Fic: Company (3/?)
Title: Company
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for themes.
Spoilers: Original Song.
Summary: Shoe shopping and conversations, and an unwelcome return.
The joy on Dylan’s face when you tell him you’re going shoe shopping breaks your heart. It’s not fair that something so simple is so rare, that the shoes he’s wearing now are old and worn through and too small for his growing feet, but you try and set your frustration and grief aside so you can properly smile and fuss over every pair he decides to try on. After nearly an hour, he settles on a pair of Spider-Man shoes with a blue and red color scheme. He all but bounces out of the store.
“I can’t wait to show people my shoes!” he exclaims. “Can I get a new Spider-Man shirt, too? My old one has a hole in it.”
You check your wallet and wince. “Maybe next time, baby,” his face falls, and it takes all of your strength not to cry. “But I’ll tell you what - do you want some Spaghettios in the can for supper?”
“Spaghettios!” he shouts deafeningly. “But won’t I be at Gram’s tonight?”
“No, sweetheart, mommy’s got the night off. We’ll have some supper and watch some tv, okay?”
“I wish we had all the channels like Gram does!”
“Did you want to go to Gram’s instead, Dylan? It’s okay if you want to.”
“No, mommy, I want to be with you. I’ll watch our tv, that’s okay.”
“Okay. Mommy loves you a lot, you know that, right?”
“I know, mommy. I loves you too,” he embraces you, and for a second everything’s right with the world.
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The doorbell is loud in the evening’s silence, and you hope Dylan will sleep through it. Your jaw drops a little when you find Rachel waiting on your porch.
“How did you-“
“The town’s not that big, Quinn. I didn’t have to be a detective to find you.”
“What do you want?” You pointedly don’t step aside to let her in.
“Foremost, to apologise. I had no right to tell you how to live your life.”
“Thank you - I accept your apology.”
“And also to make you a proposition.”
You do let her in, then, and she follows you into the kitchen. “I’d offer you a coffee, but, uh, I haven’t had any in the house for a while.”
“Water’s fine,” she assures you. You fill a glass from the tap and hand it to her apologetically.
“So - what’s this proposition?”
“I want to buy you.”
“You didn’t need to come all the way here for that, Rachel, we’ve been doing that for months.”
“You misunderstand. I want you exclusively.”
“I don’t follow, Rachel, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll pay you for six hours a day. You’ll take no clients except me.”
“I don’t need your charity,” your voice is cold.
“Who’s offering charity? I have every intention of making you earn your money. But I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that while I’m paying you, he won’t be. I can’t let you go back out there, just to come crawling to my house bloody. What do you say?”
“No,” the defiance feels good, like you’ve reclaimed a part of you that was lost after high school. “I don’t want to be your kept woman, Rachel. And on top of that, you’re an English teacher. You couldn’t afford to pay me for six hours a day. This isn’t-“
“Mommy?” you whirl around, and Dylan’s standing at the bottom of the stairs in his ragged pyjamas, rubbing his eyes.
You lower your voice. “What are you doing out of bed, baby?”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
“Okay, but just one. Can you reach the glasses?”
He gives you his patented ‘mom, you’re dumb’ eyeroll. “Yes, mommy.” He wanders sleepily through the kitchen, grabbing a glass and giving Rachel a shy wave. “Hello.”
Rachel looks surprised, but waves back at him. “Hi.”
“Are you mommy’s friend? That’s good, she doesn’t have many friends.”
“Dylan,” you say warningly, “get your water and go to bed, okay?”
He does, taking a long drink and putting his glass in the sink before disappearing upstairs. Rachel smiles sadly at you.
“He’s beautiful. It’s a good thing he took after you and not his father. Anyway, what were you saying?”
“That this isn’t Pretty Woman. You’re not going to save me.” She frowns at you, chewing her lip thoughtfully.
“Okay, you’re right. I couldn’t afford six hours a day. But could we at least make a standing appointment? The last two hours you work every night, you spend them at my house? I’d like to be your last client each night.”
“You’re into sloppy seconds, are you, Rach?” the words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them, and you look down apologetically at the table. “Sorry. There was no call for that.”
“It’s okay,” she pats your shoulder as she stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She lets herself out, leaving you sitting alone in the dark kitchen. You’re not stupid, and you understand what she’s trying to do, but you can’t afford to turn her offer down. Steady income of any kind is a blessing at this point, and if it means being able to give Dylan what he needs then that’s all that matters to you.
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He doesn’t come the next night. Your small number of johns are the usual assortment - married men, mostly, who either don’t have sex with their wives anymore or want something - blowjobs, anal, whatever - that they can’t bring themselves to ask their wives for. Most of them don’t bother to take their wedding rings off, and the ones that do have a tan line on their finger anyway. You wonder whether Finn, during your brief marriage - but you cut that thought off at the knees. It doesn’t matter, not anymore.
You’re surprised to be approached by a girl who looks no older than nineteen. You’re cautious, wondering if she might be working for the police, but she’s way too nervous to be undercover. As you lead her back to your favourite motel, you see him. He’s across the street, watching you with a glint in his eye. He doesn’t approach, just stands there and watches you. As you make your way to the motel, he’s across the street every time you look, maintaining the same distance.
You’re fumbling and nervous with the girl, wondering if he’s still waiting outside, but she comes at least once, and she thanks you profusely as she leaves. You wonder idly if you were her first lesbian experience, and if you’re now owed a toaster. The playful thoughts leave your head, though, as you dress and leave the motel through their back door. Your head’s on a swivel, trying to search in all directions for the man that now seems to be stalking you. You don’t see him, but you take an ambling course through back alleys and side roads, not wanting to lead him to Rachel’s.
She opens the door with a smile, dressed in a nightgown and a terrycloth robe that looks plush and soft. She steps aside to allow you entrance, taking your jacket and laying it on a chair. Once she’s closed the door, you reach behind yourself for the zip on your skirt - and she stills your hand with one of her own. “I just want to talk, Quinn.” Seeing your sceptical look, she raises a sculptured eyebrow. “I’m paying, I can pay you to talk to me if I want, can’t I?”
“Yeah,” you acquiesce. “If that’s what you want.”
“I do. Now, first I want you to go and change. There’s some yoga pants and a t-shirt on the bed in the guest room upstairs. I guesstimated your size, so if it’s way off just let me know.” You frown, but do as she asks. The pants seem oddly more revealing than the miniskirt you’d just taken off, but the t-shirt is warm from the dryer and comforting against you. You rejoin her in the living room, taking a seat beside her on the couch, and she offers a beer that you decline.
“I don’t drink.”
“That’s very noble of you.”
“Not really,” you correct her. “Booze is expensive. I can’t afford to be a drinker.”
She retreats to the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee, and you accept it gratefully. “So, how was your night?”
“Do you want a count? Three guys and a girl.”
“What about the guy?” You know who she’s talking about.
“He didn’t come tonight - but he was watching me. He followed me for a few blocks when I was with the girl.”
“You should really go to the police, Quinn.”
You shake your head. “Rachel, I’m just a hooker. The Lima PD don’t have a lot of interest in my problems, trust me. The only time they even care that I exist is when they arrest me.”
“They’ve never sent you to jail, though?”
You feel yourself color, and you make sure to look anywhere but in her eyes. “The, uh, the Lieutenant that runs vice has a, uh, particular fetish. When he needs to get his rocks off, they’ll come and harass me, put me in the drunk tank for a few hours. He comes and gets me, I do what he wants, and then they let me go. I don’t get paid, but at least they don’t put me in prison.” A tear slides unbidden from your eye, and you jump when Rachel reaches out and brushes it away with her thumb.
“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to upset you. Tell you what, you take a turn. Ask me anything. Anything at all.”
You think hard, trying to decide what you most want to know. Finally, you settle on something. “Where are your dads? Do they still live in Lima?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “They moved to San Francisco four years ago. Life in Ohio didn’t agree with them anymore. And to answer what I imagine would be your follow-up question, no, we don’t speak.”
“Why?”
“They disagreed with my decision to abandon my performing career. They felt I could still dance, or direct, or something similar.”
“You wouldn’t want to do that,” you say, and she gives you a half-smile.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you were supposed to be the star. You were going to be at center stage, in the spotlight. Being a background dancer, being a director - that’s not even remotely what you wanted. That’s why you don’t watch musicals anymore, I’m guessing - it reminds you what you lost.”
“It’s funny that you understand that and they didn’t. Perhaps you can call and explain it to them sometime.”
“Could I ask one more thing? I just really need to know something.”
“One more,” she agrees.
“Have you talked to Shelby at all?”
“A few times,” she shrugs.
“How’s Beth?” your voice catches on her name.
Her mouth forms a silent O of surprise. “I’m sorry, Quinn, it didn’t occur to me why you wanted to know about Shelby. Beth’s doing really well, at least the last time I spoke to her. She’s doing really well in school, and I think Shelby said once that she might enrol her in cheerleader camp, as she displays a real affinity for pom-poms.”
Your answer is swallowed by a sob that seems to tear itself from your chest. Rachel moves to comfort you, but you back away from her. “I’m glad,” you whisper. “I’m glad she has a good life. I’m glad she doesn’t have to know about me.”
“Quinn, you’re a good mother. Look at the life you’re living - you do everything for your son. You may not be rich, but he’ll know he’s loved.”
“I don’t,” you swallow, “I don’t want to talk about that, okay?”
“Sure,” she agrees easily. “What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to earn what you’re paying me.”
She’s resistant, but before long you’re writhing beneath her on the couch. She’s rough and controlling, but at least you get to come.
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Judy is waiting at the door when you come home. You’re grateful that Rachel let you borrow the clothes she bought for you to wear, as your usual miniskirt combo might have been difficult to explain.
“Dylan’s still asleep,” she whispers, patting you on the shoulder and leading you into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”
“About what, Mom? If this is about Finn again, then can we just save it? I’m tired, and I’d like to get changed before I take Dylan to school.”
She shakes her head, pulling a folded envelope from her pants pocket. “It’s about this. It came in the mail today.”
“What is it?” you reach for it, but she pulls it away. “Quinnie, sweetheart, I’m going to get you whatever help you need, okay? The very best we can find.”
Your heart is in your throat. “Help? Mom, what the hell are you talking about?” You reach out and snatch the envelope away, unfolding it and pulling out the letter within. As you read it, you stagger back against the kitchen counter and sink to the floor. The glasses in the cabinet rattle, and one falls to the floor with a crash. You start to cry, and you can’t stop even when Dylan stumbles down the stairs and comes to you, wrapping his small arms tightly around you. The tears won’t stop, and it feels like they might not ever. The letter, crumpled in your hand, screams silently at you, phrases burning themselves into your mind.
Petition for exclusive custody. Unfit mother. Hearing.
And the name. Finn Hudson.
It’s only the presence of your son, crying because you are, that keeps you from screaming with fury. As if he hadn’t already taken everything from you - now he wants your son, your precious child. You meet your mother’s sympathetic gaze, making a silent vow. Finn will not take your son. You’ll die first.
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: NC-17 for themes.
Spoilers: Original Song.
Summary: Shoe shopping and conversations, and an unwelcome return.
The joy on Dylan’s face when you tell him you’re going shoe shopping breaks your heart. It’s not fair that something so simple is so rare, that the shoes he’s wearing now are old and worn through and too small for his growing feet, but you try and set your frustration and grief aside so you can properly smile and fuss over every pair he decides to try on. After nearly an hour, he settles on a pair of Spider-Man shoes with a blue and red color scheme. He all but bounces out of the store.
“I can’t wait to show people my shoes!” he exclaims. “Can I get a new Spider-Man shirt, too? My old one has a hole in it.”
You check your wallet and wince. “Maybe next time, baby,” his face falls, and it takes all of your strength not to cry. “But I’ll tell you what - do you want some Spaghettios in the can for supper?”
“Spaghettios!” he shouts deafeningly. “But won’t I be at Gram’s tonight?”
“No, sweetheart, mommy’s got the night off. We’ll have some supper and watch some tv, okay?”
“I wish we had all the channels like Gram does!”
“Did you want to go to Gram’s instead, Dylan? It’s okay if you want to.”
“No, mommy, I want to be with you. I’ll watch our tv, that’s okay.”
“Okay. Mommy loves you a lot, you know that, right?”
“I know, mommy. I loves you too,” he embraces you, and for a second everything’s right with the world.
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The doorbell is loud in the evening’s silence, and you hope Dylan will sleep through it. Your jaw drops a little when you find Rachel waiting on your porch.
“How did you-“
“The town’s not that big, Quinn. I didn’t have to be a detective to find you.”
“What do you want?” You pointedly don’t step aside to let her in.
“Foremost, to apologise. I had no right to tell you how to live your life.”
“Thank you - I accept your apology.”
“And also to make you a proposition.”
You do let her in, then, and she follows you into the kitchen. “I’d offer you a coffee, but, uh, I haven’t had any in the house for a while.”
“Water’s fine,” she assures you. You fill a glass from the tap and hand it to her apologetically.
“So - what’s this proposition?”
“I want to buy you.”
“You didn’t need to come all the way here for that, Rachel, we’ve been doing that for months.”
“You misunderstand. I want you exclusively.”
“I don’t follow, Rachel, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll pay you for six hours a day. You’ll take no clients except me.”
“I don’t need your charity,” your voice is cold.
“Who’s offering charity? I have every intention of making you earn your money. But I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that while I’m paying you, he won’t be. I can’t let you go back out there, just to come crawling to my house bloody. What do you say?”
“No,” the defiance feels good, like you’ve reclaimed a part of you that was lost after high school. “I don’t want to be your kept woman, Rachel. And on top of that, you’re an English teacher. You couldn’t afford to pay me for six hours a day. This isn’t-“
“Mommy?” you whirl around, and Dylan’s standing at the bottom of the stairs in his ragged pyjamas, rubbing his eyes.
You lower your voice. “What are you doing out of bed, baby?”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
“Okay, but just one. Can you reach the glasses?”
He gives you his patented ‘mom, you’re dumb’ eyeroll. “Yes, mommy.” He wanders sleepily through the kitchen, grabbing a glass and giving Rachel a shy wave. “Hello.”
Rachel looks surprised, but waves back at him. “Hi.”
“Are you mommy’s friend? That’s good, she doesn’t have many friends.”
“Dylan,” you say warningly, “get your water and go to bed, okay?”
He does, taking a long drink and putting his glass in the sink before disappearing upstairs. Rachel smiles sadly at you.
“He’s beautiful. It’s a good thing he took after you and not his father. Anyway, what were you saying?”
“That this isn’t Pretty Woman. You’re not going to save me.” She frowns at you, chewing her lip thoughtfully.
“Okay, you’re right. I couldn’t afford six hours a day. But could we at least make a standing appointment? The last two hours you work every night, you spend them at my house? I’d like to be your last client each night.”
“You’re into sloppy seconds, are you, Rach?” the words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them, and you look down apologetically at the table. “Sorry. There was no call for that.”
“It’s okay,” she pats your shoulder as she stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She lets herself out, leaving you sitting alone in the dark kitchen. You’re not stupid, and you understand what she’s trying to do, but you can’t afford to turn her offer down. Steady income of any kind is a blessing at this point, and if it means being able to give Dylan what he needs then that’s all that matters to you.
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He doesn’t come the next night. Your small number of johns are the usual assortment - married men, mostly, who either don’t have sex with their wives anymore or want something - blowjobs, anal, whatever - that they can’t bring themselves to ask their wives for. Most of them don’t bother to take their wedding rings off, and the ones that do have a tan line on their finger anyway. You wonder whether Finn, during your brief marriage - but you cut that thought off at the knees. It doesn’t matter, not anymore.
You’re surprised to be approached by a girl who looks no older than nineteen. You’re cautious, wondering if she might be working for the police, but she’s way too nervous to be undercover. As you lead her back to your favourite motel, you see him. He’s across the street, watching you with a glint in his eye. He doesn’t approach, just stands there and watches you. As you make your way to the motel, he’s across the street every time you look, maintaining the same distance.
You’re fumbling and nervous with the girl, wondering if he’s still waiting outside, but she comes at least once, and she thanks you profusely as she leaves. You wonder idly if you were her first lesbian experience, and if you’re now owed a toaster. The playful thoughts leave your head, though, as you dress and leave the motel through their back door. Your head’s on a swivel, trying to search in all directions for the man that now seems to be stalking you. You don’t see him, but you take an ambling course through back alleys and side roads, not wanting to lead him to Rachel’s.
She opens the door with a smile, dressed in a nightgown and a terrycloth robe that looks plush and soft. She steps aside to allow you entrance, taking your jacket and laying it on a chair. Once she’s closed the door, you reach behind yourself for the zip on your skirt - and she stills your hand with one of her own. “I just want to talk, Quinn.” Seeing your sceptical look, she raises a sculptured eyebrow. “I’m paying, I can pay you to talk to me if I want, can’t I?”
“Yeah,” you acquiesce. “If that’s what you want.”
“I do. Now, first I want you to go and change. There’s some yoga pants and a t-shirt on the bed in the guest room upstairs. I guesstimated your size, so if it’s way off just let me know.” You frown, but do as she asks. The pants seem oddly more revealing than the miniskirt you’d just taken off, but the t-shirt is warm from the dryer and comforting against you. You rejoin her in the living room, taking a seat beside her on the couch, and she offers a beer that you decline.
“I don’t drink.”
“That’s very noble of you.”
“Not really,” you correct her. “Booze is expensive. I can’t afford to be a drinker.”
She retreats to the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee, and you accept it gratefully. “So, how was your night?”
“Do you want a count? Three guys and a girl.”
“What about the guy?” You know who she’s talking about.
“He didn’t come tonight - but he was watching me. He followed me for a few blocks when I was with the girl.”
“You should really go to the police, Quinn.”
You shake your head. “Rachel, I’m just a hooker. The Lima PD don’t have a lot of interest in my problems, trust me. The only time they even care that I exist is when they arrest me.”
“They’ve never sent you to jail, though?”
You feel yourself color, and you make sure to look anywhere but in her eyes. “The, uh, the Lieutenant that runs vice has a, uh, particular fetish. When he needs to get his rocks off, they’ll come and harass me, put me in the drunk tank for a few hours. He comes and gets me, I do what he wants, and then they let me go. I don’t get paid, but at least they don’t put me in prison.” A tear slides unbidden from your eye, and you jump when Rachel reaches out and brushes it away with her thumb.
“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to upset you. Tell you what, you take a turn. Ask me anything. Anything at all.”
You think hard, trying to decide what you most want to know. Finally, you settle on something. “Where are your dads? Do they still live in Lima?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “They moved to San Francisco four years ago. Life in Ohio didn’t agree with them anymore. And to answer what I imagine would be your follow-up question, no, we don’t speak.”
“Why?”
“They disagreed with my decision to abandon my performing career. They felt I could still dance, or direct, or something similar.”
“You wouldn’t want to do that,” you say, and she gives you a half-smile.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you were supposed to be the star. You were going to be at center stage, in the spotlight. Being a background dancer, being a director - that’s not even remotely what you wanted. That’s why you don’t watch musicals anymore, I’m guessing - it reminds you what you lost.”
“It’s funny that you understand that and they didn’t. Perhaps you can call and explain it to them sometime.”
“Could I ask one more thing? I just really need to know something.”
“One more,” she agrees.
“Have you talked to Shelby at all?”
“A few times,” she shrugs.
“How’s Beth?” your voice catches on her name.
Her mouth forms a silent O of surprise. “I’m sorry, Quinn, it didn’t occur to me why you wanted to know about Shelby. Beth’s doing really well, at least the last time I spoke to her. She’s doing really well in school, and I think Shelby said once that she might enrol her in cheerleader camp, as she displays a real affinity for pom-poms.”
Your answer is swallowed by a sob that seems to tear itself from your chest. Rachel moves to comfort you, but you back away from her. “I’m glad,” you whisper. “I’m glad she has a good life. I’m glad she doesn’t have to know about me.”
“Quinn, you’re a good mother. Look at the life you’re living - you do everything for your son. You may not be rich, but he’ll know he’s loved.”
“I don’t,” you swallow, “I don’t want to talk about that, okay?”
“Sure,” she agrees easily. “What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to earn what you’re paying me.”
She’s resistant, but before long you’re writhing beneath her on the couch. She’s rough and controlling, but at least you get to come.
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Judy is waiting at the door when you come home. You’re grateful that Rachel let you borrow the clothes she bought for you to wear, as your usual miniskirt combo might have been difficult to explain.
“Dylan’s still asleep,” she whispers, patting you on the shoulder and leading you into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”
“About what, Mom? If this is about Finn again, then can we just save it? I’m tired, and I’d like to get changed before I take Dylan to school.”
She shakes her head, pulling a folded envelope from her pants pocket. “It’s about this. It came in the mail today.”
“What is it?” you reach for it, but she pulls it away. “Quinnie, sweetheart, I’m going to get you whatever help you need, okay? The very best we can find.”
Your heart is in your throat. “Help? Mom, what the hell are you talking about?” You reach out and snatch the envelope away, unfolding it and pulling out the letter within. As you read it, you stagger back against the kitchen counter and sink to the floor. The glasses in the cabinet rattle, and one falls to the floor with a crash. You start to cry, and you can’t stop even when Dylan stumbles down the stairs and comes to you, wrapping his small arms tightly around you. The tears won’t stop, and it feels like they might not ever. The letter, crumpled in your hand, screams silently at you, phrases burning themselves into your mind.
Petition for exclusive custody. Unfit mother. Hearing.
And the name. Finn Hudson.
It’s only the presence of your son, crying because you are, that keeps you from screaming with fury. As if he hadn’t already taken everything from you - now he wants your son, your precious child. You meet your mother’s sympathetic gaze, making a silent vow. Finn will not take your son. You’ll die first.