
“But you-”
“Everything looks pretty okay; if I made any corrections, he’ll know you didn’t do it. Which means… you’ve been studying.” She gives him a smile he can’t interpret. “Guess it finally occurred to you that if you can teach yourself Na’vi, you can manage Mr. Schue’s Spanish class, huh?”
Classic Quinn. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, well. Football’s over, so I have more time on my hands.”
“Right,” she murmurs, and gets up. “I’m… gonna go. Goodnight, Sam.”
“…Night.”
-
By Thursday, it actually feels like they have a routine going. She drops off and picks up all of the Evans kids from school like clockwork, she and Sam spend a few hours watching Stevie and Stacey horse around on the playground, and at five forty Sam leaves to catch the cross-town bus to work, leaving Quinn with the care and feeding of his siblings.
She decides to take them out to eat. And maybe Taco Bell isn’t the most glamorous dining establishment ever, but anything that breaks routine is a pretty awesome adventure as far as Stacey and Stevie are concerned. (Their orders amuse the hell out of her. Stevie gets a baja gordita with lime sauce, which Quinn happens to know is Sam’s usual, and picky eater Stacey asks for two plain beef soft tacos, with absolutely nothing on them-not even cheese. They’re so… normal. It’s nice.)
The cheapo kids meal toy from Stacey’s dinner has already lost its appeal by the time Quinn pulls back into the motel parking lot, which means it doesn’t take much to get them to pull out their homework. Stevie is in the middle of a project on the solar system, and Stacey has a worksheet on reading analog clocks; as Quinn patiently explains about big hands and little hands and tries to remember the remedy that gets glue out of carpets, she can’t help but feel a pang.
It’s an utterly ordinary evening, remarkable only in how unremarkable it is.
She hates that it makes her so sad.
After running the gauntlet of two bedtime stories, a glass of water each and a song, she finally gets Stevie and Stacey to sleep. Easing herself off the couch and stretching, she wanders out to the porch to get some fresh air.
She jumps and has to slap a hand to her mouth to keep from screaming when she finds Sam sitting, back to her, on the front railing.
“Christ, Sam, you scared me! How long have you been sitting out here? I could have used your… hey. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t move.
“Sam. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She sets her jaw and goes to stand next to him, leaning her elbows on the railing and knitting her hands together.
“Stargazing?” she ventures after a moment.
“Yeah. It... calms me down, I guess.”
“Something about all that space makes all your problems seem kind of small, right?” she recalls, and holds back a laugh at his expression. “Try not to be so shocked that I listen when you talk.”
“I… one of my deliveries tonight was to Dalton. Kurt saw me.”
“So he knows you have a job. That doesn’t mean he…” she trails off at the guilty look on his face, and sighs. “We’ve really got to work on this whole ‘I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body’ thing, if you want your secrets to stay secrets. But you and Kurt are… he’s not going to…”
“No, Kurt’s cool. But, like-no offense Quinn, but I still kind of hate the fact that you know about this.”
“I know,” she says quietly. He stares intently at a crack in the railing paint, trying not to look like his world’s falling to pieces, and she fights off the sudden urge to-she doesn’t even know. Fix it somehow. A kiss to his forehead, or a hand on his knee. Something to remind him that that he’s not alone. But it’s absurd because it’s her, and tentative friendship or no, that’s never going to happen.
She’s more than broken enough for the two of them, and she has no right.
-
Box springs creak sharply as Quinn pushes Finn down onto his bed, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips.
“I have been waiting,” she murmurs, leaning down close and nipping at his ear before pulling him into an aggressive kiss, “all week for this.”
Thing is, it’s God’s honest truth. It sucks, having to avoid him at school all the time-and she knows it’s only polite to keep what they have under wraps until the drama blows over somewhat, but she can’t talk to Sam, either, and it’s just…
It’s not that she’s lonely. It’s just frustrating, is all.
But earlier in the afternoon, Sam had texted her saying she was off the hook for the night, because his parents wanted to have some quality family time. Which is more than fine with her-it just means she gets to enjoy her weekend that much sooner.
“Quinn-” Finn groans, and she smirks into his neck.
She can feel him getting hard against her thigh, and even though she’s come a long way from the silly little girl whose motto was It’s all about the teasing and not about the pleasing, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t get a thrill from this. (She’s learning to accept the fact that the constant need to feel in control probably isn’t healthy, but everyone has to have power over something. Or they’d just go insane.)
Suddenly he’s shoving at her shoulders, rolling them both over, and her head spins as she tries to process what it feels like to have the full weight of him pushing her into the mattress.
On the one hand, him taking the lead is kind of an unexpected turn-on, because she’d always kept him on such a short leash, before.
On the other hand, she’d always kept him on a short leash, before, which means he learned to do this from someone else, and that someone else is either Rachel or Santana, and she’s so thrown by this realization that she doesn’t even hear the front door open.
“Luuuucy, I’m hoooome,” Kurt singsongs from the foyer, and in the fraction of a second it takes for Finn to leap off of her, everything inside Quinn turns to ice. (And honestly. It’s been years, and eventually she’s going to have to stop being such a little bitch about this.)
Her eyes flicker to Finn to see if he noticed her momentary freakout, but he’s too busy mumbling “shit shit shit shit shit mailman mailman mailman” to pay her any attention, scrambling around the bed looking for something to hide his boner, because-
“Finn? Are you down here? What’s-hellooooo.”
Finn makes a squeaky noise from somewhere in the back of his throat, and Quinn just hides her head in her hands. Slinking his way across the room with his back to the wall, Finn stammers, “I-you know what, we were just gonna-I have to. Pee. And then I’m gonna drive Quinn home. Because she was leaving. Like. I’m gonna-um. Hold on a sec.”
He practically throws himself up the steps, leaving Quinn with nothing but Kurt and a whole lot of awkward silence.
She stares at a neutral spot on the wall, utterly mortified and face bright pink-already planning on rejoining the celibacy club, like, fucking yesterday, and praying that Kurt sees a way out of this, because she’s got nothing.
“Quinn Fabray, when are you going to let me burn those travesties you call shoes?”
(She could kiss him.)
As it is, she bites back a smile, grateful for the subject change. “For the last time, Kurt, I like these shoes.”
“I can’t see why. And with socks? It’s like Lilith Fair on the Prairie.”
“There is nothing homosexual about my footwear,” she says through gritted teeth. She feels her features fall into the sickly sweet smile Finn calls ‘Scary Quinn’ as she continues, “Speaking of which, how’s Blaine?”
To Kurt’s credit, he chuckles.
“He’s fine, now that he’s gotten over his little Rachel Berry-inspired sexual identity crisis.” Quinn opens her mouth to laugh only to end up choking on her own spit, and Kurt shakes his head. “I know. What is it about that girl?”
She takes a deep breath, and plays with the hem of her dress. “No, but really, though. Things are good?”
“They’re… yes. Different, but good. I’m finally starting to feel like a part of the Warblers, and that makes a world of difference. I’m not just the new kid, I’m one of the guys. It’s… nice. We actually hang out together.”
“And have pizza parties?” she asks, because she can’t leave it alone any longer.
He clears his throat.
“Look, Kurt… I know that you probably feel out of the gossip loop now that you’re at Dalton, but you can’t tell anyone about this. Not even Mercedes.”
He gives her an unexpectedly hard look. “Sam Evans is the only person at that school who never once made me feel like there was something wrong with me being who I am. Literally, the only person. He got a black eye for me. I’m not going to turn around and betray his trust.”
(…She should have remembered that, considering it was the whole reason she finally committed to Sam in the first place.)
She sighs, shoulders slumping. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“And while we’re on the subject of secret-keeping, you don’t have to worry: Finn already brought me up to date on all of your drama, and my lips are sealed until after Regionals, just like you want.” (She considers letting him know that it’s definitely not what she wants, but-so not the point right now.)
He wanders over to sit down next to her on Finn’s bed. Staring at his hands in his lap, he murmurs, “But really, Quinn… how bad is it?”
She bites her lip, wondering just how much she can let herself say, but… it’s Kurt. “It’s not good. The bank repossessed his house. His parents are barely ever around, because they’re trying to earn money any way they can, and Sam’s… you know he has siblings?”
Kurt shakes his head.
“Yeah. A little brother and sister. They look up to him like he’s God’s gift, and he’s doing everything he can to do right by them, but… there’s only so much he can do.”
“And where do you fit into the picture?”
“Still figuring that part out. Technically I’m babysitting, but that can mean anything from actually babysitting to just staying around as an extra pair of hands. It’s not enough, but I really owe Sam, and… at least it’s nice to know that my housewife skills are good for something.”
When she glances up at him, her chest constricts, because he’s giving her that look. The one she’s been getting for almost a year now-like she’s breaking apart and everyone can see it but her, and Beth is the light shining through her cracks.
Bile rises in her throat, but before she can summon enough strength to school her expression into something dangerous and tell him to mind his own fucking business, Kurt twists and grabs her, pulling her into a hug. She stiffens immediately, but he refuses to let go, and… whatever, Kurt smells really good, and it’s kind of nice to relax and just let this happen for once.
“It’s really not the same without you, you know,” she murmurs against his shoulder. The angle is awkward, but now that she’s here she can’t bring herself to move.
“Yes, well. I’m truly one of a kind.”
It’s not an I miss you too, but she doesn’t know why she’d expect one.
“Hey,” Finn says with a low, easy laugh from the top of the stairs, “get your hands off my girlfriend.”
“You’re just jealous, Finn,” Kurt sniffs, hugging Quinn just a little bit tighter before letting go. “Ours is a forever love. The history of our tragic romance will be written across the stars.”
Quinn chuckles as she gets up, and Finn smiles. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah. Bye, Kurt,” she says, squeezing his fingers before following Finn up into the foyer.
“Every day without you is a lifetime, Quinnevere,” Kurt shouts from the basement, just before they’re out of earshot.
( 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 )
Author: professor_spork
Beta: beingfacetious
Character/Pairing: Quinn-centric gen, featuring Quinn/Sam friendship, canon!Fuinn, and vague hintings at potential Faberry if you squint, with guest appearances by the rest of the gleeks.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She owes him, and he needs her. And if it turns out that maybe she needs him, too… well. Sam and Quinn, from Comeback to Rumours.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them.
Author’s Notes: So, once upon a time-and by once upon a time I mean right after Rumours came out-I set out to write a fic about Quinn helping Sam babysit, because I thought that dynamic would be really interesting to explore. Somehow, this evolved into a massive exploration of all of Quinn's issues three months in the making. I have no regrets. The title is a lyric from Gold Dust Woman, off the Rumours LP, because-well. Relevant.
( 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 )
She isn’t sure what she was expecting to feel when she walked into the motel room Sam now calls home, but it wasn’t rage.
It’s just… she’d been to the Evans house. It hadn’t been big, but it had been cozy and nice and a home. They’ve clearly tried to make the motel room the same, but it’s not, at all, and even as it breaks her heart it’s not sadness that she’s feeling-it’s indignation. These are good people, and all of a sudden all she wants to do is burn down the world for doing this to them.
Her train of thought is derailed by a tiny blonde body launching itself at her and attaching to her legs.
“Quinn!”
“Hey, Stacey.”
“Hi! It’s been ages. And you said you’d teach me how to French braid and we never did and then Sammy said you weren’t his girlfriend anymore.”
“I’m not,” Quinn affirms mildly, and Stacey frowns.
“But-”
“But I never forgot about the braids.” She grins, and leans in like she has a secret. “What do you think-is Sam’s hair long enough that we can practice on him?”
“Hey!” Sam protests.
And maybe, just maybe, she can do this.
(Because that’s the plan. Every day, after school, right here. Sam starts his job on Wednesday, and then she’s on her own with them. She has to make sure she’s not the bad guy long before that happens.
She’ll never forget that she is, but hopefully, if she’s lucky, they will.)
-
It’s awkward, at first, but powering through uncomfortable moments is something of a Fabray specialty, and it’s not long before Quinn’s doing Stacey’s nails on the floor while Sam and Stevie play some incredibly complicated board game called Race for the Galaxy. Quinn had tried to follow along, at first, but it appears to be all about interstellar real estate and she just can’t fathom the appeal on any level.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, Stace?”
“Why did you and Sam break up?”
Her eyes immediately flicker to Sam’s, and they trade an alarmed look.
“We… decided we were better off as friends,” Sam finally says, and Quinn’s completely unprepared for how guilty that makes her feel.
“Did you fall out of love?”
Quinn concentrates hard on applying a topcoat to Stacey’s fingers, giving herself time to think. How do you explain to a girl who still believes in Disney princess true love that you cheated on her brother, with whom you were never really in love to begin with?
“It’s like… it’s like Pocahontas. She and John Smith were really good for each other, but in the end she marries John Rolfe.”
“Sam says sequels don’t count, though,” Stacey says, scrunching her nose in distaste, and Quinn suppresses a smile.
“But it’s not made up; that’s what actually happened to the real Pocahontas.”
Her eyes go wide. “There was a real Pocahontas?”
“Of course there was! Haven’t you learned about her in school?”
Stacey shakes her head.
“Stevie?”
“Didn’t she invent corn?”
“Uh, first of all that was Squanto, and secondly he didn’t invent corn, he just showed the Pilgrims how to plant it.”
“I thought Squanto helped Lewis and Clark cross America?”
“That was Sacagawea.”
“Really? But she’s a girl!”
“Hey,” Sam reprimands, “don’t say stuff like that. It’s un-feminist.”
“What’s a feminist?” Stevie asks, cocking his head to the side.
“They’re ladies who yell at boys for being jerks,” Stacey says loftily, blowing on her fingers to dry her nail polish.
“I’m not a lady! Sam!”
“Dudes can be feminists too, Half-Pint. It just means that you treat everyone like you’re supposed to.”
“Like the Golden Rule?”
“Yeah.”
Quinn smiles brokenly, doing her best to enjoy the moment and ignore the building pressure in her chest. (It’s just that it hurts. Being reminded of what a family’s supposed to look like, when she’s had so many chances at one and has screwed it up or given it away every single time.)
-
Dinner is simple milk and cereal, which gives Quinn an entirely different kind of heartache. She tries to beg off, planning to have a late supper when she gets home, but then Sam pulls the Yeah, I’m not hungry either card and it sucks, knowing that the only way to get him to eat is if she does. They stare each other down across the coffee table, matching each other bite for bite, and it’s just…
The sad thing is that she knows it’s normal, to be this fucked up.
-
He waits until Stevie and Stacey are asleep before he mentions anything about it.
“Don’t pull that stunt again. With the cereal. That was messed up.”
She looks him right in the eye. “No, what’s messed up is the fact that you’re still trying to skip meals when you promised me you’d cut that out.”
“I didn’t promise you anything, Quinn-you assaulted me in the hallway, shoved your opinion down my throat and walked away.”
“It’s not an opinion, it’s-”
“God, just shut UP!” he growls, doing his best to keep his voice down. “You don’t understand. You don’t have a clue what this feels like. The pressure I’m under.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, she says, “I know what it’s like to get kicked out of your house, Sam.”
… and now he feels like a total jerk. But the two situations are apples and oranges, and it’s not fair for her to try and equate them.
“I know you do. Sorry. I know. But not like me.”
She just nods.
“You’re right. Not like you. At least you all have each other,” she murmurs, eyes flickering to Stevie and Stacey, asleep on the fold-out couch. “When my parents found out about… My dad gave me an hour. One hour, to pack up a life.”
“What did you take with you?” he asks, not daring so much as a glance at his guitar, propped up in the corner. He thinks he can trust her-he knows she wants him to-but the first rule of being near Quinn Fabray is show no weakness, and he knows she’ll pick up on it in a heartbeat.
She starts worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, and he relaxes a little. It means she’s trying. It’s one of her few tells, actually-being honest is so contrary to Quinn’s nature that she tries to bite back the words until literally the last moment.
“You know,” she finally says, “That sucked worst of all. There wasn’t really anything to take.”
“Harsh,” he whispers, which is the understatement of the century, but really-what else is there to say?
“Yeah…” she trails off, before running a hand up and down her forearm. “I’ve missed you, Sam,” she mumbles.
It cost her something to say that, and he smiles in appreciation. “Yeah. You want me to walk you to your car?”
“In a sec. But I just need a minute to…”
“Okay.”
-
True to his word, he escorts her out to the parking lot five minutes later, hands shoved deeply in his pockets. She can’t get over the lingering feeling that some things have been left unsaid, however, and so she pauses at her door, fumbling uselessly with her key ring.
“So… is this working, so far?”
He can’t bring himself to stop staring at his shoes. “I… yeah. I think so.”
“We probably shouldn’t talk to each other in school, at least for a while.”
“Why? Because Finn will think you’re cheating on him?”
She winces, but: deserved that. “No, because I don’t want Santana to kill me. When Mercedes went out with Puck, I had to warn her so that she knew to be on the lookout before she got murdered.”
Sam looks up, interested. “Mercedes went out with Puck?”
“For, like, five seconds. Not that that stopped Santana from going after her, which is all sorts of hilarious because Santana wasn’t even really with Puck by then. She broke up with him because of his credit score.”
Sam sucks in a breath, and-oh.
She’s never really been the kind of person to put her foot in her mouth, because her policy has always been to withhold her words as long as possible. Distract, deflect, defend-that’s how you keep power. She’s put herself in plenty of corners and burned a lot of bridges by saying too little, but saying too much? She has absolutely no idea how to deal with this.
“Sam, I…”
“I think the words you’re looking for are I’m sorry.”
She stiffens. “What are you, my life coach, now?”
She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, their hypocrisy repulsive even to her, but it barely seems to phase him.
“No, I just thought we were trying to be friends.”
If it were anyone else, it would have sounded snide or passive-aggressive, but it’s Sam, so it just sounds honest. (She always forgets how simple things are, in Sam’s world. You make a promise and you keep it. She’s not sure she’ll ever get used to that, and part of her is terrified of being taken at her word.)
“…Sorry.”
“S’cool,” he shrugs, and she believes him. After a moment, he ventures, “So, like… what happened?”
“Mercedes realized that Puck’s an asshole and she can do way better?”
“No, I mean, with Santana.”
“Oh. They… sang a song about it in glee club.”
“Seriously?” Sam asks, cracking up.
Quinn can’t help but smile in response. “Seriously. They did The Boy Is Mine.”
It isn’t even that funny, in the grand scheme of things, but it has the two of them in hysterics for a good two minutes.
-
The second night… well, things don’t go quite according to plan.
It’s fine for the first few hours. There’s homework to be done and an intense game of Egyptian Ratscrew to be played. But then the kids get restless, and…
“Sammy, we’re bored.”
… and then that happens.
“Want me to sing to you? Hey; since Quinn is here, we can even do duets!” Beaming, he goes to grab his guitar. “What do you think, Quinn? Any requests? You like Madonna, right?”
Quinn suddenly flashes back to another night of babysitting, and the words want to see a real live music video, and the only thing more overwhelming than the sudden tidal wave of anxiety that crashes through her veins is her intense need to be elsewhere. She knows she says “I don’t feel well” as she gets up and practically flees to the bathroom, but she can barely hear it over the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.
She locks the door behind her and grips the sink hard to keep her hands from shaking, staring blankly at herself in the mirror. It feels like there’s a vacuum in her chest where her heart should be, pulling in and in and in like a black hole, knocking the wind out of her and squeezing her to death.
This is a panic attack, she thinks, but knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Quinn?” Sam murmurs, knocking on the door.
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and part of her hates him for that.
Bottling everything for the moment, she presses her mouth into a firm, thin line and opens the door a few inches. She has to lean against the jamb to keep herself steady, but what matters is that she doesn’t break his gaze, exhaling slowly through her nose to keep from hyperventilating. “See? Fine.”
“You say that, but… Quinn, it’s like your eyes are screaming at me.”
Fuck you. “I just need a second,” she says through gritted teeth, and then closes the door in his face and locks it again.
Secure as she’s going to be, she sinks to the floor; it feels like an unforgivable display of weakness, but there’s no one here to judge her but her, and that’s nothing she’s not used to.
She can’t breathe.
She used to be so good at this. At keeping her shit together. It was practically rule one in the Fabray household: fake it ‘til you make it. Maintain composure at all costs. Now it’s all she can do to press her forehead against the cool tile of Sam’s bathroom floor and try not to feel like she’s having a heart attack, and nothing even happened. It’s just a stupid duet.
She loses track of how long she lays there, struggling for air.
Another knock. “…Quinn?”
“One second,” she croaks, before hesitantly trying to get up. She’s unsteady on her feet, but she feels sort of like a human being again, and that’s just going to have to do.
She squeezes her eyes shut, squares her shoulders, and opens the door, strolling right past Sam into the living room.
“Sorry, guys,” she says in a falsely chipper voice, smile plastered on her face. “What do you want to hear us sing?”
“A Whole New World!” Stacey requests happily, and Quinn ignores the probing look Sam shoots at her.
And really, she shouldn’t be surprised that the guy who once described a Justin Bieber song as a hugely emotional anthem that sums up our generation knows the chords to, like, every single Disney song ever recorded.
-
An hour later, Sam’s parents come home to find their eldest son singing and dancing around the motel room with his guitar, encouraging his siblings to get down to business to defeat the Huns while his ex-girlfriend occasionally chimes in to tell him to be a man.
“You call this calming them down for bed?” Mrs. Evans finally says in a weak voice, and the two teens freeze in place.
“Mom! Dad! We were just-”
“-they weren’t tired, and we thought it might help to-”
“-didn’t mean for it to go on this long, guess we just got distracted-”
“-but they’re all washed up and ready for bed, so-”
“-how was job hunting?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Lots of lures out, no bites yet. How are you doing, Quinn?” Mr. Evans asks awkwardly, and she just can’t take his well-meaning attempts at being civil to the bitch who cheated on his son. She just can’t.
“I’m fine, but I’m actually-Mom probably expected me home a while ago, so I’m just gonna… go. Thank you for having me.” She says the last part because she was raised a certain way and it’s just reflex, and winces at how it sounds. “Um. Goodnight.”
She’s halfway to her car when Sam catches up to her.
“Jeez, Quinn, slow down! Why are you running away?”
“I’m not running away, I’m just leaving. Everything’s fine.”
“Look, about what happened earlier…”
She walks a little faster. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not. I’m not stupid, Quinn. And I don’t want to be a jerk about this, but… come on. I see the way you look at Stacey. It’s not that hard to figure out. And I feel like maybe you’d feel better if you tal-”
She stops walking to turn around and glare at him sharply, finger in his face. “Don’t you dare.”
“Whoa, wait, I wasn’t-”
“I know that this is you trying to be a good guy and everything, but I don’t need your help and I don’t need your opinion, so just back off. You will never understand, and we. Do not. Talk. About. This.”
(She knows she’s being intensely hypocritical again, but… she can’t do this. She doesn’t go here.)
He holds his palms up in surrender. “Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry. Message received.”
She sighs, and slumps against her car door. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick you up.”
“Huh?” Sam blinks, completely caught off-guard.
“Obviously you’re not taking the bus anymore, because none of the routes go near here. And… it doesn’t make sense for your parents to waste time and gas taking you all to school when you’re on my way, anyway. ”
“Quinn…”
“Just please let me do this, okay?”
He frowns, but they both know he’s in no place to argue with her logic. “Okay.”
-
Her first night alone with them goes pretty well, all things considered. She brings her laptop with her, and after helping them with their homework she spends the evening introducing them to the wonder that is cute animals on the internet-ninja cats and dramatic chipmunks and slow lorises getting tickled.
She knows there’s food in their tiny kitchenette she could make, but the idea of using that up when she’s able to pay for dinner is just… she can’t. She doesn’t say a word; just asks Stevie and Stacey what they want and then orders it.
And that’s it, really. After dinner she lets them watch some kids movie streaming on Netflix while she does her Pre-Calc and Spanish, and then she tucks them in.
A half hour later, they’re still tossing and turning restlessly, and she’s working on a history report, pretending not to notice.
“Quinn, will you sing for us?” Stevie finally asks in a quiet voice.
She frowns, bracing herself for a repeat of last night, but the anxiety never comes. She still doesn’t like the idea of singing without at least Sam’s guitar backing her up, but on the other hand, Stevie’s a pretty shy kid, and he never asks for anything. And besides, this is mostly them feeling lonely and missing Sam, so…
“Tell you what,” she says, getting up and unplugging her laptop, “I have something to show you. Make room?”
The two of them scooch to either side of the fold-out couch and she nestles herself between them, balancing her computer on her knees. Stacey immediately tucks herself under Quinn’s left arm and snuggles in, and Stevie rests a tentative head on her right shoulder.
“Are we going to watch another movie?” Stacey asks sleepily.
“Sort of. Sam and I are going to sing for you.”
“But Sammy’s not here.”
“Not right now,” Quinn allows. “But I have a video of the two of us singing at Sectionals-our first big glee club concert this year. Do you want to see that?”
“Yeah!”
Rachel’s dads have never missed a single performance of hers, and recordings of everything New Directions has ever done are up on her MySpace page. Quinn’d been worried, for a second, that because Rachel hadn’t had any solos she’d have neglected to upload the videos, but apparently her anal retentive need to have a complete archive of her life’s work trumped her bruised ego.
“Here we go,” Quinn says, and pushes play.
It’s… really bizarre, actually, watching herself. She’s had plenty of experience analyzing old Cheerios routines with Coach Sylvester, but that generally involved a lot of angry rewinding and diagrams drawn over paused images with a laser pointer. It was critical. Mean, even. This is…
Nothing quite prepared her for how happy the other Quinn looks, dancing on that stage with Sam.
She barely recognizes herself at all.
-
Sam’s a bit surprised, when he comes home, to find Quinn rooting through his backpack, his Spanish homework already in front of her.
“Um, Quinn? What are you doing?”
“Checking your homework; what does it look like I’m doing?”
“You can’t just go through my shit like that; it’s not okay.”
“I’m not going through your shit, I’m checking your homework. You’re welcome.”
He remembers when they were dating-how she’d stay late with him to go over his work, teaching him algebra shortcuts and editing his essays. I’m on the honor roll, she’d say harshly, so if I’m going to be dating someone in lower-level classes, he should at least be passing them.
He was telling the truth, when he said she was the best thing that happened to him since he moved to Lima. Most of the time Quinn’s abrasive at best, but he’s always seen right through her. She’s not who she pretends to be at all. (And besides, he kind of appreciates it-the fact that she doesn’t give him that stupid ‘pander to the dyslexic kid’ look and baby talk him. She doesn’t take no for an answer and forces him to try.)
“You’re a good person, Quinn,” he murmurs quietly, moving to sit next to her on the floor.
She takes a deep breath in and out, staring down at the loose collection of papers in her hands. “No, I’m not.”
“But you-”
“Everything looks pretty okay; if I made any corrections, he’ll know you didn’t do it. Which means… you’ve been studying.” She gives him a smile he can’t interpret. “Guess it finally occurred to you that if you can teach yourself Na’vi, you can manage Mr. Schue’s Spanish class, huh?”
Classic Quinn. He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, well. Football’s over, so I have more time on my hands.”
“Right,” she murmurs, and gets up. “I’m… gonna go. Goodnight, Sam.”
“…Night.”
-
By Thursday, it actually feels like they have a routine going. She drops off and picks up all of the Evans kids from school like clockwork, she and Sam spend a few hours watching Stevie and Stacey horse around on the playground, and at five forty Sam leaves to catch the cross-town bus to work, leaving Quinn with the care and feeding of his siblings.
She decides to take them out to eat. And maybe Taco Bell isn’t the most glamorous dining establishment ever, but anything that breaks routine is a pretty awesome adventure as far as Stacey and Stevie are concerned. (Their orders amuse the hell out of her. Stevie gets a baja gordita with lime sauce, which Quinn happens to know is Sam’s usual, and picky eater Stacey asks for two plain beef soft tacos, with absolutely nothing on them-not even cheese. They’re so… normal. It’s nice.)
The cheapo kids meal toy from Stacey’s dinner has already lost its appeal by the time Quinn pulls back into the motel parking lot, which means it doesn’t take much to get them to pull out their homework. Stevie is in the middle of a project on the solar system, and Stacey has a worksheet on reading analog clocks; as Quinn patiently explains about big hands and little hands and tries to remember the remedy that gets glue out of carpets, she can’t help but feel a pang.
It’s an utterly ordinary evening, remarkable only in how unremarkable it is.
She hates that it makes her so sad.
After running the gauntlet of two bedtime stories, a glass of water each and a song, she finally gets Stevie and Stacey to sleep. Easing herself off the couch and stretching, she wanders out to the porch to get some fresh air.
She jumps and has to slap a hand to her mouth to keep from screaming when she finds Sam sitting, back to her, on the front railing.
“Christ, Sam, you scared me! How long have you been sitting out here? I could have used your… hey. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t move.
“Sam. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She sets her jaw and goes to stand next to him, leaning her elbows on the railing and knitting her hands together.
“Stargazing?” she ventures after a moment.
“Yeah. It... calms me down, I guess.”
“Something about all that space makes all your problems seem kind of small, right?” she recalls, and holds back a laugh at his expression. “Try not to be so shocked that I listen when you talk.”
“I… one of my deliveries tonight was to Dalton. Kurt saw me.”
“So he knows you have a job. That doesn’t mean he…” she trails off at the guilty look on his face, and sighs. “We’ve really got to work on this whole ‘I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body’ thing, if you want your secrets to stay secrets. But you and Kurt are… he’s not going to…”
“No, Kurt’s cool. But, like-no offense Quinn, but I still kind of hate the fact that you know about this.”
“I know,” she says quietly. He stares intently at a crack in the railing paint, trying not to look like his world’s falling to pieces, and she fights off the sudden urge to-she doesn’t even know. Fix it somehow. A kiss to his forehead, or a hand on his knee. Something to remind him that that he’s not alone. But it’s absurd because it’s her, and tentative friendship or no, that’s never going to happen.
She’s more than broken enough for the two of them, and she has no right.
-
Box springs creak sharply as Quinn pushes Finn down onto his bed, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips.
“I have been waiting,” she murmurs, leaning down close and nipping at his ear before pulling him into an aggressive kiss, “all week for this.”
Thing is, it’s God’s honest truth. It sucks, having to avoid him at school all the time-and she knows it’s only polite to keep what they have under wraps until the drama blows over somewhat, but she can’t talk to Sam, either, and it’s just…
It’s not that she’s lonely. It’s just frustrating, is all.
But earlier in the afternoon, Sam had texted her saying she was off the hook for the night, because his parents wanted to have some quality family time. Which is more than fine with her-it just means she gets to enjoy her weekend that much sooner.
“Quinn-” Finn groans, and she smirks into his neck.
She can feel him getting hard against her thigh, and even though she’s come a long way from the silly little girl whose motto was It’s all about the teasing and not about the pleasing, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t get a thrill from this. (She’s learning to accept the fact that the constant need to feel in control probably isn’t healthy, but everyone has to have power over something. Or they’d just go insane.)
Suddenly he’s shoving at her shoulders, rolling them both over, and her head spins as she tries to process what it feels like to have the full weight of him pushing her into the mattress.
On the one hand, him taking the lead is kind of an unexpected turn-on, because she’d always kept him on such a short leash, before.
On the other hand, she’d always kept him on a short leash, before, which means he learned to do this from someone else, and that someone else is either Rachel or Santana, and she’s so thrown by this realization that she doesn’t even hear the front door open.
“Luuuucy, I’m hoooome,” Kurt singsongs from the foyer, and in the fraction of a second it takes for Finn to leap off of her, everything inside Quinn turns to ice. (And honestly. It’s been years, and eventually she’s going to have to stop being such a little bitch about this.)
Her eyes flicker to Finn to see if he noticed her momentary freakout, but he’s too busy mumbling “shit shit shit shit shit mailman mailman mailman” to pay her any attention, scrambling around the bed looking for something to hide his boner, because-
“Finn? Are you down here? What’s-hellooooo.”
Finn makes a squeaky noise from somewhere in the back of his throat, and Quinn just hides her head in her hands. Slinking his way across the room with his back to the wall, Finn stammers, “I-you know what, we were just gonna-I have to. Pee. And then I’m gonna drive Quinn home. Because she was leaving. Like. I’m gonna-um. Hold on a sec.”
He practically throws himself up the steps, leaving Quinn with nothing but Kurt and a whole lot of awkward silence.
She stares at a neutral spot on the wall, utterly mortified and face bright pink-already planning on rejoining the celibacy club, like, fucking yesterday, and praying that Kurt sees a way out of this, because she’s got nothing.
“Quinn Fabray, when are you going to let me burn those travesties you call shoes?”
(She could kiss him.)
As it is, she bites back a smile, grateful for the subject change. “For the last time, Kurt, I like these shoes.”
“I can’t see why. And with socks? It’s like Lilith Fair on the Prairie.”
“There is nothing homosexual about my footwear,” she says through gritted teeth. She feels her features fall into the sickly sweet smile Finn calls ‘Scary Quinn’ as she continues, “Speaking of which, how’s Blaine?”
To Kurt’s credit, he chuckles.
“He’s fine, now that he’s gotten over his little Rachel Berry-inspired sexual identity crisis.” Quinn opens her mouth to laugh only to end up choking on her own spit, and Kurt shakes his head. “I know. What is it about that girl?”
She takes a deep breath, and plays with the hem of her dress. “No, but really, though. Things are good?”
“They’re… yes. Different, but good. I’m finally starting to feel like a part of the Warblers, and that makes a world of difference. I’m not just the new kid, I’m one of the guys. It’s… nice. We actually hang out together.”
“And have pizza parties?” she asks, because she can’t leave it alone any longer.
He clears his throat.
“Look, Kurt… I know that you probably feel out of the gossip loop now that you’re at Dalton, but you can’t tell anyone about this. Not even Mercedes.”
He gives her an unexpectedly hard look. “Sam Evans is the only person at that school who never once made me feel like there was something wrong with me being who I am. Literally, the only person. He got a black eye for me. I’m not going to turn around and betray his trust.”
(…She should have remembered that, considering it was the whole reason she finally committed to Sam in the first place.)
She sighs, shoulders slumping. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“And while we’re on the subject of secret-keeping, you don’t have to worry: Finn already brought me up to date on all of your drama, and my lips are sealed until after Regionals, just like you want.” (She considers letting him know that it’s definitely not what she wants, but-so not the point right now.)
He wanders over to sit down next to her on Finn’s bed. Staring at his hands in his lap, he murmurs, “But really, Quinn… how bad is it?”
She bites her lip, wondering just how much she can let herself say, but… it’s Kurt. “It’s not good. The bank repossessed his house. His parents are barely ever around, because they’re trying to earn money any way they can, and Sam’s… you know he has siblings?”
Kurt shakes his head.
“Yeah. A little brother and sister. They look up to him like he’s God’s gift, and he’s doing everything he can to do right by them, but… there’s only so much he can do.”
“And where do you fit into the picture?”
“Still figuring that part out. Technically I’m babysitting, but that can mean anything from actually babysitting to just staying around as an extra pair of hands. It’s not enough, but I really owe Sam, and… at least it’s nice to know that my housewife skills are good for something.”
When she glances up at him, her chest constricts, because he’s giving her that look. The one she’s been getting for almost a year now-like she’s breaking apart and everyone can see it but her, and Beth is the light shining through her cracks.
Bile rises in her throat, but before she can summon enough strength to school her expression into something dangerous and tell him to mind his own fucking business, Kurt twists and grabs her, pulling her into a hug. She stiffens immediately, but he refuses to let go, and… whatever, Kurt smells really good, and it’s kind of nice to relax and just let this happen for once.
“It’s really not the same without you, you know,” she murmurs against his shoulder. The angle is awkward, but now that she’s here she can’t bring herself to move.
“Yes, well. I’m truly one of a kind.”
It’s not an I miss you too, but she doesn’t know why she’d expect one.
“Hey,” Finn says with a low, easy laugh from the top of the stairs, “get your hands off my girlfriend.”
“You’re just jealous, Finn,” Kurt sniffs, hugging Quinn just a little bit tighter before letting go. “Ours is a forever love. The history of our tragic romance will be written across the stars.”
Quinn chuckles as she gets up, and Finn smiles. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah. Bye, Kurt,” she says, squeezing his fingers before following Finn up into the foyer.
“Every day without you is a lifetime, Quinnevere,” Kurt shouts from the basement, just before they’re out of earshot.
( 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 )