Fic: Company (4/?)
Title: Company
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for themes.
Spoilers: Original Song.
Summary: Battles, of the legal and personal kinds.
TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual assault. Seriously, if it's going to hurt anyone, please don't read it - it's not an overly graphic scene, but I don't want to trigger anyone, k?
You’ve never felt more awkward than you do standing outside Roosevelt High in Akron. The sidelong glances you’re getting from the assembled mothers waiting for their children tell you that they know you don’t belong, that they’re watching you suspiciously, waiting for the first wrong move to call the police. But you stop feeling their gazes when Rachel emerges into the staff parking lot and you run to meet her.
“Quinn? What on earth are you-“ not trusting your voice, you hand her the letter. Her face darkens as she reads it, and she points a shaking hand at her car. “Get in.” You slide into the passenger seat of her Jetta, and she doesn’t make conversation as she drives to a roadside diner that looks like it should have been condemned in the sixties. “I know how it looks,” she says softly. “It’s really good, though. Come on.”
She takes you by the hand and walks you into the restaurant, where she nods at the waiter. “John - two coffees, and some nachos, okay?”
“Will do, Rachel,” he wanders to the kitchen as she takes one side of a booth, leaving you the other.
“What are you going to do?” is her first question, the only question she could ask.
“What can I do?” you’re annoyed by the pleading, desperate tone of your voice, but you can’t seem to help it. “He fucking well knows he’s got me over a barrel. I don’t have the money to spend on a lawyer, and even if I did, I don’t know how the best lawyer in the world could make me seem like a fit mother. I can see this hearing now - ‘Quinn, what do you do for a living?’ ‘Well, your honor, I’m a prostitute.’ ‘Right, case closed.’ Rachel, he’s going to take my son! He’s all I have!” you put your head in your hands.
“I presume you came to me because you wanted my help?”
“Only if - I mean, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just assumed-” she interrupts with a hand on yours, pulling it away from your tear-streaked face.
“Of course I’ll help. We have a week until the hearing, so I think this is what our course of action should be. I’m going to call my dads tonight. They still have friends at the ACLU, and they should be able to advise us on our legal options. And we need to get you off the street, because you’re right - they’re certain to use that against you.” Her brow furrows. “Got it!” she shouts. “You’ll be my housekeeper.”
“Huh?” her train of thought is racing miles ahead of yours.
“That’ll be your job - my live-in maid. I can’t pay you as much per hour as I was for your companionship,” you smile a bit at the euphemism, “but it’s a respectable job, and they won’t be able to use it against you. What do you say?”
“I missed you,” you whisper. “That look in your eyes you get when you’re planning something, the way you take charge. You were always good at that. I’m sorry I never told you back then.”
She softens, giving your hand a squeeze. “I missed you too. I missed McKinley, and Glee, and all of you - transferring out was a mistake. But let’s focus on right now, okay? Do you want the job?”
“Of course I do,” you wipe your eyes with your free hand. “But I don’t want you doing something you can’t afford, Rach.”
“I can afford it,” she promises. “I’ll have a contract drawn up tonight, just so we have something on paper for proof. And I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what we’ll do in terms of a lawyer. I need to be very clear with you, though - stay off the street, Quinn. If you find yourself short of grocery money or something, call me, day or night. I’ll get you what you need, and we’ll settle accounts later. Just don’t do anything that could give them more leverage against you.”
“I understand,” you promise. “I won’t.”
The food arrives, and she gestures at the plate. “Eat up, Quinn. Trust me, these are the best nachos in the world.”
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You wish it was a surprise that Finn is sitting on your front steps in a wife-beater and jeans when Rachel drops you at your house, but of course it’s not. What is a surprise, especially to him, is the way you explode out of the car and launch yourself at him, beating your fists against his chest.
“You son of a bitch!” you scream. “Why? Why would you do this? You disappear one night, never come home, never call your son, or me, not for more than a year? You ruined my life, you fuck! And now you’re going to stroll in and take Dylan away from me? Now you care about him? Why couldn’t you have at least talked to me? If you wanted to see him, you could have just asked!” Finn’s staggered backward and fallen, and you nearly jump on top of him but for Rachel’s hands restraining you.
“Stop,” she hisses in your ear. “Quinn, stop, his lawyers will use this against you. Stop, just back up, okay?” she pulls you away, and you let her. Finn stands up, rubbing at his chest.
“It’s good to see you too, Quinn.”
“Get out of my sight, Finn, before I change my mind and beat the shit out of you.”
“Hey, I came to make you an offer, that’s all. I just wanted to be reasonable.”
“What offer?”
“Don’t make Dylan go through this hearing. Don’t make him find out what his mother does. Just give him to me, and I’ll go away. I’ll even pay you - so it’ll be just like every other day, you get fucked and then you get paid.”
It takes all of Rachel’s strength to restrain you as he smirks.
“Seriously, though, just let me have him. I’m living with someone now, and I really think Dylan should be raised in a stable home environment.”
“A stable home environment? Who taught you those words, Finn, your lawyer? Fuck off and die. You’re not taking my son.”
“Actually, I am. Maybe I’ll drop by his school tomorrow, give him some new clothes, a ride in my truck. What do you think?”
Fear settles in your stomach like a hot ball of lead. He’s just verbalised your worst nightmare - that he’ll show up and Dylan won’t think twice about running to his daddy, and hearing or no you’ll never see him again. “Please,” you start to cry, the fight draining out of you. “Please, Finn, don’t. I’m begging you, don’t.”
He brushes the dirt from his jeans. “Don’t worry, Quinnie,” coming from his mouth, the nickname is demeaning. “My lawyer advised me that would be a bad idea, so he’s still yours - at least for one more week. Oh, and just so we’re clear, this was a one-time offer. I’m going to take him in the end, and you won’t get a thing. Take care of yourself. Oh,” he looks over your shoulder. “It’s nice to see you, Rachel. I hope you’re well?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Finn.”
“There was a time you’d have killed to have me talk to you.”
“I grew up, Finn. Maybe you should try it.”
“Cute. Take care.” He saunters away, climbing into a pickup truck - of course - parked at the curb. It speeds away, throwing gravel behind it, and disappears around the corner. And the second he’s gone, you lose every bit of composure you have left and collapse into Rachel’s arms, crying great heaving sobs. There are wet drops on your head, and you wonder when it started to rain before realising that she’s crying as well. That just feeds into your own tears like a feedback loop, and you cry until you’re physically ill, throwing up on your front lawn. She helps you inside, sitting with you on your threadbare loveseat until you cry yourself dry and drift off to sleep.
She’s gone when you wake, and there’s a note taped to the television. Come over when you get up. R. You find your jacket hung behind the door and pull it on, making sure the door is locked behind you before you leave. You’re no more than halfway there when you know that something’s wrong, the skin on the back of your neck crawling. You look back, and your stalker is no more than ten feet behind you. You start to run, but you can hear the sound of his footfalls getting closer, and as you open your mouth to scream a rough hand clamps down over your mouth as you’re pulled into an alley.
You scream, you bite, you struggle, but none of it stops him from forcing you facedown onto the pavement. He shoves something in your mouth that muffles your screams, and he forces himself into you with a flare of pain that’s so intense as to make you pass out. You wake up in the alley alone, with your pants and underwear still down around your ankles and blood between your legs. There’s a wad of cash near your head, and you reflexively pick it up and shove it down your shirt and into your bra before pulling your pants up and heading for Rachel’s.
You don’t remember how you arrived there, once you do. Your thoughts are fragmented, a mixture of horrifying memory and random bits of nonsense. There’s a song stuck in your head at one point, but only one line - white crippled wings beating the sky - repeats itself over and over. You leave your shoes behind at some point as well, and the pain of rocks and bits of glass in your feet is both a blessing and a curse in that it hurts but it also focuses you on reality, something you’re having a hard time doing of your own volition. You step onto her porch with a surprised blink, and your hand is trembling so hard you can’t steady a finger to push the doorbell. You pound on the door instead, slapping it with an open palm.
She opens the door and looks at you with disappointment in her eyes. “Quinn, for God’s sake, I told you-” she stops and takes another look, and her eyes widen. “Quinn? Did he -“
“He left me money afterward,” you sob, the words coming in a barely intelligible gush. “He raped me and he left me blacked out in an alley with my fucking pants down and he left me money, like that made it all okay!” She pulls you into her arms and inside, sitting you on her couch and rocking you slowly back and forth.
“Quinn,” she whispers after some immeasurable amount of time has passed, never ceasing her rocking motion, “you have to go to the police.”
“You don’t get it, Rachel,” you whisper, unable to raise your voice any more than that without pain. “You just don’t understand.”
“Help me understand, then.”
“You don’t know how they treat women like me, the way they think of me. If I come in and say I got raped, they’ll ask a few questions. Did I know him? Had I previously done business with him? Did he pay me? The answer to all of those is yes, and that’s enough for them to shake their head and dismiss me outright.”
“But how can you be sure that’s what they’ll,” she trails off, and even without looking at her you know that there’s horrible new comprehension in her eyes. “Quinn, has this - I mean, have you-“
“Comes with the job, Rach,” you can already feel yourself disconnecting, just like you did the first time, severing your emotions from your words as best you can. “Please don’t make me talk about it now.”
“Okay, sweetheart, okay - tell me what do you want to do, what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. Anything you want, okay?”
You shiver uncontrollably. “I want a shower. Long, hot. I need a pill, and, uh,” you wonder how much to share with her, but decide you’d best be honest, “I need a pad, because I’m kind of bleeding a lot.”
“Quinn,” there’s heartbreak in her voice, and you bite your lip in the hope that the pain can keep you from crying.
“It’s okay - it’ll stop. Could you stay with me in the shower? I, uh, I’m just not sure I’m going to be steady on my feet.”
“Of course,” she starts to release you, and you whimper softly. “Can you stand up with me?” she asks, re-seating her grip. “Come on, sweetie, just stand up with me.” You do, the world going slightly grey at the edges, and she holds you up. “I’m going to lead you to the bathroom now, Quinn. Just one step at a time, okay?”
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You wake up hours later in a bed that’s far more plush than your own, and a look at the digital clock makes you curse and throw the covers back. Rachel’s lying awake beside you, though, and she holds you gently down on the bed with one hand.
“Quinn, listen to me, please. I called your mother, and told her I was a co-worker. I told her you’d be home slightly later, and asked if she could take Dylan to school. There’s no need for you to get up, so please don’t. Just lie down.”
You heave a relieved sigh. “Could you get me some more aspirin?” you ask in a watery voice.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and you immediately miss her warmth. You don’t know whether it’s the added stress of dealing with Finn, or the violence with which it happened, but all you can think is that this is so much worse than it was the first time, that the violation of it is somehow infinitely worse.
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for themes.
Spoilers: Original Song.
Summary: Battles, of the legal and personal kinds.
TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual assault. Seriously, if it's going to hurt anyone, please don't read it - it's not an overly graphic scene, but I don't want to trigger anyone, k?
You’ve never felt more awkward than you do standing outside Roosevelt High in Akron. The sidelong glances you’re getting from the assembled mothers waiting for their children tell you that they know you don’t belong, that they’re watching you suspiciously, waiting for the first wrong move to call the police. But you stop feeling their gazes when Rachel emerges into the staff parking lot and you run to meet her.
“Quinn? What on earth are you-“ not trusting your voice, you hand her the letter. Her face darkens as she reads it, and she points a shaking hand at her car. “Get in.” You slide into the passenger seat of her Jetta, and she doesn’t make conversation as she drives to a roadside diner that looks like it should have been condemned in the sixties. “I know how it looks,” she says softly. “It’s really good, though. Come on.”
She takes you by the hand and walks you into the restaurant, where she nods at the waiter. “John - two coffees, and some nachos, okay?”
“Will do, Rachel,” he wanders to the kitchen as she takes one side of a booth, leaving you the other.
“What are you going to do?” is her first question, the only question she could ask.
“What can I do?” you’re annoyed by the pleading, desperate tone of your voice, but you can’t seem to help it. “He fucking well knows he’s got me over a barrel. I don’t have the money to spend on a lawyer, and even if I did, I don’t know how the best lawyer in the world could make me seem like a fit mother. I can see this hearing now - ‘Quinn, what do you do for a living?’ ‘Well, your honor, I’m a prostitute.’ ‘Right, case closed.’ Rachel, he’s going to take my son! He’s all I have!” you put your head in your hands.
“I presume you came to me because you wanted my help?”
“Only if - I mean, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just assumed-” she interrupts with a hand on yours, pulling it away from your tear-streaked face.
“Of course I’ll help. We have a week until the hearing, so I think this is what our course of action should be. I’m going to call my dads tonight. They still have friends at the ACLU, and they should be able to advise us on our legal options. And we need to get you off the street, because you’re right - they’re certain to use that against you.” Her brow furrows. “Got it!” she shouts. “You’ll be my housekeeper.”
“Huh?” her train of thought is racing miles ahead of yours.
“That’ll be your job - my live-in maid. I can’t pay you as much per hour as I was for your companionship,” you smile a bit at the euphemism, “but it’s a respectable job, and they won’t be able to use it against you. What do you say?”
“I missed you,” you whisper. “That look in your eyes you get when you’re planning something, the way you take charge. You were always good at that. I’m sorry I never told you back then.”
She softens, giving your hand a squeeze. “I missed you too. I missed McKinley, and Glee, and all of you - transferring out was a mistake. But let’s focus on right now, okay? Do you want the job?”
“Of course I do,” you wipe your eyes with your free hand. “But I don’t want you doing something you can’t afford, Rach.”
“I can afford it,” she promises. “I’ll have a contract drawn up tonight, just so we have something on paper for proof. And I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what we’ll do in terms of a lawyer. I need to be very clear with you, though - stay off the street, Quinn. If you find yourself short of grocery money or something, call me, day or night. I’ll get you what you need, and we’ll settle accounts later. Just don’t do anything that could give them more leverage against you.”
“I understand,” you promise. “I won’t.”
The food arrives, and she gestures at the plate. “Eat up, Quinn. Trust me, these are the best nachos in the world.”
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You wish it was a surprise that Finn is sitting on your front steps in a wife-beater and jeans when Rachel drops you at your house, but of course it’s not. What is a surprise, especially to him, is the way you explode out of the car and launch yourself at him, beating your fists against his chest.
“You son of a bitch!” you scream. “Why? Why would you do this? You disappear one night, never come home, never call your son, or me, not for more than a year? You ruined my life, you fuck! And now you’re going to stroll in and take Dylan away from me? Now you care about him? Why couldn’t you have at least talked to me? If you wanted to see him, you could have just asked!” Finn’s staggered backward and fallen, and you nearly jump on top of him but for Rachel’s hands restraining you.
“Stop,” she hisses in your ear. “Quinn, stop, his lawyers will use this against you. Stop, just back up, okay?” she pulls you away, and you let her. Finn stands up, rubbing at his chest.
“It’s good to see you too, Quinn.”
“Get out of my sight, Finn, before I change my mind and beat the shit out of you.”
“Hey, I came to make you an offer, that’s all. I just wanted to be reasonable.”
“What offer?”
“Don’t make Dylan go through this hearing. Don’t make him find out what his mother does. Just give him to me, and I’ll go away. I’ll even pay you - so it’ll be just like every other day, you get fucked and then you get paid.”
It takes all of Rachel’s strength to restrain you as he smirks.
“Seriously, though, just let me have him. I’m living with someone now, and I really think Dylan should be raised in a stable home environment.”
“A stable home environment? Who taught you those words, Finn, your lawyer? Fuck off and die. You’re not taking my son.”
“Actually, I am. Maybe I’ll drop by his school tomorrow, give him some new clothes, a ride in my truck. What do you think?”
Fear settles in your stomach like a hot ball of lead. He’s just verbalised your worst nightmare - that he’ll show up and Dylan won’t think twice about running to his daddy, and hearing or no you’ll never see him again. “Please,” you start to cry, the fight draining out of you. “Please, Finn, don’t. I’m begging you, don’t.”
He brushes the dirt from his jeans. “Don’t worry, Quinnie,” coming from his mouth, the nickname is demeaning. “My lawyer advised me that would be a bad idea, so he’s still yours - at least for one more week. Oh, and just so we’re clear, this was a one-time offer. I’m going to take him in the end, and you won’t get a thing. Take care of yourself. Oh,” he looks over your shoulder. “It’s nice to see you, Rachel. I hope you’re well?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Finn.”
“There was a time you’d have killed to have me talk to you.”
“I grew up, Finn. Maybe you should try it.”
“Cute. Take care.” He saunters away, climbing into a pickup truck - of course - parked at the curb. It speeds away, throwing gravel behind it, and disappears around the corner. And the second he’s gone, you lose every bit of composure you have left and collapse into Rachel’s arms, crying great heaving sobs. There are wet drops on your head, and you wonder when it started to rain before realising that she’s crying as well. That just feeds into your own tears like a feedback loop, and you cry until you’re physically ill, throwing up on your front lawn. She helps you inside, sitting with you on your threadbare loveseat until you cry yourself dry and drift off to sleep.
She’s gone when you wake, and there’s a note taped to the television. Come over when you get up. R. You find your jacket hung behind the door and pull it on, making sure the door is locked behind you before you leave. You’re no more than halfway there when you know that something’s wrong, the skin on the back of your neck crawling. You look back, and your stalker is no more than ten feet behind you. You start to run, but you can hear the sound of his footfalls getting closer, and as you open your mouth to scream a rough hand clamps down over your mouth as you’re pulled into an alley.
You scream, you bite, you struggle, but none of it stops him from forcing you facedown onto the pavement. He shoves something in your mouth that muffles your screams, and he forces himself into you with a flare of pain that’s so intense as to make you pass out. You wake up in the alley alone, with your pants and underwear still down around your ankles and blood between your legs. There’s a wad of cash near your head, and you reflexively pick it up and shove it down your shirt and into your bra before pulling your pants up and heading for Rachel’s.
You don’t remember how you arrived there, once you do. Your thoughts are fragmented, a mixture of horrifying memory and random bits of nonsense. There’s a song stuck in your head at one point, but only one line - white crippled wings beating the sky - repeats itself over and over. You leave your shoes behind at some point as well, and the pain of rocks and bits of glass in your feet is both a blessing and a curse in that it hurts but it also focuses you on reality, something you’re having a hard time doing of your own volition. You step onto her porch with a surprised blink, and your hand is trembling so hard you can’t steady a finger to push the doorbell. You pound on the door instead, slapping it with an open palm.
She opens the door and looks at you with disappointment in her eyes. “Quinn, for God’s sake, I told you-” she stops and takes another look, and her eyes widen. “Quinn? Did he -“
“He left me money afterward,” you sob, the words coming in a barely intelligible gush. “He raped me and he left me blacked out in an alley with my fucking pants down and he left me money, like that made it all okay!” She pulls you into her arms and inside, sitting you on her couch and rocking you slowly back and forth.
“Quinn,” she whispers after some immeasurable amount of time has passed, never ceasing her rocking motion, “you have to go to the police.”
“You don’t get it, Rachel,” you whisper, unable to raise your voice any more than that without pain. “You just don’t understand.”
“Help me understand, then.”
“You don’t know how they treat women like me, the way they think of me. If I come in and say I got raped, they’ll ask a few questions. Did I know him? Had I previously done business with him? Did he pay me? The answer to all of those is yes, and that’s enough for them to shake their head and dismiss me outright.”
“But how can you be sure that’s what they’ll,” she trails off, and even without looking at her you know that there’s horrible new comprehension in her eyes. “Quinn, has this - I mean, have you-“
“Comes with the job, Rach,” you can already feel yourself disconnecting, just like you did the first time, severing your emotions from your words as best you can. “Please don’t make me talk about it now.”
“Okay, sweetheart, okay - tell me what do you want to do, what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. Anything you want, okay?”
You shiver uncontrollably. “I want a shower. Long, hot. I need a pill, and, uh,” you wonder how much to share with her, but decide you’d best be honest, “I need a pad, because I’m kind of bleeding a lot.”
“Quinn,” there’s heartbreak in her voice, and you bite your lip in the hope that the pain can keep you from crying.
“It’s okay - it’ll stop. Could you stay with me in the shower? I, uh, I’m just not sure I’m going to be steady on my feet.”
“Of course,” she starts to release you, and you whimper softly. “Can you stand up with me?” she asks, re-seating her grip. “Come on, sweetie, just stand up with me.” You do, the world going slightly grey at the edges, and she holds you up. “I’m going to lead you to the bathroom now, Quinn. Just one step at a time, okay?”
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You wake up hours later in a bed that’s far more plush than your own, and a look at the digital clock makes you curse and throw the covers back. Rachel’s lying awake beside you, though, and she holds you gently down on the bed with one hand.
“Quinn, listen to me, please. I called your mother, and told her I was a co-worker. I told her you’d be home slightly later, and asked if she could take Dylan to school. There’s no need for you to get up, so please don’t. Just lie down.”
You heave a relieved sigh. “Could you get me some more aspirin?” you ask in a watery voice.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and you immediately miss her warmth. You don’t know whether it’s the added stress of dealing with Finn, or the violence with which it happened, but all you can think is that this is so much worse than it was the first time, that the violation of it is somehow infinitely worse.