(Glee, gen) that party dress is such a mess
Title: that party dress is such a mess
Author: littledust
Fandom: Glee
Character: Quinn, ND girls, Kurt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1102
Summary: Quinn comes to the realization that she's tired of all of this while shopping for her senior year prom dress.
Author's Notes: Title from “Nova Baby” by the Black Keys. Quinn’s dress is loosely based off this one.
Big events are supposed to change your life. Plastic surgery. Cheating on your boyfriend. The wrong number of lines on a pregnancy test. Getting thrown out of your house twice. Having a baby. Losing that baby. A car accident. Things aren’t supposed to slide into place in the middle of a department store, turning over the price tags on discount dresses and hoping you have enough money to look pretty at your last prom.
Quinn has already rejected a dozen dresses: she wore blue last year; black makes her look like she actually died in the accident; orange doesn’t do her complexion any favors; pink just doesn’t seem to fit her anymore. She pauses at a strapless dress that’s a deep plum color, ruched bodice giving way to a mermaid bottom. It’s sexy, a look she’s never really tried for the sake of propriety. Her punk phase was more disaster than seductive.
“What the hell am I doing?” she asks aloud, right there in front of half of glee club.
Kurt blinks, turning away from his futile attempts to convince Tina white isn’t boring with the right accents. “You’re about to try on that dress. No arguments.”
“I mean with my life,” Quinn says, automatically taking the dress off the rack. She’s afraid to turn over the tag. “I’m-I’m doing so many things because I have to, not because I want to.”
“Pretty sure we’re gonna drop dead from surprise, Q,” Santana says.
“Why are you even here?” Quinn asks. “I thought you were going for the whole power lesbian tux stereotype.”
“I gots to make sure my girl looks hotter than all of you bitches.”
“What things do you want to do?” Brittany, used to Quinn vs. Santana sparring matches, doesn’t hesitate to redirect the conversation. Everyone thinks Brittany is stupid, and she is in the conventional sense, but Quinn’s always been a little afraid of her. To Brittany, everyone is an open book.
“I want to wear a dress like this,” Quinn says, letting herself look at the price tag at last. There’s a bright red slash through “$299.00” and a “$90” written at the bottom. A hundred dollars is her limit. This has to be some kind of sign, or it would be if God cared enough about high school dances. God’s made it pretty clear that He has much greater things to worry about.
And really, so does Quinn Fabray.
“I approve,” Kurt says. Rachel, wandering back over with an armful of eye-searing fuchsia dresses, beams at her. Mercedes, though, Mercedes knows her almost as well as Brittany does. It’s why Quinn spent so much time pushing her away.
Mercedes squeezes Quinn’s shoulder and says, “Tell us the rest.”
“I’m going to prom by myself,” Quinn says. Her spine straightens as she says the words; this is the tallest she’s felt since beginning physical therapy. “It was a mistake to start dating again. I don’t know what I was thinking, and now I’m going to hurt someone else.” Her lower lip trembles and she gives it a harsh bite before continuing, “I’m just tired of hurting myself.”
“Oh, Quinn,” Rachel says, eyes bright with tears. “I’m going to hug you as soon as I hang up all of these dresses, wait a minute.” She looks back and forth between full racks, so panicked it’s almost comical. Kurt sighs and takes some dresses from her, wincing at the sight of one decorated with neon yellow beading.
“C’mere,” Mercedes says, pulling Quinn into a hug. Quinn rests her head on Mercedes’s shoulder, not caring about the wrinkles undoubtedly forming in the dress crushed between them. “I was happy for you when I thought you were happy. That’s all I want. No judgment here.”
“You’re not obligated to date a guy just because you’ve shown some interest,” Tina says, waving a finger. “‘Tease’ is an insult forced upon us by the patriarchy, which portrays women as convenient receptacles for the sexual interest of men. Fight the power!” Brittany nods seriously and Santana shoots her girlfriend a fond smile, then turns that smile on Quinn.
“Quinn Fabray takes life’s lemons and grinds citric acid right in that motherfucker’s eye,” Santana says, loudly enough that an employee shoots their group a horrified look. “Are we done with this stupid girl power session? I want to see that dress on ya body.”
“Still not a girl, Santana,” Kurt says wearily. “But I agree.”
It feels like she’s the head of a procession as their entire group makes its way to the dressing rooms. She shuts the door of her dressing room and undresses, sloughing off sweater and sundress. Outside, she can hear the murmur of conversation, but in here it’s just her, a dress, a mirror, and the old life she can’t seem to shed no matter how hard she tries. She pulls the prom dress on over stretch marks and scars, zips the dress by herself despite the painful way she has to angle her arms. The mirror tells her that she fills out the dress where she should, that her lines are good, that the structure of her bones hasn’t changed except for the widening of her hips. The brooch on the skirt of the dress falls at just the right place, right below the thigh.
It’s so hard to think of herself as pretty, even though it’s all she’s ever wanted to be, except in half-formed thoughts and a hastily typed college application.
“Can we see?” Mercedes asks, knocking on the door. “Knock our socks off.”
Quinn lets the door swing open and poses, hand on her hip and chin tilted slightly up, smiling out of sheer muscle memory. The approving nods and Brittany clapping her hands, that’s good. There’s something missing that she doesn’t miss, though, and she can’t put a name to it until she sees Rachel, who’s actually hugging herself in delight as she says, “You look like a queen.”
Envy. There’s no envy here. Nobody wants to be her; they want to be with her. The practiced smile falls and a real one takes its place as Quinn spreads her arms wide and spins, the dress flaring around her. “I think I’ll take it.”
With the door of the dressing room shut again, Quinn pulls on her old clothes, smoothing down the bodice of her sundress. Maybe the answer to her future isn’t in forgetting the past. Maybe it’s in remembering without shame, in the smiles of her friends, in the piece of her soul that says, over and over, Quinn Fabray is still alive.
Author: littledust
Fandom: Glee
Character: Quinn, ND girls, Kurt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1102
Summary: Quinn comes to the realization that she's tired of all of this while shopping for her senior year prom dress.
Author's Notes: Title from “Nova Baby” by the Black Keys. Quinn’s dress is loosely based off this one.
Big events are supposed to change your life. Plastic surgery. Cheating on your boyfriend. The wrong number of lines on a pregnancy test. Getting thrown out of your house twice. Having a baby. Losing that baby. A car accident. Things aren’t supposed to slide into place in the middle of a department store, turning over the price tags on discount dresses and hoping you have enough money to look pretty at your last prom.
Quinn has already rejected a dozen dresses: she wore blue last year; black makes her look like she actually died in the accident; orange doesn’t do her complexion any favors; pink just doesn’t seem to fit her anymore. She pauses at a strapless dress that’s a deep plum color, ruched bodice giving way to a mermaid bottom. It’s sexy, a look she’s never really tried for the sake of propriety. Her punk phase was more disaster than seductive.
“What the hell am I doing?” she asks aloud, right there in front of half of glee club.
Kurt blinks, turning away from his futile attempts to convince Tina white isn’t boring with the right accents. “You’re about to try on that dress. No arguments.”
“I mean with my life,” Quinn says, automatically taking the dress off the rack. She’s afraid to turn over the tag. “I’m-I’m doing so many things because I have to, not because I want to.”
“Pretty sure we’re gonna drop dead from surprise, Q,” Santana says.
“Why are you even here?” Quinn asks. “I thought you were going for the whole power lesbian tux stereotype.”
“I gots to make sure my girl looks hotter than all of you bitches.”
“What things do you want to do?” Brittany, used to Quinn vs. Santana sparring matches, doesn’t hesitate to redirect the conversation. Everyone thinks Brittany is stupid, and she is in the conventional sense, but Quinn’s always been a little afraid of her. To Brittany, everyone is an open book.
“I want to wear a dress like this,” Quinn says, letting herself look at the price tag at last. There’s a bright red slash through “$299.00” and a “$90” written at the bottom. A hundred dollars is her limit. This has to be some kind of sign, or it would be if God cared enough about high school dances. God’s made it pretty clear that He has much greater things to worry about.
And really, so does Quinn Fabray.
“I approve,” Kurt says. Rachel, wandering back over with an armful of eye-searing fuchsia dresses, beams at her. Mercedes, though, Mercedes knows her almost as well as Brittany does. It’s why Quinn spent so much time pushing her away.
Mercedes squeezes Quinn’s shoulder and says, “Tell us the rest.”
“I’m going to prom by myself,” Quinn says. Her spine straightens as she says the words; this is the tallest she’s felt since beginning physical therapy. “It was a mistake to start dating again. I don’t know what I was thinking, and now I’m going to hurt someone else.” Her lower lip trembles and she gives it a harsh bite before continuing, “I’m just tired of hurting myself.”
“Oh, Quinn,” Rachel says, eyes bright with tears. “I’m going to hug you as soon as I hang up all of these dresses, wait a minute.” She looks back and forth between full racks, so panicked it’s almost comical. Kurt sighs and takes some dresses from her, wincing at the sight of one decorated with neon yellow beading.
“C’mere,” Mercedes says, pulling Quinn into a hug. Quinn rests her head on Mercedes’s shoulder, not caring about the wrinkles undoubtedly forming in the dress crushed between them. “I was happy for you when I thought you were happy. That’s all I want. No judgment here.”
“You’re not obligated to date a guy just because you’ve shown some interest,” Tina says, waving a finger. “‘Tease’ is an insult forced upon us by the patriarchy, which portrays women as convenient receptacles for the sexual interest of men. Fight the power!” Brittany nods seriously and Santana shoots her girlfriend a fond smile, then turns that smile on Quinn.
“Quinn Fabray takes life’s lemons and grinds citric acid right in that motherfucker’s eye,” Santana says, loudly enough that an employee shoots their group a horrified look. “Are we done with this stupid girl power session? I want to see that dress on ya body.”
“Still not a girl, Santana,” Kurt says wearily. “But I agree.”
It feels like she’s the head of a procession as their entire group makes its way to the dressing rooms. She shuts the door of her dressing room and undresses, sloughing off sweater and sundress. Outside, she can hear the murmur of conversation, but in here it’s just her, a dress, a mirror, and the old life she can’t seem to shed no matter how hard she tries. She pulls the prom dress on over stretch marks and scars, zips the dress by herself despite the painful way she has to angle her arms. The mirror tells her that she fills out the dress where she should, that her lines are good, that the structure of her bones hasn’t changed except for the widening of her hips. The brooch on the skirt of the dress falls at just the right place, right below the thigh.
It’s so hard to think of herself as pretty, even though it’s all she’s ever wanted to be, except in half-formed thoughts and a hastily typed college application.
“Can we see?” Mercedes asks, knocking on the door. “Knock our socks off.”
Quinn lets the door swing open and poses, hand on her hip and chin tilted slightly up, smiling out of sheer muscle memory. The approving nods and Brittany clapping her hands, that’s good. There’s something missing that she doesn’t miss, though, and she can’t put a name to it until she sees Rachel, who’s actually hugging herself in delight as she says, “You look like a queen.”
Envy. There’s no envy here. Nobody wants to be her; they want to be with her. The practiced smile falls and a real one takes its place as Quinn spreads her arms wide and spins, the dress flaring around her. “I think I’ll take it.”
With the door of the dressing room shut again, Quinn pulls on her old clothes, smoothing down the bodice of her sundress. Maybe the answer to her future isn’t in forgetting the past. Maybe it’s in remembering without shame, in the smiles of her friends, in the piece of her soul that says, over and over, Quinn Fabray is still alive.