Fic: No Wise Words Gonna Stop the Bleeding [Part One]
Title: No Wise Words Gonna Stop the Bleeding
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel; side Santana/Brittany
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 9k this part
Summary: Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them. So many secrets. Her life is full of so many secrets.
Spoilers: None, this is AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Note 1: This is basically They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason retold from Quinn's perspective. It's not the sequel everyone has been clamoring for, but there was enough story on Quinn's side that I felt like it should be put down. *shrugs* I think it's pretty critical to read that story first, but then again, you might get away without doing so. This is Quinn-centric so it starts off pretty slow. What? Nothing is happening with Quinn for like the first seven chapters of Bad Things. A lot of people wanted a sequel, I know, and I have more outtakes and post-bad things in the works, but this was th e next big project I had sitting around and I wanted to get it out there.
Note 2: All complaints go to Cassie. She made me do this.
by dealan311
--
Rain beats heavily against a window as the loud beep of an alarm cuts through the silence of the bedroom. With a low groan, a long arm reaches across blankets and brown hair and slaps at the clock, one, two, three times, before hitting the mark and silencing the device.
Quinn forces her eyes open, squeezes them shut and then open again as she drops her arm down over Rachel's body and snuggles into her back, pressing her lips into brown hair and sighing.
"Coffee," Rachel mumbles out, pushing back into Quinn and turning halfway over.
"Five more minutes," Quinn argues, hoping to sleep just a little longer before actually having to face reality. She can already hear the wind picking up outside and the speedy patter of rain against their building - a storm's brewing.
"Coffee," Rachel repeats, her voice getting clearer as she turns all the way over and blinks sleepily at Quinn.
The blonde laughs and stretches the sleep out of her whole body, pressing against her wife as the brunette smiles. "You're getting decaf anyway, I don't know why you're so pushy."
An adorable pout appears on Rachel's face. "I want real coffee," she replies, running a hand down Quinn's side under the covers. "With caffeine," she purrs out as her fingers slide back up to trace against Quinn's ribs.
"Well you're getting decaf," Quinn says, grabbing Rachel's hand and stopping its pursuit. "And don't think you can win me over with sex."
Rachel pulls her hand away and sinks back into the bed. "Wouldn't dream of it," she answers with a smirk.
An eye roll and a rustle of sheets later and Quinn's out of bed, pulling on shorts and a tank top as she makes her way to their kitchen. She runs her hands through her hair, pulling out the tangles and sweeps it up off her neck, pulling it back with the rubber band from around her wrist. A loud breath escapes her as she surveys their kitchen, eyes roaming the counters until she spots their French press. Well, actually, their two French presses.
She gets to work, pulling two bags of coffee out of their refrigerator and waiting for the water to warm enough to finish her two pots of coffee - one for her and one for Rachel, since Quinn refuses to drink the decaf despite Rachel’s many protestations against the ‘complete lack of justice and terrible showing of unfairness that is shown by your refusal to show solidarity for me and my plight.’ The newspaper is waiting for her outside their front door when she gets there and she walks back into the kitchen with it, flipping it open and throwing it down on the counter, perusing the headlines absently while she waits for the coffee to brew.
Footsteps pad towards her from the hallway and she turns to see Rachel, dressed in one of Quinn’s dress shirts and looking as beautiful as ever, if not a little sleepy. Her wife stumbles over and bumps into Quinn's side, leaning heavily on her.
Quinn chuckles and rubs a hand up under the shirt and over Rachel's bare back, kissing the top of her head and counting the seconds silently until their coffee is done. It's quiet in the kitchen, with Rachel snuggled up warmly against her side as the smell of coffee starts to make its way to Quinn's nose. She watches the rain fall down outside through their window, where it fall in torrents on building after building, watches the cars buzz down the street below them and the hazy picture of black umbrellas making their way down the sidewalks.
The quiet is deceiving. Quinn knows this better than almost anyone. She knows it because out there, sometime last night, someone killed someone, someone's child was kidnapped, someone bought drugs on a street corner. Their pictures, their lives, their stories. They'll be on her desk in files by the time she gets there. The city is chaos and her job is bringing it to order. Once she steps outside the door, the quiet ends and the noise begins.
She's startled out of her thoughts by Rachel turning her head up and resting her chin on Quinn's collarbone. "Coffee's ready," her wife whispers upward.
Quinn smiles and presses a kiss to Rachel's lips before pulling away, pouring them both coffee and handing one to her wife.
"Busy day today?" Rachel asks as she takes a sip of the liquid and stares at Quinn over the top of the mug. They're still standing close together, Rachel's toes practically on top of Quinn's, and she lets her hand rest on the other girl's hip as she brings her own cup to her lips, her fingers running over the bone there.
"I'll probably be in court all day," Quinn answers after the warm coffee settles in her belly. "Hopefully not."
Rachel hums and sets her coffee on the counter, the black liquid still steaming upwards into the air. Quinn follows suit, putting her mug on the counter next to Rachel's when her wife steps even closer, presses her hips into Quinn's and grins.
"You have to leave soon?" The brunette asks, running her hands up the back of Quinn's tank top.
She does have to leave soon, really soon in fact, but Rachel's eyes are hooded and her palms are warm and she's all too aware of the hips fitted against her own. Their coffee cups on the table are still nearly full and Quinn can hear the big grandfather clock from their living room tick away the seconds as they stand there, the honking outside growing louder as the day begins to start.
She gulps, brushes a hand over the hair on Rachel's forehead and brings their lips together.
"Let's go back to bed," she whispers after pulling apart.
“That’s far away,” Rachel whines, scratching at the skin of Quinn’s lower back with a perfectly manicured nail. “We need a closer bed.”
“You’re the one that wanted a huge place.” Quinn backs them up as she says it, pushing Rachel back with two hands on her hips. Steering is a little difficult because Rachel continues to run her nails over Quinn’s skin even as she walks backwards.
“We were moving in together!” Rachel argues, matching her steps with Quinn’s, their legs brushing against each other as they move out of the kitchen and make their way towards their bedroom. “It didn’t make sense to move into my apartment and yours was much too small for the both of us.”
Sharp laughter shoots out of Quinn as they carefully climb the steps. Rachel moves her hands from Quinn’s back to tangle their fingers together.
“Rachel, it was the penthouse.”
An eyebrow arches on Rachel’s forehead. “Are you saying you don’t like our place?”
“You’re absurd,” Quinn responds, clearing the last step and moving them down the hall.
Rachel stops abruptly and Quinn nearly runs into her. Well, no. She actually does run into her but the door behind Rachel prevents them from falling over. Instead, Rachel’s back is against the door and Quinn’s pressed tightly into her.
It should be hot, and arousing and completely distracting, but somehow her wife went from seductive to indignant from the time it took them to make it upstairs. Maybe Rachel was right. The bed is too far away. Quinn could be halfway to a morning orgasm if she had just given in and thrown Rachel on the kitchen table.
“I am not absurd,” Rachel denies, eyes flashing as she looks up at Quinn.
If Quinn’s honest with herself, getting Rachel mad about something is usually really hot. No, actually. It’s always hot.
So even though she’s still a little confused by the mood swing and that Rachel can go from aroused to angry in seconds, she’s pretty convinced she can snap her wife’s mood right back in place.
Pulling away slightly, she trails her hand down between them, plucking open the bottom button of the shirt Rachel’s wearing.
“What are you doing?” Rachel huffs, which is ridiculous because it should be pretty obvious what’s she’s doing. After all, Rachel was the one with the come-fuck-me eyes in the kitchen.
“You stole my shirt.” Her knuckles brush bare skin as she gets the bottom few buttons open. “I’m taking it back.”
“What happened to what’s yours is mine?” The question comes out low and breathy and Quinn’s happy the mood is changing direction again.
“Stop talking,” Quinn commands, popping open the last button and sliding her palm over Rachel’s ribs and around to her back. Her throat goes dry at the sight of naked skin; it’s something she’s seen a million times, a million mornings, but she doesn’t think it will ever get old.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Rachel argues, pushing her chest and chin forward defiantly. But all it does is send a rush over Quinn’s skin and a shiver down her spine. White teeth scrape over Rachel’s bottom lip and Quinn’s vision goes a little hazy for a second.
“Stop being a contrarian,” Quinn whispers, sliding both hands up to Rachel’s shoulders to slide the shirt off.
It flows to the ground between them and lands there silently. “Don’t think a big vocabulary is going to seduce me.”
Quinn reaches over and twists the knob to the bedroom, wrapping her other arm around Rachel’s waist as the door slides open and they start walking inside. “Stop acting like you haven’t already been seduced.”
Rachel looks at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re so arrogant,” she says, but there’s a smirk on her lips that lets Quinn know she’s won.
They stumble the few feet inside and to the bed. “You like it.”
“Do not,” Rachel denies, lying back on their bed. The covers are still undone and twisted from the night before.
Hooking her hands under smooth thighs, Quinn spreads Rachel’s legs apart as she follows her onto the bed, lying on top of her. A smile graces her lips as she leans in close to Rachel’s face, sliding her right hand up to the inside of Rachel’s thigh until she’s trailing fingers through slick, wet heat, her other arm propping her up near Rachel’s face.
“Do too,” Quinn whispers triumphantly against parted lips.
A low, quick inhale pulls through Rachel as her hips follow the motions of Quinn’s fingers, gliding through her softly and aimlessly.
“Quinn,” Rachel lets out, the name sounding more like a plea.
They kiss, soft but with urgency and Rachel smoothes her palms up Quinn’s biceps until they’re gripping Quinn’s neck and pulling her in closer.
Quinn lets herself get lost in the sensation of kissing Rachel, of long fingers tracing shapes against her neck and the unsteady movement of Rachel’s chest against her own. She moves her mouth over Rachel’s jawbone and down her neck, inhaling deeply against warm skin while her fingers continue to move with no real purpose - up and down, back and forth.
Rachel squirms underneath her, and Quinn, recognizing the impatience in the gesture, chuckles softly into the underside of her wife’s jaw.
“Quinn,” Rachel repeats, this time as an admonishment.
Desire hums under Quinn’s skin at the sound, at the way Rachel’s breath hitches as she slides her tongue down the muscle of Rachel’s neck, and lets her fingers move more purposely, sliding down and pressing in.
Rachel’s hips jump with the motion but Quinn presses her own down against the movement, trailing kisses back upward until their lips tangle together again.
Their breathing is reduced to short pants in between kisses and Rachel’s eyes flutter closed as the heel of Quinn’s palm puts pressure on her clit.
When it’s like this, when all Quinn can think about is the way Rachel’s hair looks spread out against white sheets or the way her legs feel wrapped around Quinn’s hips, she feels the band around her heart unclench and the black fog that sits in her brain most days clears.
It’s better than coffee, better than scotch, better than winning a big case. The world shrinks down to this, this right here - with Rachel lying underneath her making the most innocently erotic noises Quinn’s ever heard out of another human being.
Quinn props her elbow on the bed so she can run a thumb over Rachel’s forehead, pushing bangs away.
“Rach,” she gasps, thrusting forward and pressing her hand down hard. “Baby, open your eyes.”
Brown eyes snap open at the command, lock with Quinn’s and she feels all the air leave her chest at the love and arousal swirling around in them. Rachel’s hands are still gripping at her neck, clenching intermittently and tangling into the messy curls there.
She lets her thumb find its way upward to replace her palm and make quick circles, the pleasure it brings evident in the way Rachel’s jaw drops open and her hips cant upward sharply into Quinn’s.
“I love you,” Quinn whispers, placing short, quick kisses from Rachel’s mouth to her ear. “I love you.”
Rachel’s hands grip her neck steadily, pulling Quinn’s face further into her shoulder as she repeats the words into blonde hair, her voice low and rough.
Fingers thrusting, Quinn smiles into smooth skin and lets the truth of the words settle in her gut, swirl in her head, and push all the blackness she know surrounds the day ahead of her away.
Rachel falls apart with an arch of her back and a sharp cry and Quinn feels the tightness all throughout her body, keeps moving her fingers as the waves shudder through her wife.
It takes large gulps of air for Rachel to settle and wrap her hand around Quinn’s wrist, pulling it out from its warm haven.
Quinn lifts up and away from Rachel, her hips still pressed in between toned thighs. She brings her hand up and runs her tongue over her fingers, cleaning them off with slow, sure licks as she stares at her wife through hooded eyes.
Before she can do anything else, like bring her body down to kiss Rachel again or slide down the bed and rip another orgasm out of her with her mouth, Rachel is bucking upwards and pushing Quinn with her.
Lying on her back, the air whooshes out of her in surprise. Rachel is practically beaming from her position, straddling Quinn’s hips and trailing a finger down the vein in Quinn’s neck.
“How did you manage to keep all your clothes on through that?” Rachel asks, her voice sated in a way that shoots straight to Quinn’s groin.
Quinn gulps, her hands automatically moving to palm Rachel’s thighs. “I don’t know,” she says, trying to sound calm and steady, but Rachel’s finger is tracing the neckline of Quinn’s tank top and it seems to be affecting her ability to speak.
Small hands leave her neck to shift the bottom of her tank top up, running over the muscles in her abdomen and pushing the fabric upwards. It forces Quinn to move her hands above her head and lift her back off the bed but soon she’s lying topless on the bed.
Rachel hums and lets her hands travel aimlessly across Quinn’s chest. It’s maddening and arousing at the same time.
“Rachel,” she warns, her hands resettled on toned thighs and sliding up.
Her wife clucks at her and smirks, gripping both of Quinn’s hands and bringing them to rest on the sheets above Quinn’s head. Rachel falls forward with the motion until they’re pressed bare chest to bare chest.
Rachel’s hair forms a sort of curtain around them and Quinn licks her lips at the feel of Rachel straddling her hips, heat pressing into the skin where they’re connected.
Then Rachel stills. Just stops. Her hands are still gripping Quinn’s, stretching out the blonde’s torso under Rachel and their lips are mere inches part, still and unmoving.
Quinn groans when comprehension dawns and she realizes what’s happening.
“Rachel,” she intones darkly. “Get on with it.”
A deep throaty laugh comes out of her wife and Quinn feels wetness pool between her legs at the sound. “You really think I’d let you get away with last night?”
Her teeth scrape against her lip as she stares into laughing eyes. “Rachel,” she repeats, incapable of coming up with anything more intelligent. Shows how three years of law school really improved her arguing skills. Then again, no law school in the country really prepares you for the full Rachel Berry assault.
“In fact,” Rachel whispers, moving her lips to Quinn’s ears. “I’m pretty sure those handcuffs are still here somewhere.”
One hand releases Quinn’s for a moment before the grip is readjusted and Rachel has both hands gripped together under her one, the other scrambling under the covers of their bed searching for something.
Quinn closes her eyes and swallows, presses her chest closer to Rachel and enjoys the way arousal makes her head swim.
When she hears the telltale click of the handcuffs she stole from Santana last week, her throat goes thick and her eyes snap open.
Rachel chuckles again and smiles at her, the expression somewhere between sexy and completely evil.
Quinn presses her head further into the bed and accepts her fate. She is going to be so late for work today.
--
Close to two hours later, her heels click loudly against the tile floor of her office lobby, her personality changing, shifting with each loud clack that resounds through the space. Here at work it's a different world, a more dangerous one, and she can't afford to be anything but cold, calm, calculating. She pushes memories of the way Rachel looked that morning out of her head, tries not to remember the way she felt, skin against skin, and stamps down the flush that threatens to overtake her when the memory of Rachel's lips down her neck lingers in her mind.
Ryan, her office assistant, hands her a cup of coffee the minute she walks in her office door and starts reading off a stack of pink slips containing her messages. She throws her coat on a hanger and her briefcase on a chair. She lets his voice roll over her, hears the various reminders about court dates and client interviews and watches the rain fall down outside her office window.
Ryan's still talking when a fellow prosecutor, Jared, sticks his head in the door and calls out her name, holding a long, yellow folder towards her.
"Tell me that's not another case you're going to stick on me," Quinn says, eying the folder and nodding her head at Ryan in a silent command to leave. She sets her coffee down on the desk.
Jared steps in the room, smiling at Ryan as he passes before turning back to Quinn. "I just need you to take this one, okay. I can't try it."
Quinn raises an eyebrow, stepping around her desk and walking over to him. "Can't or won't?"
"Quinn," the tall, brown haired man starts.
"Jared," she interrupts, holding up a hand to stop him. "I have a full day today. See that pile on my desk?" She points a finger towards a stack of folders easily a foot high. "That's my caseload. Today."
"It's on Sylvester's docket," Jared explains, looking at her with pleading eyes. "You know she hates me."
"That's really your problem," Quinn argues, crossing her arms and staring him down. "Not mine." A jolt of satisfaction goes through her when she sees her glare working. Staring down a guy over a foot taller than you? Always enjoyable.
Jared puts his arms out, palms up, in a defeated gesture and continues. "The girl is really sweet. I'd feel bad to lose this one and Sylvester likes you. Everyone knows you're the only one with a chance of winning in her courtroom. Come on," he entreats. "Please."
She sighs, eyes the pile on her desk again before looking up into his big eyes. It was true, Judge Sue Sylvester was known for being a menace in the courtroom, a complete abuser of judicial power, but for some reason, the woman had taken a liking to Quinn.
"Fine," she replies, holding out her hand for the file. "Give it to me."
A relieved breath escapes him as the larger man hands the file over and turns to walk out, adjusting his tie as he goes and giving her a dimpled smile. "Thanks, Quinn, you're the best."
"Yeah, yeah," she replies, waiting until he leaves to walk back around her desk and drop the file on the top of it, dropping heavily into her chair.
Strong wind rattles the window behind her as she reaches out for her coffee mug and flips open the file, the front page nearly making her spit liquid across her desk. The coughing sound brings Ryan back into the doorway but she waves him off with a shake of her head and a warning hand, trying to stop choking as she sets her coffee back down on the desk.
It's like falling down a dark, twisty hole and Quinn's head swims as she takes in the contents of the file, the case she just took on. It takes her a good minute before her vision stops wavering and her hand stops shaking.
She picks up the pictures. Brittany, her childhood friend. Roger Pike, known mafia mercenary. A headache starts to creep up her neck, pounding at the base of her skull as she keeps reading all the facts, the trial date, the witness statements. Suddenly, she wonders if Santana knows, scrambles through the sheets to see which officers were assigned the case.
Matt Rutherford and Finn Hudson.
She exhales in relief. The last thing she needs to worry about is her best friend, Santana Lopez, on some vigilante crusade - which is exactly what will happen if Santana finds out.
Quinn twirls a pen around in her fingers, and runs a hand through her hair before dragging it over her face.
It's going to be a long day.
--
A loud, incessant knocking startled her out of sleep as she jerked away from Rachel and squinted at their bedroom door. The noise resounded through the apartment and she let out a confused exhale before turning to find the time, red digits staring at her from over Rachel's shoulder. The clock on the bedside table read 4:15 and she groaned in frustration. Asleep for two hours. Work was going to be awesome tomorrow.
Rachel stirred as the knocking continued, pushing her butt back into Quinn's hips and mumbling in protest. "Door," the brunette let out, her voice half muffled by the pillow.
Quinn chuckled and threw the covers off her legs, sliding out of bed and reaching for a sweatshirt lying on the floor. The pounding continued as she padded barefoot out of their bedroom and down the hallway, headed for the front door.
When she put an eye against the peephole and spotted her best friend, swaying in front of it, she rolled her eyes and swung open the door, Santana nearly falling forward before catching herself.
"What the fuck took so long?" Santana snapped as she stumbled across the threshold and made her way to the living room.
Quinn eyed the bottle of Johnny Walker dangling from her friend's hand with a raised eyebrow. "It's four in the morning," Quinn answered, following Santana into the next room and watching her plop down on the couch.
Then, Santana just stared at her, her head unsteady on her shoulders and Quinn noticed uncharacteristic redness around her friend's eyes, a puffiness to her cheeks and if Quinn didn't know any better she'd say Santana had been crying.
But that couldn't be right. Santana Lopez did not cry.
"I'm a terrible girlfriend," Santana slurred out, letting her head fall against the arm of the couch and swinging her legs up so she was spread across it. "I'm a terrible person."
"What did you do this time?" Quinn asked, assuming this was, as always, about Brittany.
"You're married," Santana breathed out, her voice full of awe and wonder as if she had just realized this.
Both eyebrows went straight up on Quinn's forehead. "Yes," she answered, nodding.
"Married," Santana repeated, shaking her head and pointing the bottle of scotch at Quinn. "Like...married."
Quinn laughed, part amused, part concerned and patted Santana's feet. "You're drunk. I'm going to call Brittany."
At that, Santana shot up off the couch and grabbed Quinn's wrist before the blonde could make it out of the room. "NO," she commanded, her voice low and broken. "Don't call Brittany."
"Okay," Quinn said, drawing out the word. She furrowed her brow as she looked down on her friend, real concern now making its way into her gut. Santana did this every once in awhile - got into an argument with Brittany, found a liquor store, drank half of it, showed up at Quinn's. It was kind of routine. It didn't happen often, just every few months when they got into a particularly bad fight. Quinn would call Brittany who would make her way down to the apartment, collect Santana with a disapproving glare and the two would usually end up starting embarrassing, drunken make up sex in Quinn's front hall.
That's how it went.
Santana asking Quinn not to call Brittany? That didn't happen so much. Quinn had half a mind to do it regardless of how Santana felt.
But then her best friend's face scrunched up and Quinn could see the tears starting, the anger in Santana's shoulders set in and really, this wasn't something she was used to. Santana got angry. All the time. Santana's default for almost any emotional situation was anger. Tears, sadness? Not so much.
"Hey," Quinn whispered, sitting down on the couch next to her friend. "What happened?"
Santana shook her head and looked at Quinn, jaw tight and eyes blurry. "I'm a terrible person," she slurred again, before dropping to the side, her head into Quinn's shoulder as she brought the bottle of scotch up and tipped it against her lips.
A shuffle of footsteps brought her attention towards the hallway to see Rachel standing there, her hair a mess and a look of confusion all over her face. Quinn stared at her over Santana's head and shook her head back and forth, signaling her wife to go back to bed.
Santana handed the bottle of Johnny Walker over to Quinn who took it wordlessly and threw a sip back herself. She could feel disapproval radiating off of Rachel, but the shorter woman merely walked over to the small cabinet on the far wall and pulled out an extra pillow and blanket, brought it back over to the couch and set it down next to Quinn.
A hand reached out and stroked her hair before Rachel leaned down and kissed her forehead. Throughout the whole thing, Santana just leaned into Quinn, stared straight ahead and took almost no notice of Rachel. It really was the most concerning thing of all.
The brunette looked down at Santana for a moment after smiling at Quinn and brought a hand out to touch Santana's cheek. She smiled at the two of them before turning and strolling out of the room.
--
Her phone feels unnaturally heavy in her palm. She flips it open, then closed, and open once more before setting it on her desk. There’s a landline on the corner of her desk and her work phone is sitting on a stack of files. She needs to pick one up, dial the numbers, and talk to Brittany. She needs to do this and yet she’s having trouble getting her fingers to obey the duty.
The file open on her desk has all the numbers she needs, but her brain can’t seem to wrap her head around the information. Aside from the name, date of birth and the picture, everything else on the page seems eerily foreign. A new phone number, a new address and for whatever reason, reading all that information makes it feel like Brittany has a new life. Which, Quinn supposes, is true.
She picks her cell phone up again, sliding her thumb over the keypad until it’s pressing down on the number 5 and holding it until the phone connects. She doesn’t bring the phone to her ear because she knows the call won’t go through, the number’s been disconnected for six months.
Brittany’s old number. She’s never deleted it or taken it off her speed dial. Doing so would have felt way too final, would have felt like it does right now staring at Brittany’s new numbers.
The air conditioner clicks as it goes through its cycle and a strong gust of wind beats against the window behind her. The faint sound of an automated message coming out of the phone reaches her ears so she presses the end button and disconnects the call.
A sigh escapes her as she moves her thumb to 3, presses down and holds, this time actually bringing the phone to her ear to hear the ringing sound down the line.
It takes about four rings before a familiar voice greets her. “Hey,” she breathes out.
“Hi!” Rachel’s voice is bright and cheery and exactly what Quinn needs right now. “Have you seen my Louboutin’s?”
She can hear movement and rustling, presumably because Rachel is scouring one of the various closets in their place. She wracks her brain to try and remember where she last saw the red-soled pumps.
Then, with a pleasant flush a rather heated memory comes. “Did you check under the bed?”
A beat later Rachel laughs. “I don’t know how I forgot that.”
Quinn hums affirmatively down the line and traces her finger over a line in the wood of her desk.
“So what’s up?” Rachel asks, grunting. Quinn can imagine her bending down to pull her shoes out from under the bed.
“Nothing, just saying hi,” Quinn responds, running a hand down her face.
“Yeah?” Rachel pauses. “Everything okay?”
Quinn swallows and lets Rachel’s voice still the shaking in her joints. “Yeah, everything is great. I just miss you.” It’s sentimental and sappy and Quinn kind of feels lame for saying it, but it’s true and she needs the sure foundation that Rachel provides her before she goes about her next task.
“I miss you too, baby,” Rachel replies. “Are you going to be late tonight?”
The question is full of invitation and promise and Quinn can practically see the suggestion on Rachel’s face. “You got plans?”
“Just come home as soon as you can.”
“I will,” Quinn says, eyes closing briefly.
“I love you,” Rachel intones.
“Yeah,” Quinn responds. “Me too.”
“I’ll see you at home,” Rachel says before the line disconnects and Quinn is left listening to a dial tone.
Breathing deeply, she steadies herself and forces confidence into her body. She lets her eyes trace over the file again and finds the new number that will reach Brittany. A number that is new and weird and her fingers stumble over the keys as she tries to type it in.
Brittany picks up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Brittany?” Quinn asks, all confidence rushing out of her.
There’s a silence and all Quinn can hear is the rain against the window behind her before Brittany’s voice comes back on the line, “Quinn?”
The urge to cry is strong and she has to rub a hand over her eyes to stave the tears off, but she hasn’t heard Brittany’s voice in six months and now here she is, recognizing Quinn’s voice like they had only spoken yesterday.
Then again, they had been friends for decades. Quinn’s pretty sure their voices are etched on each other’s hearts. She doesn’t understand how her life ended up like this; she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to being Santana and Quinn without Brittany. Or for that matter - Quinn without Santana and Brittany.
“Hi, Britt,” she says, letting out a long breath.
“Hi,” Brittany replies, full of awe and wonder.
“I’m calling about the case. The burglary,” she clarifies with a small cough. “It came across my desk this morning and I just wanted to go over your statement really quick.”
“How are you?” Brittany asks.
Suddenly derailed, Quinn stalls, the words stuck in her throat. She needs to keep this professional or she thinks she’s going to break apart. Talking to Brittany like they’re just checking up seems wrong.
“I’m fine,” she clips out. “How are you doing?” It’s half work, half personal but she has the sudden urge to make sure one of her closest friends is okay. She was just burgled after all.
“I’m staying with Mike,” Brittany blurts out. “Just for a few days.”
Quinn almost laughs. Really, she almost laughs because she feels like this is six months ago when Brittany ran from Santana’s and stayed at Mike’s apartment for the first few weeks. It’s humorous and terribly depressing all at the same time.
“That’s good,” Quinn says. She pauses, swallows and flicks her nail against the edge of the file. “I’m sorry.”
She means it about the case, about Roger Pike breaking into the studio and taking her stuff but there’s more to it and Quinn’s pretty sure Brittany gets it right away.
“Me too,” Brittany whispers.
Her throat hurts as she swallows and pinches the bridge of her nose against sudden pain. A deep breath and a clearing of the knot in her throat later and Quinn focuses on the case, gets through the conversation as fast as possible.
Stay professional, Quinn Fabray, she tells herself. That’s what you’re good at. Keep your personal life out of your work.
She’s had far too much practice at it, after all.
--
Hours later, the apartment is quiet and empty when she walks in, flapping her jacket out to get rid of the rainwater and setting her umbrella down by the door. Exhaustion runs through her and she feels like she ran a marathon today, fell over, got up and ran one again. She needs to eat and she can almost hear her stomach growl at the prospect, but more than that she wants to sink into her bed, into her wife, and forget this day ever happened.
Forget that she has one best friend recently robbed and the other completely unaware of the fact, probably still at work or sitting in a bar at this very moment.
Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them.
So many secrets. Her life is full of so many secrets.
Talking to Brittany had been strange, and exhausting and she could still feel the sharp stab of pain and guilt that struck her at the sound of her friend's voice. She hasn't seen Brittany in six months, six long months, ever since the blonde up and left Santana. She had left Quinn too.
For a long time after Brittany left, Quinn was mad at Santana, mad at her for not chasing the blonde, for not fixing things, for shoving Brittany out of Quinn's life just as much as her own. A part of her, she thinks, still is. But seeing Santana so broken, so constantly out of sorts, sweeps her anger away into a place of deep, unsettling empathy.
A long, low exhale escapes her as she walks further into the apartment, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight for the office. Rachel is somewhere in the apartment, that much she knows, and as much as Quinn wants to seek her out and forget this day, she needs to get her head on straight first. Rachel will see right through it, will sense the turmoil swirling around in Quinn and she doesn't think she can handle the calm, understanding sympathy she'll get from her wife.
But, as it turns out, Rachel is actually in her office and all plans to avoid her are pretty much destroyed the second she walks in the door.
"Hey!" Rachel exclaims, bright and cheery. "I was just looking for my..." the brunette trailed off as she took in Quinn's expression. "What happened?"
Quinn walks the rest of the way in, throws her briefcase on the desk and shrugs out of her jacket, coming around to kiss Rachel hello on the temple. "Long day."
"Yeah?" Rachel asks, eyes narrowed, skepticism all over her features. "Did you get stuck in court like you thought?"
She thinks about lying, considers it for a long serious moment. She could probably deal with this whole case herself, not have to tell Santana or Rachel. Just get the case tried, bring Brittany's problem to justice, move on. Bringing it all back up right now was going to send their already fragile lives into a tailspin.
But this is Rachel, the human lie detector when it comes to Quinn and she can already feel her palms start to sweat so she just reaches into her briefcase and pulls out the file, handing it over to her wife wordlessly.
Rachel's brows come together in confusion but she takes the file and flips it open, surprise shooting across her face as she reads the contents. It's not strictly ethical, sharing the details of a case like this, but spousal privilege has to count for something.
"Oh my gosh," the other girl breathes. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah," Quinn replies. "I just talked to her."
"Does Santana know?" Rachel looks up from the file, shutting it and throwing it on the desk when she notices Quinn's expression.
"I can't tell her, she'll do something idiotic," Quinn answers.
"Quinn, you have to tell her," Rachel argues.
"No," she continues. "That's a bad idea." Which isn't entirely true, she wants to tell Santana, hates that she has yet another thing to hide from her best friend, but she's still worried, concerned what the news could do. And again, it's not really her place to tell Santana of a case she picked up. It's Rutherford and Hudson's case. She can't just go dump it on Santana. “I can take care of it myself.”
Rachel shakes her head. "She deserves to know, Quinn. This is Brittany we're talking about."
"They're not together anymore," Quinn says, feeling lame. Brittany might have left but Quinn knows probably better than anyone that Santana and Brittany will probably forever be Santana and Brittany no matter physical location.
"If you were Santana and she were you," Rachel responds, stepping up closer to Quinn and lowering her voice. "If I was Brittany, would you think you deserved to know?"
The images slide and switch and all of a sudden Quinn's seeing Rachel's face instead of Brittany's, feeling desperation that wasn't there before. She darts her arm out to wrap around Rachel's waist and tugs her closer, staring down at her wife with sad realization. "I'd kill her if she didn't tell me."
With a knowing grin, Rachel reaches out with both hands, cups Quinn's cheeks in her own and looks straight into her eyes. "The last thing you need right now is another secret between you and Santana."
The blonde swallows, purses her lips and nods.
"I'll tell her." As soon as she figures out how.
--
Quinn leaned forward on her stool, twirling an olive around in her martini and followed Santana's gaze to the dance floor. Blonde hair and long limbs flailed about as Brittany made herself known on the dance floor, Mike having an equally good time next to her. They both watched as the pair continued to dance around each other, legs moving around drunkenly and before they knew it the two were kissing, surrounded by people.
“Brittany’s making out with Mike again,” Quinn said, dryly.
Santana chuckled, shook her head and went back to her drink. “I know.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
It was a frequent argument between the two of them, Quinn still unable to understand Brittany and Santana’s relationship after nearly seven years.
“Brittany makes out with everyone,” Santana said, amused. “Plus, Mike’s gay.”
“I will never understand you,” Quinn said, taking a short sip of her martini before setting it down again.
“What?” Santana replied, never taking her eyes of Brittany.
“You’ll punch out a guy for so much as looking at her, scratch the eyes out of any girl that dare ask her out, but you’ll let a close friend of hers stick his tongue down her throat on the dance floor and not so much as muster up a glare?”
“It’s me she comes home with.” Santana shrugged, smiled at Quinn. “I can share.”
A laugh burst out of Quinn. “You so cannot. I’m shocked they let you out of kindergarten.”
“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” Santana said, but she was smiling.
“I’m just saying. Of all the things you don’t share well,” Quinn started. “And that’s a long list, you’re terrible at sharing Brittany.”
Santana shrugged again. “It’s not like he’s going to take her away from me. She’s a good kisser. She can do what she wants.”
“She is,” Quinn agreed before she could stop herself. “I remember,” she mumbled.
It was quick and barely noticeable but Santana’s mood shifted in an instant. “Rewind.”
“Huh?” Quinn feigned ignorance once she realized what she revealed, tried to wipe her face of any emotion.
“You remember what?” Santana turned to face her and glared, putting on a face Quinn was well familiar with, the one that said Quinn better fess up before Santana smacks her.
“I kissed Brittany once. In your bedroom. When we were in high school. We broke that LFO CD you liked so much when she pushed me onto the bed,” she shot out, the words coming out in short tumbles, saying way more than she probably needed to.
“You broke my LFO CD?!” Santana nearly shouted, both eyebrows high on her forehead.
Quinn jerked back. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”
“I fucking loved that CD!”
It’s not that Quinn was disappointed that Santana was definitely focusing on the more innocent part of her confession, it was more that she was afraid maybe Santana hadn’t actually heard her.
“You got the part where I kissed Brittany, right?”
Santana waved her off. “Yeah, I knew that already.”
It was Quinn’s turn to feel shock and indignation. “What do you mean you already knew?!”
“Brittany made out with everyone in high school, do you really think you were safe from that?” Santana crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a hip against the bar. “Especially with that hilarious gay panic crisis you had back then. Britt’s a fixer, what can I say?”
Quinn opened her mouth to answer but when no words came out she snapped it shut, looking to where Brittany was still dancing around Mike out on the dance floor.
“Yeah,” Santana continued. “Britt and I don’t exactly keep secrets.” It was said low and pointed in a way Quinn knew was an admonishment.
She sighed, turned to look at her friend. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Which part, kissing my girlfriend or keeping it from me for years?”
“The second part,” Quinn answers. “Well I guess the first part too.”
Santana picked her drink up and took a sip before speaking again. “You didn’t have to hide it from me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been mad.”
Quinn lifted an eyebrow at her. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Okay, maybe for like a day. But I would have gotten over it,” Santana admitted. “Like I said, Britt makes out with everyone. You really think I would have disowned you over something stupid like that?”
“Well,” Quinn said after a beat feeling like maybe she should apologize but not really knowing what’s going on.
“It’s fine, Q,” Santana chuckled and Quinn knew her friend’s good mood was half the vodka cranberry next to her hand and half that she could see Brittany coming off the dance floor and making their way towards them. “Secrets are dumb though, especially stupid ones like that. We’re best friends, you should tell me that shit.”
Quinn nodded, let out a low exhale. “My bad.”
“Just don’t do it again,” Santana warned, leaning close to her friend. “Kiss her, I mean.”
Quinn scrunched her forehead up in confusion. “I will never understand you,” she said, almost laughing again. “This is easily the sixteenth time she’s made out with Mike.”
“You’re hotter than Mike,” Santana said, winking as Brittany bounced over to them, practically flew into Santana and pressed an indecently hot kiss to her mouth.
“Hey, babe,” Santana greeted, smiling up at her girlfriend.
Brittany leaned over and whispered something in Santana’s ear that made her break out into a massive grin and tighten the grip she had around Brittany’s waist.
Quinn rolled her eyes and smiled at Mike before lifting her martini to her lips.
--
Quinn slides her glasses off and drops them on her desk, the frames making a soft thud as they hit the stack of papers there. She rubs her eyes absently, trying to will away her headache and listens to the sound of rain hitting the glass window to her left. It's a comforting sound and for a few minutes she lets it wash over her, nearly falling asleep.
The file open on top of the pile stares up at her, the pictures and words seared into her brain with how many times she's read it over the past three days.
Roger Pike. Organized crime. The monster that lives in her closet, the enemy she feels like she's been fighting all her life.
And then worse. Her best friend's ex-girlfriend. One of her closest childhood friends. Victim of a robbery.
She stares at the picture of Brittany through her fingers, letting her eyes focus in and out on the blonde's face. It had been six months since she had last seen Brittany and even though it was Brittany that left it kind of felt like Santana had too. She barely saw her anymore, her best friend lost in a haze of work and alcohol and nicotine.
A heavy gust of air blows out of her and she tries to prepare herself for the night ahead. She has to tell Santana, has to tell her tonight, but a part of her doesn't want to at all. A big part really, because she has no idea what the news will do to her friend, what kind of reaction she'll have, but knowing Santana Lopez, it won't be good.
She runs her fingers purposefully over the papers spread out across her desk until they hit one that feels different from the others, a smooth glossy front with straight, sharp edges and she pulls it out from underneath her case files, stuck there from when she had stuffed it in with all the contents of her briefcase.
Her eyes roam the hazy picture, looking more like a collection of blurred lines and black blobs than anything else but she sees her future in it, her whole world, and everything good about her dark, tainted existence. Her chest tightens up but she breathes easy, letting hope run through her quick and hurried before she can stop it. These days, the picture is one of the few things that makes Quinn feel happiness, free and easy.
The office door clicks open and the smell of warm food wafts in as Rachel leans against the open door and observes her. She can hear the muffled sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs floating in from their living room.
"Hey you," the brunette says, smiling at her affectionately.
Quinn, drops the picture back on the desk, pushes back and leans into her chair, letting her head fall back against the leather. "Hey," she greets, smiling softly in return.
Rachel saunters over to her desk after she slides the door shut again and Quinn lets her eyes roam up her wife's legs, exposed by the completely indecent, short, mouth-watering skirt Rachel is currently sporting. She feels her smile turn up at the view and lets thoughts of the real world flow out of her in favor of the sight of the ridiculously attractive brunette, now perched on her desk.
Quinn runs her hand up a smooth leg and smiles up at Rachel. "Nice skirt," she comments.
A prim, but knowing smile comes across Rachel's face as the shorter girl crosses her legs and places a heeled foot in Quinn's lap. "Thanks," she says.
"You're welcome," Quinn replies, tugging off her wife's shoe and running her thumbs up the arch of Rachel's foot.
"We have guests," Rachel chastises, both for the look of intent Quinn knows is on her face and for the way Quinn has been holed up in her office since the party started.
"I know," Quinn breathes out, running one hand up Rachel's calf and squeezing the muscle.
Rachel looks over her shoulder to the desk she’s leaning against and Quinn watches a bright smile light up her face at the conspicuous black standing out amongst the files, and for a moment, Quinn’s world feels simple and easy and amazing. But then her wife’s eyebrow arches up as she recognizes the file lying open on the desk. "Have you told her?"
The foot in her hand presses forward and down, the heel digging into her thigh when she doesn't answer. "Quinn," Rachel admonishes. "I thought you said you were going to tell her."
"I was, I am," Quinn says, sighing and leaning back farther into her chair. She rolls her eyes at Rachel's doubtful expression. "I'll tell her tonight."
Rachel's lips form a thin line and she grabs her shoe out of Quinn's grasp, slipping it back on and sliding off the desk. "I'm sending her straight back here, Quinn Fabray. Tell her," she orders.
Quinn's tried to tell her over a dozen times the past few days, each time the words getting lost in the back of her throat, unable to say them aloud. Most likely, tonight won't be any different. But she can see the resolve in Rachel's face, the unspoken threat that if she didn't do as she was told there'd be serious issues.
She feels a little anger come bubbling up, a natural reaction to being bossed around but it's also part fear, part worry, part dread. She pushes it down. Getting mad at her wife right now, picking a fight to avoid the harsh reality she knows faces her is a coward's choice.
"I will," Quinn replies, jaw clenched and voice determined. "Send her back when she gets here."
Rachel drops a long kiss on Quinn's forehead, and lingers there for a moment, but before she can break away and leave, Quinn grabs her wrist, and tugs downward so that Rachel falls unceremoniously into her lap, yelping in surprise.
“Guests,” Rachel reminds her as Quinn runs a hand up her smooth, tan thigh and reaches up to kiss her.
“They’ll survive without you for five minutes,” Quinn retorts, running a nail up Rachel’s skirt, tracing toned muscle.
Rachel’s eyes glaze over, her hands come up to tangle in blonde hair and Quinn knows she’s won. Her wife is so easy these days, and she means that in the best way possible.
“Make it ten,” Rachel whispers, closing the space between them and smashing their mouths together.
--
When she finally tells Santana, the worst part is definitely the way Santana's face pales, the way her eyes go blank, and the air of indifference she tries to project. It's all so sad, bleak, and depressing and Quinn really wants to make it go away but has no idea how to do it.
She watches as her friend turns her gaze to the glass of scotch Quinn just handed her, moves it back and forth in her hand and tries to act nonchalant. “Good for her. That’s really not my problem anymore.”
Quinn shakes her head because Santana might be able to deny a lot of things, but this, this is just the truth, unshakable and constant.
So she leans forward and throws a hand on top of the glass Santana is holding, forces her friend to make eye contact. “Santana,” she starts, low and certain. “You were together since you were thirteen. She will always be your problem.”
It sits there, in the silence, and Quinn can see the way Santana swallows, the way her eyes start to glaze over and the tension all throughout her body. She hates it, wants to take it back, all of a sudden.
The words seem to sink in and soon after Santana is pulling the glass away, throwing the rest of her scotch back, uttering a low thanks and standing up, heading for the door.
This is the part she was concerned about, the part where Santana leaves and does something ridiculous, like get way too drunk, like punch a wall, like find Brittany and make an ass of herself. "Where are you going?"
"I gotta get out of here," Santana replies, trying to sound flippant but failing.
Quinn knows Santana.
"Santana," Quinn tries.
Santana turns around to look at her, looking lost and exhausted. "I'm just tired, Q. Really. I'm fine."
It's only half a lie but Quinn can see the absence of calm rage, the biggest tip when it comes to Santana doing something asinine. "Don't do anything stupid."
"Like what?"
Quinn raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. As if Quinn wasn't there the last time Santana got piss drunk over Brittany and threw a tequila bottle at a wall, or the time she punched out that hot dog vendor on 7th street. "You know what."
"Whatever," Santana throws over her shoulder, making her way to the door and exiting the office.
--
It takes a good five minutes before Quinn can leave the office, five minutes spent fingering her glass of scotch and staring at the case file in front of her. Roger Pike. Organized crime. Brittany. Involved even tangentially with the mafia. Dread seeps through her and a dark, ominous feeling creeps up her spine for the hundredth time in the last few days. Nothing good is going to come of this, she knows it.
She takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself, put on a new face so she can go out and face the party - she's been rude enough as it is, staying in her office like a loner recluse. Three steps towards the door, halfway through straightening her clothes out and Rachel's throwing the door open, stepping inside and shutting it behind her.
"Santana just took off with Puck," she starts, walking towards Quinn to meet her in the middle of the room.
"I told her," Quinn says.
"I figured."
"She's going to go do something stupid now," Quinn replies, half a chuckle coming out under her breath.
"That's what Santana does," Rachel says, winding her arms around Quinn's waist and arching upward to press their mouths together. "Don't worry so much."
"Yeah I guess," she answers, hooking her arms around Rachel's neck and pulling their bodies in closer together.
"It's going to be okay, baby. I promise," Rachel intones, whispered and low against Quinn's lips.
It's a warm feeling, having someone reassuring her that it would be okay, that she didn't have to worry, to know that no matter what, Rachel would be there, day in and day out. But Quinn can't stamp down the tendril of doubt wrapping itself around her, the fear that this is only the beginning and she just sent her best friend out to do God knows what. She wants to believe Rachel, wants to let the worry bleed out of her but she can't because there's a part of her that's certain. It's not going to be okay. Not for a while.
It’s not going to be okay because she just opened an old wound, split it wide open and watched it fester on her best friend’s face. Just unleashed that tornado of pain and anger on the world, and she sat back while it brewed in her own office and then blew out. She can almost see Santana now, walking down the street towards Rick’s, throwing back shots of tequila, pain mixing with rage until one isn’t distinguishable from another. Then calm. The scary calm Santana always gets when she’s made a decision, channeling her emotion into action.
The urge to bolt after her, to pull her friend back inside, ripples through her, makes her pull Rachel closer and swallow dryly against the feeling, her stomach turning over despite itself.
So instead of answering, instead of agreeing with her wife and smiling, she slants her lips against Rachel's again, grips her hands in long brown hair and forgets everything but the way Rachel feels and tastes and sounds before breaking apart after a long, hot minute.
"Let's get back to the party," she suggests, disengaging from Rachel and tugging her out of the office.
Rachel looks like she doesn't buy it, like she's going to protest, but they run into guests before the shorter girl can say another word.
Quinn smiles, forces her body to be loose and easy as she mingles, but the unsettling feeling in her gut sits there like a heavy brick. She thinks Rachel’s hand, gripping tightly to her own, is the only think stopping her from running out the door.
Part Two
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Rachel; side Santana/Brittany
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 9k this part
Summary: Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them. So many secrets. Her life is full of so many secrets.
Spoilers: None, this is AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Note 1: This is basically They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason retold from Quinn's perspective. It's not the sequel everyone has been clamoring for, but there was enough story on Quinn's side that I felt like it should be put down. *shrugs* I think it's pretty critical to read that story first, but then again, you might get away without doing so. This is Quinn-centric so it starts off pretty slow. What? Nothing is happening with Quinn for like the first seven chapters of Bad Things. A lot of people wanted a sequel, I know, and I have more outtakes and post-bad things in the works, but this was th e next big project I had sitting around and I wanted to get it out there.
Note 2: All complaints go to Cassie. She made me do this.
by dealan311
--
Rain beats heavily against a window as the loud beep of an alarm cuts through the silence of the bedroom. With a low groan, a long arm reaches across blankets and brown hair and slaps at the clock, one, two, three times, before hitting the mark and silencing the device.
Quinn forces her eyes open, squeezes them shut and then open again as she drops her arm down over Rachel's body and snuggles into her back, pressing her lips into brown hair and sighing.
"Coffee," Rachel mumbles out, pushing back into Quinn and turning halfway over.
"Five more minutes," Quinn argues, hoping to sleep just a little longer before actually having to face reality. She can already hear the wind picking up outside and the speedy patter of rain against their building - a storm's brewing.
"Coffee," Rachel repeats, her voice getting clearer as she turns all the way over and blinks sleepily at Quinn.
The blonde laughs and stretches the sleep out of her whole body, pressing against her wife as the brunette smiles. "You're getting decaf anyway, I don't know why you're so pushy."
An adorable pout appears on Rachel's face. "I want real coffee," she replies, running a hand down Quinn's side under the covers. "With caffeine," she purrs out as her fingers slide back up to trace against Quinn's ribs.
"Well you're getting decaf," Quinn says, grabbing Rachel's hand and stopping its pursuit. "And don't think you can win me over with sex."
Rachel pulls her hand away and sinks back into the bed. "Wouldn't dream of it," she answers with a smirk.
An eye roll and a rustle of sheets later and Quinn's out of bed, pulling on shorts and a tank top as she makes her way to their kitchen. She runs her hands through her hair, pulling out the tangles and sweeps it up off her neck, pulling it back with the rubber band from around her wrist. A loud breath escapes her as she surveys their kitchen, eyes roaming the counters until she spots their French press. Well, actually, their two French presses.
She gets to work, pulling two bags of coffee out of their refrigerator and waiting for the water to warm enough to finish her two pots of coffee - one for her and one for Rachel, since Quinn refuses to drink the decaf despite Rachel’s many protestations against the ‘complete lack of justice and terrible showing of unfairness that is shown by your refusal to show solidarity for me and my plight.’ The newspaper is waiting for her outside their front door when she gets there and she walks back into the kitchen with it, flipping it open and throwing it down on the counter, perusing the headlines absently while she waits for the coffee to brew.
Footsteps pad towards her from the hallway and she turns to see Rachel, dressed in one of Quinn’s dress shirts and looking as beautiful as ever, if not a little sleepy. Her wife stumbles over and bumps into Quinn's side, leaning heavily on her.
Quinn chuckles and rubs a hand up under the shirt and over Rachel's bare back, kissing the top of her head and counting the seconds silently until their coffee is done. It's quiet in the kitchen, with Rachel snuggled up warmly against her side as the smell of coffee starts to make its way to Quinn's nose. She watches the rain fall down outside through their window, where it fall in torrents on building after building, watches the cars buzz down the street below them and the hazy picture of black umbrellas making their way down the sidewalks.
The quiet is deceiving. Quinn knows this better than almost anyone. She knows it because out there, sometime last night, someone killed someone, someone's child was kidnapped, someone bought drugs on a street corner. Their pictures, their lives, their stories. They'll be on her desk in files by the time she gets there. The city is chaos and her job is bringing it to order. Once she steps outside the door, the quiet ends and the noise begins.
She's startled out of her thoughts by Rachel turning her head up and resting her chin on Quinn's collarbone. "Coffee's ready," her wife whispers upward.
Quinn smiles and presses a kiss to Rachel's lips before pulling away, pouring them both coffee and handing one to her wife.
"Busy day today?" Rachel asks as she takes a sip of the liquid and stares at Quinn over the top of the mug. They're still standing close together, Rachel's toes practically on top of Quinn's, and she lets her hand rest on the other girl's hip as she brings her own cup to her lips, her fingers running over the bone there.
"I'll probably be in court all day," Quinn answers after the warm coffee settles in her belly. "Hopefully not."
Rachel hums and sets her coffee on the counter, the black liquid still steaming upwards into the air. Quinn follows suit, putting her mug on the counter next to Rachel's when her wife steps even closer, presses her hips into Quinn's and grins.
"You have to leave soon?" The brunette asks, running her hands up the back of Quinn's tank top.
She does have to leave soon, really soon in fact, but Rachel's eyes are hooded and her palms are warm and she's all too aware of the hips fitted against her own. Their coffee cups on the table are still nearly full and Quinn can hear the big grandfather clock from their living room tick away the seconds as they stand there, the honking outside growing louder as the day begins to start.
She gulps, brushes a hand over the hair on Rachel's forehead and brings their lips together.
"Let's go back to bed," she whispers after pulling apart.
“That’s far away,” Rachel whines, scratching at the skin of Quinn’s lower back with a perfectly manicured nail. “We need a closer bed.”
“You’re the one that wanted a huge place.” Quinn backs them up as she says it, pushing Rachel back with two hands on her hips. Steering is a little difficult because Rachel continues to run her nails over Quinn’s skin even as she walks backwards.
“We were moving in together!” Rachel argues, matching her steps with Quinn’s, their legs brushing against each other as they move out of the kitchen and make their way towards their bedroom. “It didn’t make sense to move into my apartment and yours was much too small for the both of us.”
Sharp laughter shoots out of Quinn as they carefully climb the steps. Rachel moves her hands from Quinn’s back to tangle their fingers together.
“Rachel, it was the penthouse.”
An eyebrow arches on Rachel’s forehead. “Are you saying you don’t like our place?”
“You’re absurd,” Quinn responds, clearing the last step and moving them down the hall.
Rachel stops abruptly and Quinn nearly runs into her. Well, no. She actually does run into her but the door behind Rachel prevents them from falling over. Instead, Rachel’s back is against the door and Quinn’s pressed tightly into her.
It should be hot, and arousing and completely distracting, but somehow her wife went from seductive to indignant from the time it took them to make it upstairs. Maybe Rachel was right. The bed is too far away. Quinn could be halfway to a morning orgasm if she had just given in and thrown Rachel on the kitchen table.
“I am not absurd,” Rachel denies, eyes flashing as she looks up at Quinn.
If Quinn’s honest with herself, getting Rachel mad about something is usually really hot. No, actually. It’s always hot.
So even though she’s still a little confused by the mood swing and that Rachel can go from aroused to angry in seconds, she’s pretty convinced she can snap her wife’s mood right back in place.
Pulling away slightly, she trails her hand down between them, plucking open the bottom button of the shirt Rachel’s wearing.
“What are you doing?” Rachel huffs, which is ridiculous because it should be pretty obvious what’s she’s doing. After all, Rachel was the one with the come-fuck-me eyes in the kitchen.
“You stole my shirt.” Her knuckles brush bare skin as she gets the bottom few buttons open. “I’m taking it back.”
“What happened to what’s yours is mine?” The question comes out low and breathy and Quinn’s happy the mood is changing direction again.
“Stop talking,” Quinn commands, popping open the last button and sliding her palm over Rachel’s ribs and around to her back. Her throat goes dry at the sight of naked skin; it’s something she’s seen a million times, a million mornings, but she doesn’t think it will ever get old.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Rachel argues, pushing her chest and chin forward defiantly. But all it does is send a rush over Quinn’s skin and a shiver down her spine. White teeth scrape over Rachel’s bottom lip and Quinn’s vision goes a little hazy for a second.
“Stop being a contrarian,” Quinn whispers, sliding both hands up to Rachel’s shoulders to slide the shirt off.
It flows to the ground between them and lands there silently. “Don’t think a big vocabulary is going to seduce me.”
Quinn reaches over and twists the knob to the bedroom, wrapping her other arm around Rachel’s waist as the door slides open and they start walking inside. “Stop acting like you haven’t already been seduced.”
Rachel looks at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re so arrogant,” she says, but there’s a smirk on her lips that lets Quinn know she’s won.
They stumble the few feet inside and to the bed. “You like it.”
“Do not,” Rachel denies, lying back on their bed. The covers are still undone and twisted from the night before.
Hooking her hands under smooth thighs, Quinn spreads Rachel’s legs apart as she follows her onto the bed, lying on top of her. A smile graces her lips as she leans in close to Rachel’s face, sliding her right hand up to the inside of Rachel’s thigh until she’s trailing fingers through slick, wet heat, her other arm propping her up near Rachel’s face.
“Do too,” Quinn whispers triumphantly against parted lips.
A low, quick inhale pulls through Rachel as her hips follow the motions of Quinn’s fingers, gliding through her softly and aimlessly.
“Quinn,” Rachel lets out, the name sounding more like a plea.
They kiss, soft but with urgency and Rachel smoothes her palms up Quinn’s biceps until they’re gripping Quinn’s neck and pulling her in closer.
Quinn lets herself get lost in the sensation of kissing Rachel, of long fingers tracing shapes against her neck and the unsteady movement of Rachel’s chest against her own. She moves her mouth over Rachel’s jawbone and down her neck, inhaling deeply against warm skin while her fingers continue to move with no real purpose - up and down, back and forth.
Rachel squirms underneath her, and Quinn, recognizing the impatience in the gesture, chuckles softly into the underside of her wife’s jaw.
“Quinn,” Rachel repeats, this time as an admonishment.
Desire hums under Quinn’s skin at the sound, at the way Rachel’s breath hitches as she slides her tongue down the muscle of Rachel’s neck, and lets her fingers move more purposely, sliding down and pressing in.
Rachel’s hips jump with the motion but Quinn presses her own down against the movement, trailing kisses back upward until their lips tangle together again.
Their breathing is reduced to short pants in between kisses and Rachel’s eyes flutter closed as the heel of Quinn’s palm puts pressure on her clit.
When it’s like this, when all Quinn can think about is the way Rachel’s hair looks spread out against white sheets or the way her legs feel wrapped around Quinn’s hips, she feels the band around her heart unclench and the black fog that sits in her brain most days clears.
It’s better than coffee, better than scotch, better than winning a big case. The world shrinks down to this, this right here - with Rachel lying underneath her making the most innocently erotic noises Quinn’s ever heard out of another human being.
Quinn props her elbow on the bed so she can run a thumb over Rachel’s forehead, pushing bangs away.
“Rach,” she gasps, thrusting forward and pressing her hand down hard. “Baby, open your eyes.”
Brown eyes snap open at the command, lock with Quinn’s and she feels all the air leave her chest at the love and arousal swirling around in them. Rachel’s hands are still gripping at her neck, clenching intermittently and tangling into the messy curls there.
She lets her thumb find its way upward to replace her palm and make quick circles, the pleasure it brings evident in the way Rachel’s jaw drops open and her hips cant upward sharply into Quinn’s.
“I love you,” Quinn whispers, placing short, quick kisses from Rachel’s mouth to her ear. “I love you.”
Rachel’s hands grip her neck steadily, pulling Quinn’s face further into her shoulder as she repeats the words into blonde hair, her voice low and rough.
Fingers thrusting, Quinn smiles into smooth skin and lets the truth of the words settle in her gut, swirl in her head, and push all the blackness she know surrounds the day ahead of her away.
Rachel falls apart with an arch of her back and a sharp cry and Quinn feels the tightness all throughout her body, keeps moving her fingers as the waves shudder through her wife.
It takes large gulps of air for Rachel to settle and wrap her hand around Quinn’s wrist, pulling it out from its warm haven.
Quinn lifts up and away from Rachel, her hips still pressed in between toned thighs. She brings her hand up and runs her tongue over her fingers, cleaning them off with slow, sure licks as she stares at her wife through hooded eyes.
Before she can do anything else, like bring her body down to kiss Rachel again or slide down the bed and rip another orgasm out of her with her mouth, Rachel is bucking upwards and pushing Quinn with her.
Lying on her back, the air whooshes out of her in surprise. Rachel is practically beaming from her position, straddling Quinn’s hips and trailing a finger down the vein in Quinn’s neck.
“How did you manage to keep all your clothes on through that?” Rachel asks, her voice sated in a way that shoots straight to Quinn’s groin.
Quinn gulps, her hands automatically moving to palm Rachel’s thighs. “I don’t know,” she says, trying to sound calm and steady, but Rachel’s finger is tracing the neckline of Quinn’s tank top and it seems to be affecting her ability to speak.
Small hands leave her neck to shift the bottom of her tank top up, running over the muscles in her abdomen and pushing the fabric upwards. It forces Quinn to move her hands above her head and lift her back off the bed but soon she’s lying topless on the bed.
Rachel hums and lets her hands travel aimlessly across Quinn’s chest. It’s maddening and arousing at the same time.
“Rachel,” she warns, her hands resettled on toned thighs and sliding up.
Her wife clucks at her and smirks, gripping both of Quinn’s hands and bringing them to rest on the sheets above Quinn’s head. Rachel falls forward with the motion until they’re pressed bare chest to bare chest.
Rachel’s hair forms a sort of curtain around them and Quinn licks her lips at the feel of Rachel straddling her hips, heat pressing into the skin where they’re connected.
Then Rachel stills. Just stops. Her hands are still gripping Quinn’s, stretching out the blonde’s torso under Rachel and their lips are mere inches part, still and unmoving.
Quinn groans when comprehension dawns and she realizes what’s happening.
“Rachel,” she intones darkly. “Get on with it.”
A deep throaty laugh comes out of her wife and Quinn feels wetness pool between her legs at the sound. “You really think I’d let you get away with last night?”
Her teeth scrape against her lip as she stares into laughing eyes. “Rachel,” she repeats, incapable of coming up with anything more intelligent. Shows how three years of law school really improved her arguing skills. Then again, no law school in the country really prepares you for the full Rachel Berry assault.
“In fact,” Rachel whispers, moving her lips to Quinn’s ears. “I’m pretty sure those handcuffs are still here somewhere.”
One hand releases Quinn’s for a moment before the grip is readjusted and Rachel has both hands gripped together under her one, the other scrambling under the covers of their bed searching for something.
Quinn closes her eyes and swallows, presses her chest closer to Rachel and enjoys the way arousal makes her head swim.
When she hears the telltale click of the handcuffs she stole from Santana last week, her throat goes thick and her eyes snap open.
Rachel chuckles again and smiles at her, the expression somewhere between sexy and completely evil.
Quinn presses her head further into the bed and accepts her fate. She is going to be so late for work today.
--
Close to two hours later, her heels click loudly against the tile floor of her office lobby, her personality changing, shifting with each loud clack that resounds through the space. Here at work it's a different world, a more dangerous one, and she can't afford to be anything but cold, calm, calculating. She pushes memories of the way Rachel looked that morning out of her head, tries not to remember the way she felt, skin against skin, and stamps down the flush that threatens to overtake her when the memory of Rachel's lips down her neck lingers in her mind.
Ryan, her office assistant, hands her a cup of coffee the minute she walks in her office door and starts reading off a stack of pink slips containing her messages. She throws her coat on a hanger and her briefcase on a chair. She lets his voice roll over her, hears the various reminders about court dates and client interviews and watches the rain fall down outside her office window.
Ryan's still talking when a fellow prosecutor, Jared, sticks his head in the door and calls out her name, holding a long, yellow folder towards her.
"Tell me that's not another case you're going to stick on me," Quinn says, eying the folder and nodding her head at Ryan in a silent command to leave. She sets her coffee down on the desk.
Jared steps in the room, smiling at Ryan as he passes before turning back to Quinn. "I just need you to take this one, okay. I can't try it."
Quinn raises an eyebrow, stepping around her desk and walking over to him. "Can't or won't?"
"Quinn," the tall, brown haired man starts.
"Jared," she interrupts, holding up a hand to stop him. "I have a full day today. See that pile on my desk?" She points a finger towards a stack of folders easily a foot high. "That's my caseload. Today."
"It's on Sylvester's docket," Jared explains, looking at her with pleading eyes. "You know she hates me."
"That's really your problem," Quinn argues, crossing her arms and staring him down. "Not mine." A jolt of satisfaction goes through her when she sees her glare working. Staring down a guy over a foot taller than you? Always enjoyable.
Jared puts his arms out, palms up, in a defeated gesture and continues. "The girl is really sweet. I'd feel bad to lose this one and Sylvester likes you. Everyone knows you're the only one with a chance of winning in her courtroom. Come on," he entreats. "Please."
She sighs, eyes the pile on her desk again before looking up into his big eyes. It was true, Judge Sue Sylvester was known for being a menace in the courtroom, a complete abuser of judicial power, but for some reason, the woman had taken a liking to Quinn.
"Fine," she replies, holding out her hand for the file. "Give it to me."
A relieved breath escapes him as the larger man hands the file over and turns to walk out, adjusting his tie as he goes and giving her a dimpled smile. "Thanks, Quinn, you're the best."
"Yeah, yeah," she replies, waiting until he leaves to walk back around her desk and drop the file on the top of it, dropping heavily into her chair.
Strong wind rattles the window behind her as she reaches out for her coffee mug and flips open the file, the front page nearly making her spit liquid across her desk. The coughing sound brings Ryan back into the doorway but she waves him off with a shake of her head and a warning hand, trying to stop choking as she sets her coffee back down on the desk.
It's like falling down a dark, twisty hole and Quinn's head swims as she takes in the contents of the file, the case she just took on. It takes her a good minute before her vision stops wavering and her hand stops shaking.
She picks up the pictures. Brittany, her childhood friend. Roger Pike, known mafia mercenary. A headache starts to creep up her neck, pounding at the base of her skull as she keeps reading all the facts, the trial date, the witness statements. Suddenly, she wonders if Santana knows, scrambles through the sheets to see which officers were assigned the case.
Matt Rutherford and Finn Hudson.
She exhales in relief. The last thing she needs to worry about is her best friend, Santana Lopez, on some vigilante crusade - which is exactly what will happen if Santana finds out.
Quinn twirls a pen around in her fingers, and runs a hand through her hair before dragging it over her face.
It's going to be a long day.
--
A loud, incessant knocking startled her out of sleep as she jerked away from Rachel and squinted at their bedroom door. The noise resounded through the apartment and she let out a confused exhale before turning to find the time, red digits staring at her from over Rachel's shoulder. The clock on the bedside table read 4:15 and she groaned in frustration. Asleep for two hours. Work was going to be awesome tomorrow.
Rachel stirred as the knocking continued, pushing her butt back into Quinn's hips and mumbling in protest. "Door," the brunette let out, her voice half muffled by the pillow.
Quinn chuckled and threw the covers off her legs, sliding out of bed and reaching for a sweatshirt lying on the floor. The pounding continued as she padded barefoot out of their bedroom and down the hallway, headed for the front door.
When she put an eye against the peephole and spotted her best friend, swaying in front of it, she rolled her eyes and swung open the door, Santana nearly falling forward before catching herself.
"What the fuck took so long?" Santana snapped as she stumbled across the threshold and made her way to the living room.
Quinn eyed the bottle of Johnny Walker dangling from her friend's hand with a raised eyebrow. "It's four in the morning," Quinn answered, following Santana into the next room and watching her plop down on the couch.
Then, Santana just stared at her, her head unsteady on her shoulders and Quinn noticed uncharacteristic redness around her friend's eyes, a puffiness to her cheeks and if Quinn didn't know any better she'd say Santana had been crying.
But that couldn't be right. Santana Lopez did not cry.
"I'm a terrible girlfriend," Santana slurred out, letting her head fall against the arm of the couch and swinging her legs up so she was spread across it. "I'm a terrible person."
"What did you do this time?" Quinn asked, assuming this was, as always, about Brittany.
"You're married," Santana breathed out, her voice full of awe and wonder as if she had just realized this.
Both eyebrows went straight up on Quinn's forehead. "Yes," she answered, nodding.
"Married," Santana repeated, shaking her head and pointing the bottle of scotch at Quinn. "Like...married."
Quinn laughed, part amused, part concerned and patted Santana's feet. "You're drunk. I'm going to call Brittany."
At that, Santana shot up off the couch and grabbed Quinn's wrist before the blonde could make it out of the room. "NO," she commanded, her voice low and broken. "Don't call Brittany."
"Okay," Quinn said, drawing out the word. She furrowed her brow as she looked down on her friend, real concern now making its way into her gut. Santana did this every once in awhile - got into an argument with Brittany, found a liquor store, drank half of it, showed up at Quinn's. It was kind of routine. It didn't happen often, just every few months when they got into a particularly bad fight. Quinn would call Brittany who would make her way down to the apartment, collect Santana with a disapproving glare and the two would usually end up starting embarrassing, drunken make up sex in Quinn's front hall.
That's how it went.
Santana asking Quinn not to call Brittany? That didn't happen so much. Quinn had half a mind to do it regardless of how Santana felt.
But then her best friend's face scrunched up and Quinn could see the tears starting, the anger in Santana's shoulders set in and really, this wasn't something she was used to. Santana got angry. All the time. Santana's default for almost any emotional situation was anger. Tears, sadness? Not so much.
"Hey," Quinn whispered, sitting down on the couch next to her friend. "What happened?"
Santana shook her head and looked at Quinn, jaw tight and eyes blurry. "I'm a terrible person," she slurred again, before dropping to the side, her head into Quinn's shoulder as she brought the bottle of scotch up and tipped it against her lips.
A shuffle of footsteps brought her attention towards the hallway to see Rachel standing there, her hair a mess and a look of confusion all over her face. Quinn stared at her over Santana's head and shook her head back and forth, signaling her wife to go back to bed.
Santana handed the bottle of Johnny Walker over to Quinn who took it wordlessly and threw a sip back herself. She could feel disapproval radiating off of Rachel, but the shorter woman merely walked over to the small cabinet on the far wall and pulled out an extra pillow and blanket, brought it back over to the couch and set it down next to Quinn.
A hand reached out and stroked her hair before Rachel leaned down and kissed her forehead. Throughout the whole thing, Santana just leaned into Quinn, stared straight ahead and took almost no notice of Rachel. It really was the most concerning thing of all.
The brunette looked down at Santana for a moment after smiling at Quinn and brought a hand out to touch Santana's cheek. She smiled at the two of them before turning and strolling out of the room.
--
Her phone feels unnaturally heavy in her palm. She flips it open, then closed, and open once more before setting it on her desk. There’s a landline on the corner of her desk and her work phone is sitting on a stack of files. She needs to pick one up, dial the numbers, and talk to Brittany. She needs to do this and yet she’s having trouble getting her fingers to obey the duty.
The file open on her desk has all the numbers she needs, but her brain can’t seem to wrap her head around the information. Aside from the name, date of birth and the picture, everything else on the page seems eerily foreign. A new phone number, a new address and for whatever reason, reading all that information makes it feel like Brittany has a new life. Which, Quinn supposes, is true.
She picks her cell phone up again, sliding her thumb over the keypad until it’s pressing down on the number 5 and holding it until the phone connects. She doesn’t bring the phone to her ear because she knows the call won’t go through, the number’s been disconnected for six months.
Brittany’s old number. She’s never deleted it or taken it off her speed dial. Doing so would have felt way too final, would have felt like it does right now staring at Brittany’s new numbers.
The air conditioner clicks as it goes through its cycle and a strong gust of wind beats against the window behind her. The faint sound of an automated message coming out of the phone reaches her ears so she presses the end button and disconnects the call.
A sigh escapes her as she moves her thumb to 3, presses down and holds, this time actually bringing the phone to her ear to hear the ringing sound down the line.
It takes about four rings before a familiar voice greets her. “Hey,” she breathes out.
“Hi!” Rachel’s voice is bright and cheery and exactly what Quinn needs right now. “Have you seen my Louboutin’s?”
She can hear movement and rustling, presumably because Rachel is scouring one of the various closets in their place. She wracks her brain to try and remember where she last saw the red-soled pumps.
Then, with a pleasant flush a rather heated memory comes. “Did you check under the bed?”
A beat later Rachel laughs. “I don’t know how I forgot that.”
Quinn hums affirmatively down the line and traces her finger over a line in the wood of her desk.
“So what’s up?” Rachel asks, grunting. Quinn can imagine her bending down to pull her shoes out from under the bed.
“Nothing, just saying hi,” Quinn responds, running a hand down her face.
“Yeah?” Rachel pauses. “Everything okay?”
Quinn swallows and lets Rachel’s voice still the shaking in her joints. “Yeah, everything is great. I just miss you.” It’s sentimental and sappy and Quinn kind of feels lame for saying it, but it’s true and she needs the sure foundation that Rachel provides her before she goes about her next task.
“I miss you too, baby,” Rachel replies. “Are you going to be late tonight?”
The question is full of invitation and promise and Quinn can practically see the suggestion on Rachel’s face. “You got plans?”
“Just come home as soon as you can.”
“I will,” Quinn says, eyes closing briefly.
“I love you,” Rachel intones.
“Yeah,” Quinn responds. “Me too.”
“I’ll see you at home,” Rachel says before the line disconnects and Quinn is left listening to a dial tone.
Breathing deeply, she steadies herself and forces confidence into her body. She lets her eyes trace over the file again and finds the new number that will reach Brittany. A number that is new and weird and her fingers stumble over the keys as she tries to type it in.
Brittany picks up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Brittany?” Quinn asks, all confidence rushing out of her.
There’s a silence and all Quinn can hear is the rain against the window behind her before Brittany’s voice comes back on the line, “Quinn?”
The urge to cry is strong and she has to rub a hand over her eyes to stave the tears off, but she hasn’t heard Brittany’s voice in six months and now here she is, recognizing Quinn’s voice like they had only spoken yesterday.
Then again, they had been friends for decades. Quinn’s pretty sure their voices are etched on each other’s hearts. She doesn’t understand how her life ended up like this; she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to being Santana and Quinn without Brittany. Or for that matter - Quinn without Santana and Brittany.
“Hi, Britt,” she says, letting out a long breath.
“Hi,” Brittany replies, full of awe and wonder.
“I’m calling about the case. The burglary,” she clarifies with a small cough. “It came across my desk this morning and I just wanted to go over your statement really quick.”
“How are you?” Brittany asks.
Suddenly derailed, Quinn stalls, the words stuck in her throat. She needs to keep this professional or she thinks she’s going to break apart. Talking to Brittany like they’re just checking up seems wrong.
“I’m fine,” she clips out. “How are you doing?” It’s half work, half personal but she has the sudden urge to make sure one of her closest friends is okay. She was just burgled after all.
“I’m staying with Mike,” Brittany blurts out. “Just for a few days.”
Quinn almost laughs. Really, she almost laughs because she feels like this is six months ago when Brittany ran from Santana’s and stayed at Mike’s apartment for the first few weeks. It’s humorous and terribly depressing all at the same time.
“That’s good,” Quinn says. She pauses, swallows and flicks her nail against the edge of the file. “I’m sorry.”
She means it about the case, about Roger Pike breaking into the studio and taking her stuff but there’s more to it and Quinn’s pretty sure Brittany gets it right away.
“Me too,” Brittany whispers.
Her throat hurts as she swallows and pinches the bridge of her nose against sudden pain. A deep breath and a clearing of the knot in her throat later and Quinn focuses on the case, gets through the conversation as fast as possible.
Stay professional, Quinn Fabray, she tells herself. That’s what you’re good at. Keep your personal life out of your work.
She’s had far too much practice at it, after all.
--
Hours later, the apartment is quiet and empty when she walks in, flapping her jacket out to get rid of the rainwater and setting her umbrella down by the door. Exhaustion runs through her and she feels like she ran a marathon today, fell over, got up and ran one again. She needs to eat and she can almost hear her stomach growl at the prospect, but more than that she wants to sink into her bed, into her wife, and forget this day ever happened.
Forget that she has one best friend recently robbed and the other completely unaware of the fact, probably still at work or sitting in a bar at this very moment.
Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them.
So many secrets. Her life is full of so many secrets.
Talking to Brittany had been strange, and exhausting and she could still feel the sharp stab of pain and guilt that struck her at the sound of her friend's voice. She hasn't seen Brittany in six months, six long months, ever since the blonde up and left Santana. She had left Quinn too.
For a long time after Brittany left, Quinn was mad at Santana, mad at her for not chasing the blonde, for not fixing things, for shoving Brittany out of Quinn's life just as much as her own. A part of her, she thinks, still is. But seeing Santana so broken, so constantly out of sorts, sweeps her anger away into a place of deep, unsettling empathy.
A long, low exhale escapes her as she walks further into the apartment, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight for the office. Rachel is somewhere in the apartment, that much she knows, and as much as Quinn wants to seek her out and forget this day, she needs to get her head on straight first. Rachel will see right through it, will sense the turmoil swirling around in Quinn and she doesn't think she can handle the calm, understanding sympathy she'll get from her wife.
But, as it turns out, Rachel is actually in her office and all plans to avoid her are pretty much destroyed the second she walks in the door.
"Hey!" Rachel exclaims, bright and cheery. "I was just looking for my..." the brunette trailed off as she took in Quinn's expression. "What happened?"
Quinn walks the rest of the way in, throws her briefcase on the desk and shrugs out of her jacket, coming around to kiss Rachel hello on the temple. "Long day."
"Yeah?" Rachel asks, eyes narrowed, skepticism all over her features. "Did you get stuck in court like you thought?"
She thinks about lying, considers it for a long serious moment. She could probably deal with this whole case herself, not have to tell Santana or Rachel. Just get the case tried, bring Brittany's problem to justice, move on. Bringing it all back up right now was going to send their already fragile lives into a tailspin.
But this is Rachel, the human lie detector when it comes to Quinn and she can already feel her palms start to sweat so she just reaches into her briefcase and pulls out the file, handing it over to her wife wordlessly.
Rachel's brows come together in confusion but she takes the file and flips it open, surprise shooting across her face as she reads the contents. It's not strictly ethical, sharing the details of a case like this, but spousal privilege has to count for something.
"Oh my gosh," the other girl breathes. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah," Quinn replies. "I just talked to her."
"Does Santana know?" Rachel looks up from the file, shutting it and throwing it on the desk when she notices Quinn's expression.
"I can't tell her, she'll do something idiotic," Quinn answers.
"Quinn, you have to tell her," Rachel argues.
"No," she continues. "That's a bad idea." Which isn't entirely true, she wants to tell Santana, hates that she has yet another thing to hide from her best friend, but she's still worried, concerned what the news could do. And again, it's not really her place to tell Santana of a case she picked up. It's Rutherford and Hudson's case. She can't just go dump it on Santana. “I can take care of it myself.”
Rachel shakes her head. "She deserves to know, Quinn. This is Brittany we're talking about."
"They're not together anymore," Quinn says, feeling lame. Brittany might have left but Quinn knows probably better than anyone that Santana and Brittany will probably forever be Santana and Brittany no matter physical location.
"If you were Santana and she were you," Rachel responds, stepping up closer to Quinn and lowering her voice. "If I was Brittany, would you think you deserved to know?"
The images slide and switch and all of a sudden Quinn's seeing Rachel's face instead of Brittany's, feeling desperation that wasn't there before. She darts her arm out to wrap around Rachel's waist and tugs her closer, staring down at her wife with sad realization. "I'd kill her if she didn't tell me."
With a knowing grin, Rachel reaches out with both hands, cups Quinn's cheeks in her own and looks straight into her eyes. "The last thing you need right now is another secret between you and Santana."
The blonde swallows, purses her lips and nods.
"I'll tell her." As soon as she figures out how.
--
Quinn leaned forward on her stool, twirling an olive around in her martini and followed Santana's gaze to the dance floor. Blonde hair and long limbs flailed about as Brittany made herself known on the dance floor, Mike having an equally good time next to her. They both watched as the pair continued to dance around each other, legs moving around drunkenly and before they knew it the two were kissing, surrounded by people.
“Brittany’s making out with Mike again,” Quinn said, dryly.
Santana chuckled, shook her head and went back to her drink. “I know.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
It was a frequent argument between the two of them, Quinn still unable to understand Brittany and Santana’s relationship after nearly seven years.
“Brittany makes out with everyone,” Santana said, amused. “Plus, Mike’s gay.”
“I will never understand you,” Quinn said, taking a short sip of her martini before setting it down again.
“What?” Santana replied, never taking her eyes of Brittany.
“You’ll punch out a guy for so much as looking at her, scratch the eyes out of any girl that dare ask her out, but you’ll let a close friend of hers stick his tongue down her throat on the dance floor and not so much as muster up a glare?”
“It’s me she comes home with.” Santana shrugged, smiled at Quinn. “I can share.”
A laugh burst out of Quinn. “You so cannot. I’m shocked they let you out of kindergarten.”
“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” Santana said, but she was smiling.
“I’m just saying. Of all the things you don’t share well,” Quinn started. “And that’s a long list, you’re terrible at sharing Brittany.”
Santana shrugged again. “It’s not like he’s going to take her away from me. She’s a good kisser. She can do what she wants.”
“She is,” Quinn agreed before she could stop herself. “I remember,” she mumbled.
It was quick and barely noticeable but Santana’s mood shifted in an instant. “Rewind.”
“Huh?” Quinn feigned ignorance once she realized what she revealed, tried to wipe her face of any emotion.
“You remember what?” Santana turned to face her and glared, putting on a face Quinn was well familiar with, the one that said Quinn better fess up before Santana smacks her.
“I kissed Brittany once. In your bedroom. When we were in high school. We broke that LFO CD you liked so much when she pushed me onto the bed,” she shot out, the words coming out in short tumbles, saying way more than she probably needed to.
“You broke my LFO CD?!” Santana nearly shouted, both eyebrows high on her forehead.
Quinn jerked back. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”
“I fucking loved that CD!”
It’s not that Quinn was disappointed that Santana was definitely focusing on the more innocent part of her confession, it was more that she was afraid maybe Santana hadn’t actually heard her.
“You got the part where I kissed Brittany, right?”
Santana waved her off. “Yeah, I knew that already.”
It was Quinn’s turn to feel shock and indignation. “What do you mean you already knew?!”
“Brittany made out with everyone in high school, do you really think you were safe from that?” Santana crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a hip against the bar. “Especially with that hilarious gay panic crisis you had back then. Britt’s a fixer, what can I say?”
Quinn opened her mouth to answer but when no words came out she snapped it shut, looking to where Brittany was still dancing around Mike out on the dance floor.
“Yeah,” Santana continued. “Britt and I don’t exactly keep secrets.” It was said low and pointed in a way Quinn knew was an admonishment.
She sighed, turned to look at her friend. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Which part, kissing my girlfriend or keeping it from me for years?”
“The second part,” Quinn answers. “Well I guess the first part too.”
Santana picked her drink up and took a sip before speaking again. “You didn’t have to hide it from me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been mad.”
Quinn lifted an eyebrow at her. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Okay, maybe for like a day. But I would have gotten over it,” Santana admitted. “Like I said, Britt makes out with everyone. You really think I would have disowned you over something stupid like that?”
“Well,” Quinn said after a beat feeling like maybe she should apologize but not really knowing what’s going on.
“It’s fine, Q,” Santana chuckled and Quinn knew her friend’s good mood was half the vodka cranberry next to her hand and half that she could see Brittany coming off the dance floor and making their way towards them. “Secrets are dumb though, especially stupid ones like that. We’re best friends, you should tell me that shit.”
Quinn nodded, let out a low exhale. “My bad.”
“Just don’t do it again,” Santana warned, leaning close to her friend. “Kiss her, I mean.”
Quinn scrunched her forehead up in confusion. “I will never understand you,” she said, almost laughing again. “This is easily the sixteenth time she’s made out with Mike.”
“You’re hotter than Mike,” Santana said, winking as Brittany bounced over to them, practically flew into Santana and pressed an indecently hot kiss to her mouth.
“Hey, babe,” Santana greeted, smiling up at her girlfriend.
Brittany leaned over and whispered something in Santana’s ear that made her break out into a massive grin and tighten the grip she had around Brittany’s waist.
Quinn rolled her eyes and smiled at Mike before lifting her martini to her lips.
--
Quinn slides her glasses off and drops them on her desk, the frames making a soft thud as they hit the stack of papers there. She rubs her eyes absently, trying to will away her headache and listens to the sound of rain hitting the glass window to her left. It's a comforting sound and for a few minutes she lets it wash over her, nearly falling asleep.
The file open on top of the pile stares up at her, the pictures and words seared into her brain with how many times she's read it over the past three days.
Roger Pike. Organized crime. The monster that lives in her closet, the enemy she feels like she's been fighting all her life.
And then worse. Her best friend's ex-girlfriend. One of her closest childhood friends. Victim of a robbery.
She stares at the picture of Brittany through her fingers, letting her eyes focus in and out on the blonde's face. It had been six months since she had last seen Brittany and even though it was Brittany that left it kind of felt like Santana had too. She barely saw her anymore, her best friend lost in a haze of work and alcohol and nicotine.
A heavy gust of air blows out of her and she tries to prepare herself for the night ahead. She has to tell Santana, has to tell her tonight, but a part of her doesn't want to at all. A big part really, because she has no idea what the news will do to her friend, what kind of reaction she'll have, but knowing Santana Lopez, it won't be good.
She runs her fingers purposefully over the papers spread out across her desk until they hit one that feels different from the others, a smooth glossy front with straight, sharp edges and she pulls it out from underneath her case files, stuck there from when she had stuffed it in with all the contents of her briefcase.
Her eyes roam the hazy picture, looking more like a collection of blurred lines and black blobs than anything else but she sees her future in it, her whole world, and everything good about her dark, tainted existence. Her chest tightens up but she breathes easy, letting hope run through her quick and hurried before she can stop it. These days, the picture is one of the few things that makes Quinn feel happiness, free and easy.
The office door clicks open and the smell of warm food wafts in as Rachel leans against the open door and observes her. She can hear the muffled sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs floating in from their living room.
"Hey you," the brunette says, smiling at her affectionately.
Quinn, drops the picture back on the desk, pushes back and leans into her chair, letting her head fall back against the leather. "Hey," she greets, smiling softly in return.
Rachel saunters over to her desk after she slides the door shut again and Quinn lets her eyes roam up her wife's legs, exposed by the completely indecent, short, mouth-watering skirt Rachel is currently sporting. She feels her smile turn up at the view and lets thoughts of the real world flow out of her in favor of the sight of the ridiculously attractive brunette, now perched on her desk.
Quinn runs her hand up a smooth leg and smiles up at Rachel. "Nice skirt," she comments.
A prim, but knowing smile comes across Rachel's face as the shorter girl crosses her legs and places a heeled foot in Quinn's lap. "Thanks," she says.
"You're welcome," Quinn replies, tugging off her wife's shoe and running her thumbs up the arch of Rachel's foot.
"We have guests," Rachel chastises, both for the look of intent Quinn knows is on her face and for the way Quinn has been holed up in her office since the party started.
"I know," Quinn breathes out, running one hand up Rachel's calf and squeezing the muscle.
Rachel looks over her shoulder to the desk she’s leaning against and Quinn watches a bright smile light up her face at the conspicuous black standing out amongst the files, and for a moment, Quinn’s world feels simple and easy and amazing. But then her wife’s eyebrow arches up as she recognizes the file lying open on the desk. "Have you told her?"
The foot in her hand presses forward and down, the heel digging into her thigh when she doesn't answer. "Quinn," Rachel admonishes. "I thought you said you were going to tell her."
"I was, I am," Quinn says, sighing and leaning back farther into her chair. She rolls her eyes at Rachel's doubtful expression. "I'll tell her tonight."
Rachel's lips form a thin line and she grabs her shoe out of Quinn's grasp, slipping it back on and sliding off the desk. "I'm sending her straight back here, Quinn Fabray. Tell her," she orders.
Quinn's tried to tell her over a dozen times the past few days, each time the words getting lost in the back of her throat, unable to say them aloud. Most likely, tonight won't be any different. But she can see the resolve in Rachel's face, the unspoken threat that if she didn't do as she was told there'd be serious issues.
She feels a little anger come bubbling up, a natural reaction to being bossed around but it's also part fear, part worry, part dread. She pushes it down. Getting mad at her wife right now, picking a fight to avoid the harsh reality she knows faces her is a coward's choice.
"I will," Quinn replies, jaw clenched and voice determined. "Send her back when she gets here."
Rachel drops a long kiss on Quinn's forehead, and lingers there for a moment, but before she can break away and leave, Quinn grabs her wrist, and tugs downward so that Rachel falls unceremoniously into her lap, yelping in surprise.
“Guests,” Rachel reminds her as Quinn runs a hand up her smooth, tan thigh and reaches up to kiss her.
“They’ll survive without you for five minutes,” Quinn retorts, running a nail up Rachel’s skirt, tracing toned muscle.
Rachel’s eyes glaze over, her hands come up to tangle in blonde hair and Quinn knows she’s won. Her wife is so easy these days, and she means that in the best way possible.
“Make it ten,” Rachel whispers, closing the space between them and smashing their mouths together.
--
When she finally tells Santana, the worst part is definitely the way Santana's face pales, the way her eyes go blank, and the air of indifference she tries to project. It's all so sad, bleak, and depressing and Quinn really wants to make it go away but has no idea how to do it.
She watches as her friend turns her gaze to the glass of scotch Quinn just handed her, moves it back and forth in her hand and tries to act nonchalant. “Good for her. That’s really not my problem anymore.”
Quinn shakes her head because Santana might be able to deny a lot of things, but this, this is just the truth, unshakable and constant.
So she leans forward and throws a hand on top of the glass Santana is holding, forces her friend to make eye contact. “Santana,” she starts, low and certain. “You were together since you were thirteen. She will always be your problem.”
It sits there, in the silence, and Quinn can see the way Santana swallows, the way her eyes start to glaze over and the tension all throughout her body. She hates it, wants to take it back, all of a sudden.
The words seem to sink in and soon after Santana is pulling the glass away, throwing the rest of her scotch back, uttering a low thanks and standing up, heading for the door.
This is the part she was concerned about, the part where Santana leaves and does something ridiculous, like get way too drunk, like punch a wall, like find Brittany and make an ass of herself. "Where are you going?"
"I gotta get out of here," Santana replies, trying to sound flippant but failing.
Quinn knows Santana.
"Santana," Quinn tries.
Santana turns around to look at her, looking lost and exhausted. "I'm just tired, Q. Really. I'm fine."
It's only half a lie but Quinn can see the absence of calm rage, the biggest tip when it comes to Santana doing something asinine. "Don't do anything stupid."
"Like what?"
Quinn raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. As if Quinn wasn't there the last time Santana got piss drunk over Brittany and threw a tequila bottle at a wall, or the time she punched out that hot dog vendor on 7th street. "You know what."
"Whatever," Santana throws over her shoulder, making her way to the door and exiting the office.
--
It takes a good five minutes before Quinn can leave the office, five minutes spent fingering her glass of scotch and staring at the case file in front of her. Roger Pike. Organized crime. Brittany. Involved even tangentially with the mafia. Dread seeps through her and a dark, ominous feeling creeps up her spine for the hundredth time in the last few days. Nothing good is going to come of this, she knows it.
She takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself, put on a new face so she can go out and face the party - she's been rude enough as it is, staying in her office like a loner recluse. Three steps towards the door, halfway through straightening her clothes out and Rachel's throwing the door open, stepping inside and shutting it behind her.
"Santana just took off with Puck," she starts, walking towards Quinn to meet her in the middle of the room.
"I told her," Quinn says.
"I figured."
"She's going to go do something stupid now," Quinn replies, half a chuckle coming out under her breath.
"That's what Santana does," Rachel says, winding her arms around Quinn's waist and arching upward to press their mouths together. "Don't worry so much."
"Yeah I guess," she answers, hooking her arms around Rachel's neck and pulling their bodies in closer together.
"It's going to be okay, baby. I promise," Rachel intones, whispered and low against Quinn's lips.
It's a warm feeling, having someone reassuring her that it would be okay, that she didn't have to worry, to know that no matter what, Rachel would be there, day in and day out. But Quinn can't stamp down the tendril of doubt wrapping itself around her, the fear that this is only the beginning and she just sent her best friend out to do God knows what. She wants to believe Rachel, wants to let the worry bleed out of her but she can't because there's a part of her that's certain. It's not going to be okay. Not for a while.
It’s not going to be okay because she just opened an old wound, split it wide open and watched it fester on her best friend’s face. Just unleashed that tornado of pain and anger on the world, and she sat back while it brewed in her own office and then blew out. She can almost see Santana now, walking down the street towards Rick’s, throwing back shots of tequila, pain mixing with rage until one isn’t distinguishable from another. Then calm. The scary calm Santana always gets when she’s made a decision, channeling her emotion into action.
The urge to bolt after her, to pull her friend back inside, ripples through her, makes her pull Rachel closer and swallow dryly against the feeling, her stomach turning over despite itself.
So instead of answering, instead of agreeing with her wife and smiling, she slants her lips against Rachel's again, grips her hands in long brown hair and forgets everything but the way Rachel feels and tastes and sounds before breaking apart after a long, hot minute.
"Let's get back to the party," she suggests, disengaging from Rachel and tugging her out of the office.
Rachel looks like she doesn't buy it, like she's going to protest, but they run into guests before the shorter girl can say another word.
Quinn smiles, forces her body to be loose and easy as she mingles, but the unsettling feeling in her gut sits there like a heavy brick. She thinks Rachel’s hand, gripping tightly to her own, is the only think stopping her from running out the door.
Part Two