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The corsage hangs limply from her wrist.
She takes a deep breath and thinks about calling her mother. What would she even say? Sorry I failed. Again. She’s not even sure that her mom will care—honestly, it depends on the amount of Dubonnet consumed at any particular time—but she cares. This was the goal she’d set. The one thing that she’d wanted for herself this entire year. It had been in reach, she could almost taste her victory up on that stage.
And then it had all blown up, just like sophomore year had turned into her worst nightmare just because she pitched all of her hopes and dreams onto the wrong guy (twice), and her freshman year had just been an endless reminder that she still didn’t have any friends—just backstabbing minions who would turn on her for any chance at the spotlight.
Quinn has always wanted to live up to those expectations that her family set ages ago, but all she’s really good at is failing at the things she doesn’t want and failing to ignore the things she does.
Because the things she does want… oh, God. It always comes back to the same person. The same girl, even.
She shivers and starts rummaging around her purse for her phone.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any ice in that bag, would you?” she hears, from somewhere to her right.
Her initial reaction is something very snide and undeserved, because the reality of the night is that Jesse was a victim of Finn’s incredibly unwarranted bullshit as much as she had been.
“Why are you still here?” she asks, instead.
He shrugs, cupping his right eye. “Waiting for Rachel. Though I’m not entirely sure she wants to see me right now.” He walks over until he’s standing next to her, also leaning against the gym wall, and then says, “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand professional disillusionment in ways that most of your peers will not. This is an incredibly difficult time for you.”
She almost laughs at him. “What?”
He smiles faintly and says, “Ever since I got… asked to leave UCLA, all I’ve been left with is a burning question. What else is there?”
She takes a deep breath and twists the corsage again. “It’s a little ridiculous to try to bond with me over this, Jesse. I lost prom queen. You have no future.”
“Why not bond?” he asks, not sounding offended in the slightest. “After all, if we’re stuck like this, with nothing else to strive for, I think it’s fairly clear we both want the same thing.”
As if on command, the double doors open again and Rachel piles out, backwards, somehow turning an awkward shuffle into something a little princess-like. She’s laughing at something Sam is saying to Mercedes, and Quinn forces herself to look away.
Jesse sounds amused when he says, “I have no idea how nobody else has figured this out, but it’s okay that you’re completely in love with my ex-girlfriend, you know. I’m here to make amends. And I think there’s possibly no better way of doing than helping you make her happy. God knows you could use the help.”
Rachel spots them a second later, smiling at Quinn and glaring at Jesse.
“Oh dear. I’d say I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, but her fathers own two shotguns for decorative purposes, so I think I should probably amend that tomy car,” Jesse says, sideways.
Quinn manages to not laugh, but barely. “For the record, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“When you’re done not knowing, come and find me,” Jesse says, pushing away from the wall and heading over to Rachel with a semi-apologetic, “Rachel, that Neanderthal almost broke my cheekbone; that would be career-destroying. Have I not suffered enough?”
Jesse’s a little revolting. It’s probably telling that she still likes him about four times more than she ever liked Finn.
*
Okay, no. Jesse is revolting, and some sort of idiotic gay feelings whisperer.
For three years now, she’s managed to convince herself that all she feels for Rachel Berry is severe distaste (re: her clothes, her voice, her personality) mixed in with very, very grudging admiration (re: her drive, her focus, her talent).
Now, she can’t stop thinking about Rachel in that bathroom, reaching out to fix her make-up. She knows she leaned towards her hand, in an ultimate moment of weakness; she knows that Rachel knows it, too. It’s just going to encourage her to be even nicer, and even though Rachel still thinks that Finn is the absolute pinnacle of Lima achievement and they could spend the rest of their lives fighting about a boy, she’s sick of rejecting Rachel’s friendship and—
She’s sick of rejecting Rachel, full stop.
It’s gotten her absolutely nowhere in the last few years, and it’s exhausting and she can’t even remember why she started doing it in the first place. Something about Brittany and Santana, or church, or maybe just not bucking the status quo too much. All things that seem incredibly fucking irrelevant now that she’s given birth (to a human being, it’s still mental whiplash a lot of the time) and now that she’s been kicked out of her house and everyone around her still thinks that high school is the be-all and end-all of their lives.
The only person who doesn’t, who legitimately seems to be looking further ahead than that, is Rachel.
Well, and maybe Jesse St. James. But that’s a thought for a different day.
*
She sits down next to Rachel at practice on Monday.
Rachel actually stares at her like she’s grown a third head or something.
Mr. Schuester walks in with Jesse a few moments later and introduces him as their new pre-Nationals assistant coach. The asshole actually winks at Quinn, with a small grin at where she’s sitting, and last year she would’ve blown up immediately—probably decked him just for looking at her.
Today, the most she can mention a scowl, especially when even that is followed by Rachel very, very carefully asking if she’s okay.
“I know this weekend was hard for you,” Rachel continues, very softly.
“I’m over it,” Quinn says, and takes a deep breath. “You want to come over to my house and hang out, maybe?”
Rachel gapes at her.
Jesse claps his hands loudly and says, “Okay then. If you’re all ready to learn how to go from sucking so hard that walking into this room is like stepping into a vortex to actually becoming good enough to stand a chanceagainst Vocal Adrenaline, let’s get going!”
Finn says, “I’m not doing anything that dick says.”
Rachel says, “What did you just say?”
“I’m not doing anything—”
“Not you,” Rachel hisses.
Quinn feels her heart swell with the first sign of absolute annoyance Rachel has displayed towards Finn in like, oh, ever. “I—my house? Maybe?” she says.
“Is this a trick?” Rachel asks.
Jesse clears his throat. “Rachel, if we can have the girl talk after practice—”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” Rachel says, beaming at him again.
Jesse somehow manages to look both sly and charming with that black eye he’s sporting, and says, “Anyone who can’t dance to the left, please. That means you, Finn. Everyone else, I will walk you through some choreography that is a decent fall-back in any situation where your lead vocalist accidentally maims themselves.”
“Which won’t happen,” Mr. Schue says, hastily.
“No, probably not. I think we’ve all learned our lesson about dancing with chain saws,” Jesse adds, sounding a little sad about it.
Rachel’s hand shoots up. “Define lead vocalist.”
“You, of course,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes.
Rachel looks immensely pleased, even as Mr. Schuester says, “We won’thave a lead vocalist; this club is like a family. Everyone gets their chance to shine.”
“Everyone but Finn, obviously, because we want shining, not shiners,” Jesse adds.
If Quinn wasn’t about ninety-five percent sure that she was gay at this point, she might be a little bit in love with him.
*
Jesse’s approach to preparing for Nationals is bringing out the best in individuals.
Quinn is fairly sure that everyone else’s one-on-one sessions with him do not involve him critically walking around them and saying, “Your hair has to go.”
“What?”
“It’s too long. Too—girly. Rachel’s not against experimenting, I mean, she’s prepared herself for Broadway her entire life; God knows that girl is going to sleep with another girl at some point. But, she has a type.”
“Dumb as rocks?” Quinn asks, dryly.
Jesse smiles and says, “Exceptional.”
“We are still talking about Finn, right?”
Jesse straddles a chair in front of her and then shakes his head. “You have more vision than that. Don’t be threatened, it’s so unappealing from someone with such good bone structure.”
“Thanks,” Quinn says, reaching for her own cheek almost automatically.
“What she wants from Finn is the image. She dreams big. Big in Lima is the quarterback. But there’s a reason I was able to seduce her so quickly,” Jesse says, sounding completely sincere for a change. “I’m an exceptionally talented singer, a well-rounded and capable dancer, and I have fantastic hair.”
“Let’s not forget self-awareness and modesty,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes.
“I’m merely calling a future star a future star, Quinn,” Jesse says, folding his arms over the back of the chair and leaning forward. “But you do bring us to your problem.”
“Which is?” she asks, tersely. Clearly her problem is that she’s asking the world’s most conceited douche for advice on how to seduce Rachel Berry, but he seems to have something else in mind.
“You’re—not really all that special,” he says, with a wince.
She feels her face take on that bizarrely calm quality that Finn refers to as Scary Quinn. Finn might have a point, actually, if Jesse’s widening eyes are anything to go by.
“I don’t mean that in the subjective sense where nobody will ever love you, obviously. Just that, you’re not an exceptional singer; you’re kind of pitchy and nasal, so you’ll never win Rachel over with a ballad the way that I did, or that Finn has, repeatedly.”
She feels her teeth grinding together so hard that she almost wonders if it’s possible to get a cavity this way. “I’m aware I’m not the best singer.”
“And—for some reason you still dance like you’re pregnant. I don’t understand that at all, but I suspect it’s a Christian thing. Your hips want to move, Quinn. You really should let them. It will only help you if you ever decide to have sex with—”
“Okay,” she says, quickly. “I—I’ll see if I can maybe… loosen up a little.”
“Well, I’m not holding my breath, but thankfully your third problem is easily remedied.” Jesse sort of runs a hand through his hair and then shakes it like it’s a mane, before looking back at Quinn with raised eyebrows. “You need a haircut.”
She squints at him. “I could do with a trim, but—”
“No, Quinn. You need a transformation. Something that will make Rachel forget everything that you’ve done and said to her in the past, and I mean, good luck with that, she has like seven diaries full of the crap that you’ve done to her—”
“Jesse, I swear to God—”
“It’s fine, she also has one that’s just devoted to that time I threw eggs at her,” he says, with a shrug. “She’s very forgiving. Apologize, and transform yourself. Get sexy hair. Lesbian hair.”
She doesn’t point out that she’s very unlikely to be able to go to her salon and request ‘lesbian hair’ and actually get the kind of cut he’s suggesting she get. Stranger still, she doesn’t tell him to get lost, which is what any sane person would do.
“You think that would work,” she says, instead, wondering what she’d look like with short hair. She hasn’t had it shorter than her shoulders since she was a baby, she’s fairly sure. It’s just not how women in her family wear their hair.
“It would give you a chance,” Jesse says, with a shrug.
“A haircut and some better dancing,” Quinn says, just to make sure they’re on the same page.
“Well, and some better pick-up lines than ‘get out of my way, Berry’. But one thing at a time, hm?” Jesse says, with a smile.
She hates him. She loves him a little, too; especially when he says, “I’ll send you a picture; there’s a lesbian golf player who has exactly the kind of ‘do you should get. It would make your hair almost irresistibly soft-looking. She’ll want to pet you like you’re a show pony.”
“That’s not exactly—”
“Trust me. That is exactly what you want,” Jesse says, before getting back up from the chair and saying, “Now, for the sake of posterity, had this actually been a glee club meeting I would’ve told you you don’t stand a chance in hell of getting a solo at Nationals and I would appreciate it if you could just sway in the background with as much natural grace as possible. You’re very pretty; I’ll choreograph so as to accentuate your face and hide your unusually present ass.”
“You have two seconds to get out of this room before I kill you. Or rip out a clump of your hair,” she adds, as an afterthought, because she’s fairly sure he’d care more about that than death.
Jesse grins and says, “I like you. I really do. It’s a shame you’re so gay for my ex-girlfriend, because I’d love to rub some of my talent off on you.”
She can’t even come up with an appropriate comeback to that. Mostly because he said ‘talent’, and then ‘rubbing’, and she’s already back to hazily thinking about Rachel.
“Haircut,” Jesse reminds her, from the doorway.
She sighs and digs out her phone for an appointment.
*
It’s shockingly different.
Everyone stares at her, but she only cares about one person’s reaction.
Rachel moves to stand in front of her and her hand comes up in what looks like a reflex—it’s very reminiscent of prom, but the awe on her face is less about you just slapped me and now you’re crying and more—
Jesse is a fucking magical gay feelings whisperer and Quinn is going to buy him a drink as soon as she’s old enough to buy drinks.
“Wow,” Rachel says, quietly.
Quinn looks down at her and lets a bit of her bangs fall into her eyes, which she knows will make her look a lot, lot, lot sexier than the Quinn Fabray of before — abstinence club, stuck in a Cheerios uniform that really just made her look virginal and constipated at the same time.
“You like it?” she asks. She doesn’t actually try to sound shy, that sort of happens naturally.
Rachel’s expression softens into a smile at the tone of her voice anyway. “It’s so—”
There isn’t an end to that sentence, which is somehow better than anything Rachel could have said.
Quinn texts Jesse as soon as they’re all sitting down and waiting for Mr. Schue to start talking to them about their original songs, because really:what now?
*
“You need game,” Jesse tells her, plainly, after applauding her new look semi-sarcastically. “I mean, those dresses you like to wear? Very Lillith Fair. Rachel has a thing for people with a bit of edge, though.”
“I’m not particularly edgy,” Quinn says.
“Please, look at you with your model hair falling into your eyes,” Jesse says, before pursing his lips. “How do you feel about jeans?”
Her initial reaction is jeans are for boys and not girls, but she shoves it aside and says, “I own a pair.”
“Tear some holes in it,” Jesse suggests.
“Why, because looking homeless will give me edge?”
Jesse taps a finger against his cheek and says, “You’re right. I’m slightly out of my depth. We’ll have to find someone else who can give you the rest of your make-over. And possibly some swagger.”
*
How in the hell that combination of requirements has him pulling Kurt into the classroom with them ten minutes later, Quinn has no idea.
*
Kurt gives her the most amused look alive.
“Well, well. We all thought that Santana was going to come barrelling out of the closet at Nationals, but you appear to be set to give her a run for her money.”
“I thought there was some unwritten rule that—you know, we support each other,” Quinn says, scowling at him.
“Honey, if you can’t say the words yet, this make-over will get you absolutely nowhere,” Kurt says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who is this for, anyway? Tell me it’s not for Satan.”
Quinn makes a noise that sounds like a duck is dying in her throat. “Ew.”
Kurt’s eyes gleam a little when he says, “Of course. The animosity; the bathroom drawings. How did I not see it…. oh, right, because this isn’t 1950 and there is no need to act like a schoolyard bully to hook up with a girl anymore, Quinn.” He rolls his eyes at her and says, “Christians, I swear to God.”
“Fun as this is, and it really is,” Jesse says, with a smile. “Maybe you can give us some wardrobe ideas?”
Kurt purses his lips and looks Quinn up and down. “Preppy.”
“Meaning…”
“Abercrombie & Fitch, lacrosse-playing baby gay,” he says, with a firm nod. “Polo shirts, rugby shirts, jeans and corduroy pants… at least three different types of Converse. … basically, raid Sam and Finn’s closets, mix them up a little, add a little more class, maybe shell out heavy on the skinny jeans, and—”
“Brilliant,” Jesse says.
“Thank you. I try.”
Quinn looks between them both and says, “Let me get this straight.”
“Pun intended?” Kurt asks, dryly.
“You’re suggesting that in order to get Rachel’s attention, I start dressing like the girl version of the guy she likes. And that’s—not weird to anyone?”
“Sweetie, you don’t have the cleavage to become a sex kitten,” Kurt says, gently. “And you don’t have the attitude to become a complete player. The most you can hope for is being adorable, and tomboy-cute is bound to get her attention. Trust us.”
“Yeah, trust us,” Jesse agrees.
She feels like she’s making a deal with the devil, but then sighs and says, “Columbus outlets this weekend?”
“Oh, such joy. I always hoped that I’d be able to drag Rachel’s wardrobe into her teen years before graduating, but this is even better,” Kurt says, getting his phone out—probably to text Blaine. “Quinn, for what it’s worth, if you ever want to talk about your feelings—we’re here for you. Blaine, mostly, because I will probably just laugh if you actually tell me that you’re in love with Rachel.”
“I’m not in love with her,” Quinns scoffs. “I just … want to be her friend. And stuff.”
“Okay, sweetie,” Kurt says, soothingly, before bringing the phone up to his ear and leaving the room.
Quinn tries to glare at Jesse. It doesn’t work, obviously, because the guy is impervious to insults.
All he does is rub his hands together and say, “I love being right about everything. It’s inevitable, of course, but having it all affirmed right in front of me nonetheless just gives me such joy.”
*
The week after that, Santana doesn’t even really recognize her.
She’s wearing aviators—a standard requirement, Kurt has told her—and skinny black jeans, and a light blue polo shirt that she keeps flattening the collar on, only to have it popped by either Kurt or Jesse.
When she leans against Santana’s locker and says, “Hey”, Santana actually jolts.
“What the everloving—” Santana starts saying, before giving Quinn another once-over. “Oh my God. What is happening right now?”
Quinn fidgets for a second, because man, it’s not that she hasn’t worn tennis shoes daily for most of her teen years, but the purple high-tops are somehow still uncomfortable and she feels like her feet are canoes with how large they look under her jeans.
“I’m—trying something new,” she says, biting her lip after a moment.
Santana glares at her. “I’ve spent the entire year trying to tell this school that they can’t put labels on me, and you decide you’re gay in what, a whole five minutes and come in here walking like fucking miniature Tegan or Sara or—”
“Who?”
“Read Autostraddle if you’re going to be a lesbian,” Santana snaps at her.
“Look, this isn’t about you. It’s about—”
“Rachel, duh,” Santana says, glaring at her anyway. “I’m just—you are fucking ruining this for me, Quinn. I had a plan, and now Brittany’s just going to be all like, but Quinn’s okay with being gay, why aren’t you?”
“Why aren’t you?” Quinn asks, a little pointedly. “Look around you. Nobody cares that I’m wearing any of this, or that I own three different pairs of sunglasses now, or that I’m considering putting pink streaks in my hair. Seriously. Nobody cares more or less than they did before.”
“You’ll be Slushied by lunch time,” Santana says, coldly.
“Yeah, as I would’ve been anyway, because we’re in the glee club.”
Santana makes a face and then says, “This is bullshit. You’re such a coward, I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Some things are just—worth doing,” Quinn says, lowering her eyes and scuffing her toe against the floor. “I think I’m a few years late in realizing that, but I’m not too late. Maybe we can both learn something from Kurt.”
“Yes, like how to accessorize,” he says, popping up behind Quinn without warning. “My God—if I didn’t know that you were a girl, and thanks againfor flashing me this weekend, by the way…”
Quinn glances at him from over the top of her sunglasses. “Yeah?”
He fans himself in response and then gives Santana a pointed look. “What about you, Ellen?”
Santana sighs, looks at Quinn again, and says, “You’re way not my type, but then I like girls, not little boys. Whatever, though. Berry has fucking bizarre-ass taste. She likes them abusive or smug, and not much in between.”
“Hey. Jesse’s … nice,” Quinn says, wondering where the heck this unexpected loyalty came from.
Santana raises her eyebrows and says, “Okay, going gay doesn’t mean going stupid, Quinn. Take it easy there.”
Quinn sighs and looks at Kurt. “You think—”
“Stop worrying so much,” he says, and links their arms together. “My God, I do amazing work sometimes.”
*
Rachel seems a little more prepared for her reaction this time; although, really, the white-knuckled grip she has on her desk when Quinn strolls in (and stroll it is, Jesse has had her practice this particular non-hip oriented way of walking for most of the weekend) and slides into the chair next to her in English.
“What—” Rachel starts to say.
“It’s—I’m trying something… different,” Quinn says, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair and giving Rachel a small smile. “I’m a little tired of being—you know. That Quinn.”
Rachel looks at her and visibly swallows a few times. “It—it really suits you.”
Quinn tries to not let her smile grow at that statement, but it’s a bit futile; Rachel’s stupidly earnest compliments have some sort of hard-wired connection straight to her heart.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“Yeah. You look—”
Another sentence that has no ending, just Rachel’s eyes darting all over her face and down to her shirt and her shoes. Quinn feels it almost like it’s something physical, and there’s just no stopping her at this point.
“You want to—I swear this isn’t a trick, okay. Can we—do you maybe want to—”
God, she might walk with swagger, but every word out of her mouth is an embarrassment. Jesse would strangle her for how she’s ruining all the work (and the nearly 800 dollars) they put into the new her.
“Have you ever seen RENT?” Rachel asks, rescuing her completely.
Quinn shakes her head, tucking her hair back behind her ear afterwards. “No. I’m guessing it’s a musical?”
Rachel looks subtly amused. “How can you have been in Glee for two years now and still have to ask me that?”
“We’ve… never really spoken much. And that’s—” Quinn takes a deep breath and curls her toes in her floppy canoe shoes, and then says, “I’m really sorry. About like, all the stuff from before. And all the Finn stuff. It’s all so stupid, and I can explain it, but—not now. Okay?”
“Sure,” Rachel says, easily enough—but the look in her eyes is weirdly touched, and Quinn knows that she did the right thing by being honest, levels of game sacrificed be damned. “But—after we watch RENT, okay? It’s important.”
“The musical?” Quinn asks, carefully.
“It’s about a struggle for happiness in the modern world. You’ll relate to it,” Rachel says, in a tone of voice that brokers no discussion.
Quinn crosses her legs before remembering that no, she doesn’t do that anymore, and then just stretches them out, unable to stop a smile when Rachel tracks the movement fully. “Okay. I mean, that sounds great. Can I bring anything?”
“Just you,” Rachel says. She flushes when she’s said it, but then adds, “We have a lot of snacks.” Like that amendment’s going to make Quinn’s heart skip fewer beats, or something.
She sends a discreet message to both Kurt and Jesse this time, and gets back, as my one-time role model Jay-Z has said: a true pimp doesn’t brag about his conquests from Jesse and praise all the musicals and wear matching underwear from Kurt.
She blushes furiously at the latter message and then covers her face with her hands, before Rachel can ask her if she’s okay again.
*
She brings flowers.
It’s not at all dope, because apparently a player would just show up without anything, but come on. Sixteen years of fretting over etiquette can’t be undone in a day, and she’s pretty sure that whoever owns the letterman jacket is also responsible for buying the flowers.
Right?
(Maybe Santana has a point, and Quinn makes a mental note to check out that website that she’d mentioned.)
She restores her attitude a little by leaning into the doorway in what she’s been told is now her gangster lean; but of course, then nearly falls over when the doorway opens and a tall black man who is not Rachel opens up.
“Mr. Berry,” she says, automatically. Every bit of cool she’s collected is gone in a flash, and she knows she’s back to being old Quinn when she reaches for his hand says, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Um, Rachel invited me over to watch a movie.”
“Quinn, right?” he says, looking at the flowers. “It’s funny. I thought you’d be—”
“What?” she asks, almost immediately panicking.
“A … boy. Am I confusing you with someone?”
“Oh. Finn. Hudson. Her—they dated, for a little while. Haven’t you methim?”
The Jesse voice in her head says, oh, by all means, act more like a hysterical heifer. It sort of snaps her out of it.
Mr. Berry looks very amused. “No, we have not. But—hm.”
“I’m—oh, God,” Quinn says, looking down at the flowers. “I didn’t think you’d be here. And she doesn’t think this is—”
“A date?” Mr. Berry asks, kindly.
“I—she’s not even gay, I mean, she should probably tell you that herself, but she’s not, I just—” Quinn sort of hisses, and then sighs in relief when Mr. Berry just reaches for the flowers and says, “Oh, beautiful. Gardenias?”
“They mean, uh, secretly… lovely,” Quinn says, dumbly.
Mr. Berry looks at her with an inscrutable expression for another long moment, and then says, “You know, that Finn guy sounded like a bit of a doofus from what we’ve heard from him. How about I put these in some water and leave them in the kitchen, and you can go upstairs and tell Rachel you’re here?”
Quinn almost says something moronic like I love you, you wonderful specimen of a man, but instead just nods and takes another deep breath before stepping inside.
*
Rachel spots the flowers as soon as they’re back downstairs, of course, but Quinn’s over most of her awkward by then—or well, as much as she thinks she’s going to get over—and doesn’t care so much anymore.
Rachel stares at them for a really, really long moment, though, and then looks at Quinn with a frown.
“How did you find out?”
“Um,” Quinn says, before blinking. “About—flowers?”
“No, about—your corsage,” Rachel asks, a little more hesitantly.
Quinn looks at the flowers, and then at Rachel, and then at the flowers again.
“Oh, crap, you didn’t know,” Rachel says, in a low whisper. Her hand flies to her mouth afterwards, and it’s all just so cute that Quinn is almost vibrating with the desire to touch her.
“You picked out my corsage,” she says, instead. She knows her voice is masking what she’s feeling to the point where Rachel can’t tell if she’s incredibly pissed off or just confused.
“I—” Rachel takes a deep breath and says, “I just wanted your night to be perfect. I know things between us have always been stupid because of Finn, but—that was your night, you know, and—”
Quinn honestly doesn’t know if she can say anything at all to Rachel’s flustered explanation.
“I mean, if this had been Nationals, and something—could have given our performance a boost, I’d like to think that you would’ve—” Rachel says, looking like she wants to die a little.
Quinn’s brain kick-starts again, and she says, “We should have a lead vocalist. It should be you. I’d sway in the background forever for you, because we’d win if that’s the approach we’d take. Mr. Schue is a moron, and I’m going to punch him if his strategy doesn’t work out.”
Rachel swallows hard and says, “Yeah. That. I mean, sort of. I think. That’s what I was going for.”
“Did you,” Quinn starts to say, before her voice creaks like she’s actually a teenage boy and not just dressed like one. She clears her throat and tries again. “Did you know what they—what they meant?”
Rachel chews on her lip for a second—and God, it makes Quinn want to jolt forward and kiss her—and then says, “Yeah. I did.”
For one second, she thinks that she has enough game to make something of this; that she can actually say something totally slick like, “Are you into me, baby?” and just step into Rachel’s space and press her up against the counter and make out like a champ.
But, the clothes don’t quite make the girl, and so all she can says is, “That’s—thank you. For all of it.”
Rachel blushes and says, “Well, I’d say we’re even now.”
*
The moment passes, and they watch a musical about people dying of AIDS. Quinn cries and is really happy that her new look requires less make-up, or her first not-a-date but clearly-a-date with Rachel would’ve ended with her looking like a lemur, sobbing into Rachel’s shoulder.
“This was nice,” Rachel says, before hitting the stop button on the DVD during the credits.
“Can we maybe do something fun… next?” Quinn asks, when she’s sure she’s not going to weep some more and her voice can handle simple questions.
“Next?” Rachel asks, with a shy look. “Like—again?”
“Like—” Quinn starts to say, and then she has to look away and knit her hands into her polo shirt, which is already being stretched out something crazy, but every time she looks at it she can just imagine Rachel’s hands plying into it and pulling on it everywhere, tugging her close by her collar, and man.
Dresses are so overrated.
(She’s still a fan of skirts, though, because—good morning, Rachel’s legs.)
“You want to go—maybe go see a movie in a theater?” she asks, finally, when she’s done being distracted.
Rachel’s smile in response is knowing. “Sure. As long as it’s nothing gruesome.”
Damn, Quinn thinks; that request really cramps her style, because horror movies are bound to get Rachel halfway in her lap just on principle. (Or well, Jesse told her they would.)
“Um. Maybe something animated?” she says, glancing at Rachel for a second.
Rachel tilts her head and says, “As long as there’s no semi-professional singing, that sounds great.”
“What’s semi-professional—”
“Just pick something by Pixar,” Rachel says, patting her on the leg really quickly. “I trust you.”
“Okay,” Quinn says.
She’s not entirely sure if being trusted is synonymous with “working that shit”, the way Jesse had instructed her to do, but it feels pretty damn special anyway.
*
The movie, five nights later, is a success, and when they’re done, Rachel’s humming along softly to the Tegan and Sara CD that Quinn’s borrowed from Santana and is now listening to in her car for research purposes.
“You know Tegan and Sara?” Quinn asks, just to say something. It’s early still, and she’s not really in the mood for being laughed at by Rachel’s dad again, so hanging out in her car feels like a reasonable compromise.
“Sure. They’re very big in the alternative folk scene,” Rachel says, shrugging at Quinn’s look. “I like being well-rounded. I wouldn’t call myself a fan, per se, but I know what music is out there even if I don’t like it.”
“I secretly love rap,” Quinn confesses, after a moment. “I mean, really secretly. It wasn’t an okay thing to listen to at my household, obviously, and it also didn’t really go with the—you know. Cheerleader image.”
Rachel looks like she’s going to say something serious for a moment, but then just smiles and says, “You can pull it off now. Liking rap, I mean.”
“Yeah?” Quinn asks. She’s not even really sure why it matters.
“Yeah. Being true to yourself—it suits you,” Rachel says, looking out the window for a moment.
Quinn tries to remember what Jesse said about hooking up after second dates. Maybe he didn’t say anything at all. Maybe he just said that if there’s an opening to go for it.
The thing is, she’s not really all that good at spotting openings, and Rachel also is totally the type of girl to clock her if she oversteps her boundaries.
“Would you maybe—” she says, instead, before realizing she has no idea how to end that sentence at all.
Rachel looks at her for a very long moment, and it makes her fidget—her hands are twisting into the rugby shirt she’s wearing and good God, at this rate she’s just going to stretch out all of her new clothing before she even manages a simple I like you to Rachel.
Who clearly isn’t opposed. Quinn’s just being dumb.
“Would you… are you maybe—” she tries, again, but the words just lodge in her throat.
“Quinn, are you trying to ask me out?” Rachel finally just asks, when it’s clear that Quinn needs the help.
“I’m—I don’t know. Maybe?” she offers, in return, staring down at the steering wheel.
“Because—you brought flowers when you first came over, and then you paid for everything tonight, so… unless I’m very wrong about what’s going on here, I’m pretty sure you’ve been… courting me,” Rachel says, softly.
“Maybe I’m just very polite,” Quinn says, in an awkward rush. “I mean, I can be. If that’s what you want.”
Rachel looks at her with some concern and says, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m—” Quinn sucks some air into her lungs, blows up her cheeks and then exhales slowly. “I’ve liked you. For years. I’ve gone about showing you in the absolute stupidest way, mostly because I didn’t want to like you, but you are the only good thing in all of Ohio as far as I’m concerned and now you’re also the only good thing about Prom, and—”
“Would you like to go to Breadstix and—I don’t know. Get to know each other a little better?” Rachel asks, putting her hand on Quinn’s thigh—and jeans, jeans are good, because Rachel’s palm is warm and imagine if it was just on her leg, oh holy crap.
What now? She doesn’t know how guys do this.
“Yeah. I mean, yeah. But I’m paying again, okay?” Quinn says, with a questioning look towards Rachel. Paying for meals is apparently a one-way ticket into panties, if Jesse’s anything to go by, and—well, she also justlikes being the one who pays for things.
Rachel smiles at her fondly and says, “I’m not really sure who you’re getting your advice from, but they need to do some reading on stereotypical gender roles and modern gay relationships.”
“I’ll let uh, Jesse know,” Quinn says. “But I’m paying anyway. I figure I owe you.”
Rachel rolls her eyes and says, “You can repay me by being nice from now on, Quinn. We’re probably better off not dwelling on anything that’s happened between us that precedes your new look. I like this you. It’s as good a starting point as any.”
Quinn sighs softly and says, “And you’re not just agreeing to see me again because I’m dressed like Finn?”
Rachel laughs and says, “You think you remind me of Finn?”
“I don’t know, I mean—he has a shirt like this, albeit in far less complimentary colors,” Quinn says, a little sulkily, and still tugging at it.
Rachel reaches for both of her hands and says, “Quinn—I didn’t mind how you looked before. But I like the way you’re acting a lot better now.”
“Okay.”
“I like you,” Rachel stresses, again, tangling their fingers together. “We have some stuff to work through, obviously, but I like you.”
“And this isn’t just some Broadway thing? About experimenting for roles or whatever?” Quinn asks, a little pitchy, because Rachel’s super close to her now.
“Stop talking to Jesse, please. His idea of romance involves Care Bears,” Rachel says, pointedly, and then presses a kiss to Quinn’s cheek. “You don’t need his help. If the gardenias were anything to go by, we’re on the same wavelength.”
Quinn nods after a moment and drops her eyes to where their hands are still joined. “I’m—I kind of like looking like this, though. I mean. I don’t think I’m going to stop, just because—you don’t really care.”
“Oh, no, please don’t change again. It’s—” Rachel says, eyes roving once more.
This time, Quinn already knows there isn’t going to be an end to that sentence.
She just smiles at the warmth in Rachel’s voice, and squeezes their hands. “Guess how long it takes me to do my hair in the mornings.”
Rachel blinks, “Twenty minutes?”
“Five,” Quinn whispers, and then twists her neck, whipping her bangs out of her face for a few seconds. “It just does that. I mean—”
Rachel’s hand reaches for her face automatically, and Quinn closes her eyes when fingers tentatively run through her hair.
“God, it’s so soft,” Rachel says. “No products?”
“Just some um, moisture protection from RedKen.”
“Well, RedKen is amazing,” Rachel says, softly; her fingers brush past Quinn’s scalp and Quinn sighs softly.
“I know, right? They’re—” She blinks her eyes back open when suddenly, there’s lips tentatively pressing against her own; Rachel’s lips. They’re soft and they taste like Burt’s Bees. They’re basically perfect, against her own. They’re—
She can’t think anymore.
“Good. I figured talking about hair and beauty would get you to relax a little,” Rachel says, when she pulls away a minute or so later. “I’ve been soconfused—you’ve been so adorable, but honestly, I’ve been wondering if you should go see your doctor and get tested for anemia. You always look like you’re close to passing out when you’re near me.”
“Hey,” Quinn protests, before darting forward and stealing another kiss. “That’s a lie. I’ve been fierce. I have—tremendous amounts of swagger.”
Rachel laughs. “Is this important to you?”
“I’m—what? Yeah,” Quinn says, before blinking and saying, “No. I don’t know?”
“What about if I tell you I’ll still kiss if you stop trying to walk like a boy?” Rachel says, already leaning in again.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine, then,” Quinn agrees, licking her lips and meeting her halfway, console be damned.
*
Jesse looks incredibly, unendingly smug the next day, waiting for Quinn by her locker.
“Someone has a hickey,” he sing-songs. “I should’ve warned you. Rachel’s a marker.”
“Watch how you’re talking about my girlfriend, St. James,” Quinn says, trying her own brand of smug. It’s not nearly as effective as his, but he bows in her general direction anyway.
“Let me guess—you put Slow Jamz on in your car and told her she had the tightest booty you’ve ever seen on a Jewish girl?”
“Jesse!” Rachel shrieks, behind him, and Quinn laughs when she stomps over and punches him in the arm. “What is wrong with you?”
He laughs and rubs at his arm. “Oh, please. I could’ve told her to wear a bear suit and sing I Touch Myself to you at Nationals and you still would’ve swooned.”
“Wait,” Quinn says, squinting at him. “Are you saying that—”
“I told you how I felt about her in confidence,” Rachel says, fuming, and punching him in the arm again. “You said you’d help me. Not try to turn her into a boy and—”
“Ladies, ladies. Don’t try to undermine perfection. Fabray, you look delicious the way you do now, so I feel like I did you a favor regardless; and as for you, Rachel, if I’d let you sort this out on your own, you would’ve driven her off within minutes with that endless stream of ridiculous babble you can’t seem to control.” Jesse blows on his fingernails for and rubs them against his shirt. “All I’m saying is, be grateful that you had a master of seduction in your presence, or you two would still be pretending to hate each other from across a crowded room.”
“I never hated her,” Rachel says, with a frown. “And I would’ve come up with a concise, meaningful speech eventually.”
“I can’t believe you let me go through all this trouble when you liked me all along,” Quinn says, staring at Rachel disbelievingly. “You let me cut off all my hair, and spend nearly a thousand dollars on new clothes, and buy you flowers, and a movie, and dinner, when I apparently could’ve gotten by with just saying nice shoes, wanna fuck?”
“Don’t be vulgar,” Rachel says, pursing her lips. “As if I would’ve everagreed to date you if you hadn’t groveled a bit first.”
Quinn glares back, and Jesse clears his throat.
“I feel like this is going to lead to uncomfortably arousing necking in a few moments, so I’m going to excuse myself while I can. Perhaps I’ll use the time that I once spent manipulating you to teach Finn how to not stomp all over the stage like a gorilla instead. You can thank me whenever you’re ready, by the way.”
Quinn tears her eyes away from Rachel just to watch him go, and then says, “What a dick. How did you ever date that guy?”
“The girl I liked was too busy chasing after some oaf on the football team,” Rachel says, and then nudges Quinn in the side. “Sound familiar?”
Quinn bites on her lip and then puts an arm around Rachel’s shoulder. “Yeah, it does.”
They stupidly smile at each other for a second, and then Quinn scratches at her cheek and says, “So—just out of curiosity. That Slow Jamz thing. Would that have worked?”
“Oh, my God—”
“Because—you do have particularly fine ass…ets for, you know, someone of your genetic heritage and stature,” Quinn says, leaning backwards just enough to sneak a look, and then winking at Rachel.
Rachel pinches her in the side, hard. “I liked you better when you were afraid to talk to me.”
“No, you didn’t,” Quinn says, giving Rachel another one of those behind-the-bangs looks that Rachel really, really has a soft spot for.
“No, I didn’t,” Rachel agrees, predictably, before pulling her down by her popped collar and kissing her soundly.
(That collar thing? Every bit as awesome as she imagined it would be.)