Title: Kingdom Up For Sale (6/9)
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.
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At first glance, the choir room is empty when she walks in, but when she looks to her left, she realizes she’s not alone-Mr. Schue is writing something on the whiteboard, his back to the door.
“Mr. Schuester? Where is everyone?”
He turns around and grins at her. “Wow, Quinn,” he says in that genuinely enthusiastic tone he gets when he has no idea he’s being an asshole, “you look like you’re ready to pop!”
She looks down, surprised to find that she can’t see her feet because her pregnant, swollen belly is in the way. “I forgot,” she says dumbly, but when she looks up again Mr. Schuester is gone, leaving her staring at big, block dry-erase letters.
The theme this week, apparently, is HONESTY.
She knows she has to find Mr. Schue and the rest of the glee club-ballots for prom court are due, and she needs their votes. She sets out in search.
The hallway is empty, but she can see Sam lingering at the end, by the windows. She starts making her way towards him, but is jostled from behind by a burly arm.
“Sup, MILF?” Puck says in passing, breezing past without even the slightest acknowledgment of the fact that he knocked into her. By the time she realizes just why his elbow was jutting out in the first place, it’s too late-Puck is long gone, and Sam’s dripping from head to toe in Cherry Slushie.
“I am so sorry,” she says, looking around for anything to help him dry off, but he pushes her hands away.
“I don’t need your help, Quinn. You’ve cleaned enough of my messes as it is.”
“But-”
“Seriously. Stop trying to fix me up,” he orders, and his dark eyes bore right into hers. “Besides, they’re waiting for you in the auditorium.”
As if on cue, Rachel Berry’s voice starts floating through the hallways, strong and crystal clear.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Sam says, and Quinn follows the music.
She almost slams right into Finn when she enters the theater. He’s standing in back, eyes rapt and adoring as Rachel belts her way through the ending of Reflection from Mulan-and Quinn remembers with a pang that she’d promised Stacey to sing that one day. She’s jolted from her thoughts by Finn clapping and cheering; the song is over.
“Woo!” Finn catcalls, cupping his hands over his mouth to carry the sound. “That was awesome, Manhands!”
“Don’t call her that,” Quinn snaps, tired of always having to correct his behavior in public. “It’s rude.”
“But you do it.”
“Not anymore,” she says, like it means something, and then flinches as the baby kicks.
“I thought we were close enough to be honest with each other,” Rachel says, coming down off the stage and looking at her earnestly. “What did you think of my performance, Quinn? Did I get it right?”
“All you did was what I wasn’t brave enough to do,” Quinn says, because Mr. Schuester’s just walked in, and if he catches her not following this week’s theme, he’ll be pissed.
“What are you guys still doing in here? They’re about to announce the results!”
And suddenly she’s on stage in the gym, and she bites down hard on her embarrassment, knowing she looks like a whale in her stupid maternity dress.
She wasn’t supposed to still be showing by now.
“And now,” Principal Figgins says, “your votes have been counted. May I present your 2011 Junior Prom court: Finn Hudson and Lucy Fabray.”
“It’s Quinn,” she corrects thickly, choking on air, but no one hears her over the sound of the roaring crowd.
“Relax,” Finn says, “we’ve got this.”
“Where are our crowns?” she asks, and he smiles at her.
“What are you talking about? You know that’s not how we do things here.” With that, he takes her hand and leads her off the stage and onto the dance floor. Students gather around them, but slowly she realizes they aren’t empty-handed.
Every single one of them has a Slushie in their grasp.
“Finn-”
“Boys and girls, let’s give a real McKinley welcome to your prom king and queen!”
She braces herself, wincing as the freezing cold torrent of dyed corn syrup hits her, and-
With a gasp, Quinn jolts awake, feeling more tired than she did when she fell asleep in the first place.
Fuck.
-
She feels half-dead in school. After nearly setting herself on fire in Chem lab and then being forced to participate in PE by Coach Beiste, she almost bursts into tears of gratitude when she remembers they’re watching a movie in History. Luckily Roots is pretty boring-aside from the small moment of excitement when Artie and Mercedes start imitating the arm movements of the African tribal dance from their seats-so she has no trouble at all napping through class.
Her exhaustion makes it totally impossible for her to hide her surprise when someone shoves a cold plastic cup at her as she packs up after the bell. She recoils instinctively, but when she looks down, it’s not a Slushie but a frozen coffee drink in her hands.
“Told you I’d catch you later,” Mercedes says with a bright smile, nudging the cup more firmly into Quinn’s grasp. “Seriously, take it. It’s my third today, and you look like you could use the caffeine. No offense.”
“… Thanks,” Quinn mumbles, trying not to seem utterly bewildered.
-
Sam and his siblings are subdued on the ride back from school that day. At first, she doesn’t think anything of it. And then they get to the motel, and the oppressive atmosphere becomes downright unbearable.
Something’s different. She can tell as soon as she walks through the front door; it doesn’t seem quite as cramped as usual. And still, no one’s talking.
“Did you guys move some things around in here or something?”
Sam shrugs, and she frowns. Despite the fact that he’s keeping his financial situation from their friends, he’s not exactly a secretive person-something’s definitely off.
After another sweep of the room with her eyes, it hits her. The stack of crates in the corner… they’re gone.
“Sam. You sold your comic books?”
“And some other stuff. Got pretty good money for some of the collector’s items,” he says, aiming for nonchalance, but he deflates at her stricken look. “I’m not exactly happy about it either, Quinn, but it was either them or the guitar.”
She clears her throat and glances quickly to the side; they’re both acutely aware of his siblings’ presence in the room.
“Stevie, why don’t you take Stacey and play outside for a little while?” Sam suggests.
“What-by myself?”
Sam shrugs. “Don’t think you’re up for it, Half Pint?”
“No, I totally am! C’mon, Stace,” he says, grabbing his sister by the hand and pulling her back towards the door.
And then they’re alone. Quinn leans back against the couch, watching Sam scratch awkwardly at his arm.
“So… why the guitar?”
“It’s dumb.”
She smiles at him. “You’re not dumb, Sam. Pretty, but not dumb.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t grin back. “It’s just… the comic books… I knew them. I’ve read all of them a million times. And I love those stories, but, like. The guitar? You can learn how to play it, but you can’t memorize it. You never know a guitar by heart. There’s always something… new. And I didn’t want to…”
He looks away.
“Sam. That’s not dumb.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. Quinn moves to the window to keep an eye on Stacey and Stevie; Sam stands there, staring at his shoes, until he just can’t take it anymore.
Moving to the corner, he picks his guitar up and brings it back with him to the couch. Halfhearted strumming grows purposeful, and slowly but surely, his fingers start working their way through Billionaire. Quinn looks up, but stays silent.
(Here’s a fact: the first time he heard Billionaire on the radio, he thought about how, if he were a billionaire, he’d be like Bruce Wayne. He learned the chords because he could and he was bored; when Finn asked him to pick a song, he picked that one because feeling a little bit like Batman when you’re singing in front of people for the first time can only help.
…When he strums through those chords now, it’s not Batman he’s thinking about.)
“You’re gonna be late for work,” she says gently, after a while.
He sighs, and puts the guitar back in its place.
-
He kind of takes his time, coming home that night. He thinks about hitting up the landfill, but he hasn’t been back there since he took Quinn last week, and now it seems… different, somehow. And the weirdest part is, he’s not even angry. Just tired.
God, he is so, so tired.
The front window’s open-probably to let in the breeze, or something-and he can hear the girls talking quietly as he makes his way up the porch steps.
“…so I decided that David Sullivan should be my boyfriend, and not David Fordham.” Sam shakes his head. Stacey’s had ‘boyfriends’ for about three years now; it’s actually kind of the cutest thing ever. “Quinn, can I tell you something?”
“Of course, sweetie. What’s up?”
“You know last week I said I wanted to play castle with you, but then today I said I wasn’t in the mood?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that was a lie. And Sam asked me not to talk about it, but he also says not to lie, and Mom and Dad and Mrs. Cole and Reverend Andrews and everyone all say not to lie, too, so that’s more important, right?”
“Stacey… what are you talking about?”
Sam all but holds his breath, straining to catch every word from his spot outside the door.
“I wanted to play castle with you but I can’t because over the weekend we had to sell a lot of stuff, so I can’t be princess because I don’t have my crown or my scepter or my dress anymore. And Sam said not to say anything about it, and he always makes me and Stevie go outside when you talk about this stuff and I don’t know why.”
Suddenly he wishes he’d beaten the crap out of some junk at the landfill after all.
“Honey…”
“We’re always losing stuff,” Stacey concludes sadly.
“Stacey, being a princess isn’t about what you have. It’s about what you are. Like… okay. Who’s your favorite princess?”
“Princess Leia,” she responds immediately, and pride shoots through Sam.
Quinn laughs, but it’s warm, not cruel or mocking. “Okay. Why?”
“Because she bosses the stupid boys around when they don’t rescue her right, and knows stuff. Also her hair is really pretty, even when it looks like it shouldn’t be.”
“Not because she has crowns and jewels and dresses and everything?”
“She doesn’t have that stuff; she’s from space. Also, they blow up her planet, Quinn,” Stacey says in a bratty, know-it-all sort of voice. Sam clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his unexpected laughter.
“Well, there you go. I… sweetie. I know it sucks that you’re always losing stuff. But she lost everything, and she’s still your favorite princess. Right? So maybe instead of playing castle, we should…” Quinn trails off, then rephrases. “Maybe you should think about being that kind of princess.”
“I know. But sometimes I just wish…”
“I know.” Sam’s hand is on the doorknob when Quinn adds, “Tell you what. After I win prom queen, I’ll bring by my tiara, and you can be a princess for real. Okay?”
Most of the time, when Quinn talks about being prom queen, it-well it kind of gives him a wiggins, to be honest. He always hears this creepy-ass tinkling piano tune in the back of his head, like even though Quinn is smiling and laughing and being friendly, she’s really just trying to hide the fact that she’s planning to bring a knife to school and kill them all.
(He hasn’t told her so. He’s not that stupid.)
This doesn’t feel like that, though. This feels like… it’s just not something he’s used to, from Quinn, and even though everything still sucks, suddenly he can’t wipe the grin off his face.
“What are you still doing awake, Squirt?” he asks, walking in. “If Stevie’s asleep, you should be too.”
“We were having a girl talk,” Quinn says, before turning and winking exaggeratedly at Stacey, who giggles. “But I think she’s ready for bed now.”
“Girl talk, huh?” he says, leaning in and tickling Stacey’s stomach. “Glad I missed it, then. Wouldn’t want to get cooties.”
“Cooties aren’t real, Sammy.”
“Are so. I had them in junior high and everything; had to be taken out of school for a week, just like chicken pox. I bet Quinn did, too. Didn’t you, Quinn?”
He turns around to face her, but somehow she’s managed to grab her purse and backpack while he was looking at Stacey, and is practically halfway out the door. She looks distinctly uncomfortable all of a sudden.
“Um, yeah. I-have to go. See you tomorrow.”
“…G’night.”
He has no idea what that was about, but… well, it’s not like she’d tell him if he asked.
-
On some level, it does register that it’s kind of hypocritical and crazy of her to focus on winning prom queen so hard when the whole point of her lesson to Stacey was that material things don’t matter. But honestly, all she can think about is how badly she needs that crown-not just for her own sake, now-and how terrible a slacker she’s been about the whole thing.
It’s time to stop fooling around.
“Finn, we need to go shopping for a prom dress,” she informs him at lunch the next day, dropping her tray down with a clatter and taking the seat next to him.
“…We do?” he asks. Without asking for permission, he trades the sundried tomato and hummus wrap Kurt clearly made for him this morning for her pudding cup, which they both know she doesn’t want.
(It’s the most comfortable she’s felt with him in days. No matter what else is happening, at least like this, right here, they fit.)
“Of course we do. Your outfit has to coordinate, so we really can’t waste any more time.”
“But I thought that, like, I’m not supposed to see the dress until the night of?”
“That’s weddings, Finn,” she says, but the intended sharpness in her voice bleeds away at the idea. She smiles hesitantly. “It could be-fun.”
“Uh, okay. When?”
“Friday?”
“I can’t. Every other Friday is family dinner. You know that.”
If you want your man, you gotta fight for him, Q, the voice in her head that sounds like Mercedes sasses, and she grits her teeth.
“I do know that. But I was thinking maybe we could go out after school, and then… we could… both go to back to your place?”
Finn thinks about it, then lights up. “You know, Kurt’s actually been hoping to bring Blaine home for dinner now that they’re official, but he hasn’t wanted to interrupt, like, family time. But if you come, too, the pressure is totally off!”
So not what she had in mind, but… she can compromise. “That sounds great,” she says, pasting a smile on her face.
“You’re the best, Quinn!” he says, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek.
Funny, how she doesn’t really feel like it.
-
“Do they have to be so… poofy?” is the first thing out of his mouth when they walk into the boutique.
Much as he makes her want to roll her eyes, she’s inclined to agree. The amount of tulle and sequins this season is… heinous. Everything in their immediate line of vision is garish and tacky, and the last thing she needs is for Finn to think it’s all going to be like this. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. “Mine won’t be. I promise.”
“So now we just gotta, like. Find it?”
“Yeah.”
He seems relieved. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
And for the first three stores, it’s not. She has good taste and a good eye, and he’s interested in seeing her wear evening gowns, at least, and keeping his attention isn’t as hard as she’d feared.
But by store #4, his interest and her patience are flagging.
“Who are you texting?”
“Um. No one.”
She’s pretty sure no one means Rachel, but-she’s the one going to family dinner in an hour, and she’s the one going with him to prom, so. She can let it slide.
Really. She can.
-
“Grub’ll be ready in just a minute,” Burt says, “so you kids just hang tight out here, okay?”
“I think we can manage, Dad,” Kurt says, an amused smile on his face, and Burt disappears back into the kitchen.
“So what were you guys doing all day?” Blaine asks from his position on the loveseat.
Finn groans, flopping on the couch overdramatically. “Prom dress shopping.”
“Already?”
Both Kurt and Quinn whirl on Blaine, offended by his blasphemy.
“Of course already, Blaine, are you crazy? Quinn’s too smart to wait. If she doesn’t want any dress repeaters, she has to stake a claim early, and avoid all the major outlets and department stores.”
“Not to mention,” Quinn adds, “Finn doesn’t want to match any ‘girly colors,’ so we’re limited to blues, greens and dark reds.”
“I like orange,” Finn mumbles defensively, and she glares at him.
“But I can’t pull off orange, because I’m not Mercedes.”
“She’s right,” Kurt nods. “Though really, Finn, the fact that you won’t give her purples is a tragedy. Lilac is perfect for your skin tones.”
“Oh, come on, dude, seriously?” Finn complains, twisting around on the couch to look Kurt in the eye.
“Blaine?” Kurt asks, seeking backup. Blaine startles, looking uneasy with the attention suddenly put on him.
“You could pull off lilac,” he tells Finn in a reasonable sort of voice, “but I don’t think anyone should be forced into doing anything that makes them uncomfortable.”
“Which is why I demand that you remove those nightmares from your feet this instant, Quinn Fabray; we have talked about this.”
“Oh, are these the ones?” Blaine asks, climbing around to try and get a look at Quinn’s shoes. “The-what did you call it. Girls Gone Laura Ingles Wilder?”
“It was Lilith Fair on the Prairie, but yes.”
“Guys,” Finn whines, “can we please talk about something that isn’t clothes for like five minutes?”
Blaine laughs lightly. “Um, have you met Kurt?”
“I agree with Finn,” Quinn says, sitting down next to him and tucking her feet under herself. “Let’s change the subject.”
“I’m only looking out for your best interests, Quinn,” Kurt says, but Blaine’s already talking over him, rolling his eyes affectionately and asking Finn if he caught the game last night.
And that’s kind of the theme of the evening, really. After a few empty smiles from Carole and tentatively genuine ones from Burt, Quinn fades into the background and Blaine steals the show. She doesn’t know how he does it-he’s just got this uncanny ability to make every single person in a room feel like they’re his best friend and he’s on their side. Normally she’d distrust someone with that kind of charm, but she can’t bring herself to with him. If anything, she suspects that the fact that he’s accommodating to a fault is a defense mechanism-a way to keep himself from being a target the way Kurt was.
But then, the only other person like that whom Quinn has ever met is Rachel, and it’s not like that tactic ever really worked to her advantage.
(And really, the idea that somehow Blaine Anderson is, in fact, the gay son that Mr. and Mr. Berry tried to raise their daughter to be is nothing short of hilarious. No wonder they’d enjoyed their drunken make out session so much; it was practically self-gratification.)
“What’s so funny?” Finn asks, leaning over to whisper in her ear.
She shrugs, smiling. “Nothing. I’m just… glad to be here.”
Across from them, Kurt and Blaine subtly link hands under the table, and it’s all she can do to hold her jealousy at bay.
She’s always been a competitive person. So really, it’s a foregone conclusion that she’d slip off one of her shoes and start running her foot up and down Finn’s calf. His ears go bright red almost immediately, and she bites back a smirk.
Take that, Klaine.
-
She’s poised and ready to escape the evening unscathed, getting her jacket from the coat rack by the door, when Kurt catches up to her.
“No more stalling, all of you. Shoes. It’s time for a verdict.”
“Oh my God, Kurt, really?” she asks, wanting badly to laugh it off but finding it hard to lighten up.
“Yes really. I take fashion very seriously, Quinn, and if Blaine and I don’t have compatible tastes, our relationship might not survive. I need to know.”
Blaine just winks at her from over Kurt’s shoulder, and she sighs and steps forward to be judged. Making a humming noise, Blaine walks in a slow circle around her, hand at his chin.
“I don’t not like them,” he finally offers, gallantly. “They’re… vintage.”
“But-” Kurt sputters, and Blaine chuckles.
“But, the stark earth tones really don’t work with the color palate of your wardrobe. So clearly the answer is to buy more shoes, not get rid of these ones.” He turns to Kurt. “See? Compromise!”
“I… suppose I could find that acceptable,” Kurt allows.
And, seriously. Hanging out with Blaine is kind of like suddenly finding yourself trapped in a Disney movie-she wouldn’t be surprised if songbirds actually help him get dressed every morning-but she can only take so much, and she ran out of tolerance like half an hour ago. “Yes, because I have the time and money to get a million new pairs of shoes when I’m supposed to be finding the perfect prom dress.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Blaine says, smiling at her earnestly. “We’re just joking around. And I know that the perfect dress is just waiting for you somewhere. Give it time; you’ll find it.”
(Honestly. Who says that stuff?)
-
It’s too late for her to get into her own car and head over to Sam’s by the time Finn drops her off, so she takes out her cell without even thinking about it. She doesn’t need much-even a brief, typo-ridden text in response would be enough right now.
Dress shopping was a bust. Should have just stayed in with you, S and S. How was your night?
It’s a half hour before her phone goes off; she scrambles for it.
Message from: 1-330-025-1987
PATIENCE - - - Blaine
She sighs, and flops face-first down onto her bed.
-
She can tell Sam’s trying to hang back when glee ends on Monday, so when Mike invites Finn over to his place for a CoD marathon, she just smiles, kisses his cheek and tells him to have fun, and takes her time gathering her stuff together.
(Besides, Mr. Schuester just kind of abandoned his fifty bajillion boxes of saltwater taffy, and someone’s going to have to sort and distribute it. She can already tell that’s going to end up her job. Because somehow, that’s how the universe works.)
“Is this right?”
“Huh?”
She turns to find Sam examining the whiteboard, which now-after Mr. Schue’s adjustment for the Brainiacs-reads 5,250 x .25 = 21,000.
“I know I’m not good at this stuff, but-this is so not right, right?”
“Not even a little bit,” she confirms with a dry laugh, but she can’t maintain the mood. Biting her lip, she mumbles, “I’ve been texting you all weekend. Did something happen to your phone?”
“Oh. I, uh. I canceled it.”
“What?”
“Just… Mom and Dad still need theirs, for jobs and for emergency contacts and stuff. But my data plan alone was, like… I don’t need it. It’ll be a bitch, but anything that saves us money is worth it. What did you text me about?”
And suddenly her prom dress drama with Finn seems ridiculously insignificant.
“Nothing, just… it’s not important.”
He looks like he’s about to argue, but shuts his mouth when he catches a good look at her face. “Hey. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she assures him in a clipped tone, and waits, shoulders tensed, for an argument that never comes.
(It’s probably a little bit twisted that she expects him to demand she cut the bullshit when, whenever he does, she shuts him down and tells him not to, but… she probably would have opened up, if he’d pushed a little harder.
It’s her own fault. You teach people how to treat you. And she’s been in Sam’s world long enough to know his rules.)
-
Sometimes-maybe even most of the time-she can barely tolerate Finn’s company. Other times, like now-when he just holds her, quietly, smelling like he does and being who he is-it feels like it’s the only place she really fits.
Mercedes is going to be the death of her.
She’s always depended on Mercedes to be her daily dose of sanity, but now… it’s like her whole world has gone backwards. And she doesn’t know which way to turn to adapt.
“It’s like she’s a stranger,” she says quietly, past the point of caring that she hates Finn seeing her cry. “She used to be my best friend. I don’t know what to do.”
“Look, maybe we should… ask for help. Like, maybe Rachel could, I dunno-talk to her or something. She gets all of that diva stuff.”
The last thing Quinn wants to do is have a one on one conversation with Rachel Berry ever again. And it’s mortifying, to think that she needs to go to her for advice on how to deal with someone she cohabitated with for two months and still considers-well, a friend, anyway.
“I don’t know…”
“Come on, Quinn. We’re kinda out of options.”
He’s right, but she’s never felt more pathetic than when she links her hand in his and says, “Okay, but… come with me?”
And considering the colossal train wreck that is her life, that’s saying something.
-
“Quinn, am I doing this right? … Quinn?”
“Huh?” Quinn mutters, jerking awake, and winces as her neck whips forward and her hair stays behind, caught. “Sorry, sweetie, I think I dozed off. What?”
“Am I doing this right?” Stacey repeats, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder from her position behind her on the couch, holding her hair loosely.
“Well, lemme see,” Quinn says, feeling around on the floor for the hand mirror. After a brief examination, she clicks her tongue. “Well, it’s-it’s not wrong, exactly, but what you’re doing is giving me a Dutch braid, not a French one.”
“What’s the difference?”
“With Dutch braids, you cross the hair under, instead of over. So it looks like the braid is sticking out from your head, not tucked beneath your hair. They’re both really pretty; you can keep doing it this way, if you want.”
“No,” Stacey says, picking at her creation, “I wanna get it right. Can I start over?”
“Of course you can,” Quinn assures her. (God, she misses when life was that easy. When just undoing it all and beginning again was always an option, if you made a mistake.) As Stacey starts running her fingers through her hair to comb it out, Quinn says, “You know, last year, I used to braid my hair a different way every single morning.”
“Why?”
Because I didn’t have the Cheerios anymore and needed to feel like there was even one thing I could control. “Just wanted to experiment, I guess. So I did ‘em on the side, and in back-tiny ones, big ones… you can get really creative with it.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Absolutely,” Quinn murmurs, swaying a little with the push and pull of Stacey’s hands at her scalp.
“How many kinds do you think there are?”
“Of what? Braids?” It’s getting a little hard to keep track of the conversation; she’d forgotten how soothing it is, to have someone’s hands in her hair.
“Yeah.”
“I dunno. Dozens.”
“How much is that?”
“A dozen is twelve. So, twelves and twelves of braids,” she mumbles, letting her eyes fall closed. Just for a second.
“Can you get to a hundred that way?”
“Yep.”
“Two hundred?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Higher?”
“As high as you want…” she breathes, and before Stacey can start asking her next question, Quinn’s drifted off completely.
-
Later, Sam walks in to find Quinn passed out at the foot of the fold-out couch, Stacey’s Dora the Explorer Snuggie draped carefully over her; Stacey curled up in bed, sound asleep, and Stevie nose-deep in an Encyclopedia Brown book, reading quietly by the desk lamp.
“Quinn fell asleep,” Stevie informs him, as if he can’t see that, and he feels a rush of gratitude for how mature his brother is. His babysitter falls asleep and he’s just sitting there, being good. Reading for fun.
“She been out long?” he asks, walking over to her, and Stevie shrugs.
“Awhile. Stacey only fell asleep like ten minutes ago, though.”
“Quinn. Quinn, wake up.” Sam shakes her shoulder gently, and smiles as she blearily blinks herself into awareness. “Hey. Up and at ‘em.”
“Sam? Why are you…?” she looks around, and he can see the exact moment that her surroundings register written all over her face. “-Oh my god.”
“Hey, chill,” Sam says, because the amount of panic in her eyes makes his chest feel tight. “No big deal. Stevie held down the fort-didn’t you, Half Pint?”
“Stacey wasn’t going to brush her teeth before she laid down but I made her,” Stevie responds dutifully. “Cuz I knew she’d fall asleep even though she said she wouldn’t. And I gave Quinn a blanket so she wouldn’t be cold.”
“See?” Sam says, feeling kind of stupidly proud. “Everything was under control.”
Quinn mutters something under her breath that he thinks might be Not me, and she’s gathering her stuff up as fast as she possibly can.
He’s kind of tired of her always leaving like this.
“Tell your sister she did a really good job with the braid,” she says, bolting for the porch, and he follows her out instinctively.
“Quinn, hold up, it’s not-”
“I am so sorry, Sam,” she says, whirling around as the door closes behind them. “I can’t believe how irresponsible-I swear, I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. It’s just, I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and planning the stupid Night of Neglect benefit has been a nightmare, and nothing’s ready for prom, and I just-”
“Quinn-Quinn. Hey. Stop. Look at me. Am I mad?”
“No, but-”
“I trust you, and I trust them, you didn’t screw up and everything’s fine,” Sam says, and she fights the urge to squirm in discomfort at this unearned forgiveness. “And hey, after tomorrow night, the concert will be over, and you can go back to focusing on your campaign. Right?”
“I guess.”
“So no worries. It’s been a long week for everyone, you know? Everything’ll be better after a good night’s sleep. And-maybe this won’t help, but, um. I could emcee if you want. The benefit.”
“… Really?”
“Sure, why not? It’ll be like I’m hosting SNL. I get to be all, Ladies and gentleman-Coldplay, and then the crowd will go wild, and then later, I can be awesome with my impressions.”
Her mouth twists into a smirk. “Coldplay? Really?”
“Shut up,” he laughs.
It feels like maybe they should hug, or something, but seeing as she didn’t after her meltdown at the dump-and this is hardly that level of intensity-she can’t really justify it now.
“Thanks,” she mumbles instead, scuffing the porch with her sneaker.
He frowns. “For what?”
“I don’t know. For being a normal person?”
He laughs. “Kea tìkin.”
“… Sorry, what?”
“It means you’re welcome.”
“I thought that was… whatever it was you said at the junkyard. You said something else.”
He studies her curiously, clearly impressed she’d remember that much. “Well, yeah. There are plenty of different ways to say you’re welcome in Na’vi. Just like in English. That night, I said hayalo oeta. Y’know. ‘You’d do the same for me.’ Tonight I said, like-no need to thank me, it was nothing. Kea tìkin.”
“… I take back what I said about you being normal.”
“Thought you might,” he grins.
Wonder of wonders, she finds it in her to grin back.
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