fic: as you mean to go on
Title: as you mean to go on
Pairing: Quinn/Brittany
Rating: T
Spoilers: up to 4x09
Summary: Quinn's starting a new program in a new city when she runs into an old friend. They learn a lot about themselves and life just in time for the new year.
Yale had been good to Quinn. She branched out, met new people who hadn’t known she’d gotten knocked up or that her “perfect” high school relationship was just an obstacle to a cliché teen romance. She learned to have mature ideas about (safe) sex and had it often. Even though classes were hard and the concept of free time was something of a joke for at least forty percent of the school year, she had time enough to truly think about what she wanted. She’d been a member of the undergraduate Theatre Studies program for approximately half a semester before she realized that she was way too practical a person for a career in the performing arts. THST 110-111: a Survey of Theater and Drama, the prerequisite for the subsequent courses in the major, was a fairly enjoyable course but it became readily apparent that the other students in the class had a far deeper connection with the stage than she was ever likely to. In that way, they reminded her of Rachel Berry, overly eager, amazingly talented, and unashamedly irritating.
She would have done well as an actress; she’d performed flawlessly for the first sixteen years of her life and had then executed a few encores until she left Lima and stopped giving a damn about what anyone thought of her. But she didn’t have the fire for it. The first time she’d put on an informal skit for the class, there had been a rush, heady and tingly. Her heart raced and her hands shook just slightly enough to reveal that she was still capable of being nervous after all. But even though it had felt great to sink into the words and actions and emotions of a timeless character, it was no different than the feeling she got from leading the Cheerios or from her first oral presentation in her French class. Quinn liked commanding a room and performing in front of people, but that didn’t make her an actual performer.
One other factor marked the death of Quinn’s theatrical career. On a whim, she registered for an upper level economics class at the suggestion of her RA with whom she’d engaged in a heated discussion about the healthcare system just prior to the 2012 election. Health Economics and Public Policy was supposedly the best class offered to non-majors and was taught by one of the most engaging professors in the department. Still undecided and cognizant of exactly how much money Yale cost per credit, she’d tried it out and fell in love. The combination of manipulation and practicality required for business suited her to the ground as did the competitive gauntlet of on-campus recruiting once the hunt for summer internships started in earnest. Quinn Fabray was nothing if not ambitious and she secretly liked being able to measure her accomplishments by a widely accepted standard.
That's how she ends up graduating summa cum laude with an acceptance to the Healthcare Management program at Wharton and also how she finds herself in her current situation, slowly freezing to death while she waits for a tow truck. In her parents’ divorce, it had been stipulated that her father would pay for her college expenses. Russell had apparently felt enough remorse for throwing her out onto the street that he’d extended the arrangement to cover her MBA as well. That generosity, however, stopped just short of paying for a new car so Quinn drove the same secondhand beater her mother had driven to throughout the final two years of her high school career. It had been driven from Lima to New Haven and had somehow made it down to Philadelphia. The heat didn’t work and the radio was stuck on AM, but it ran. The pitiful machine made into University City before it sputtered out just past the I-76 off ramp. According to the map, her position on South Street is just a few minutes from campus and her new apartment.
Quinn has just called Triple A and is peering under the hood to pass the time when she hears a low whistle from behind her. Used to catcalls from entitled jerks at Yale, she ignores it until something connects firmly with her backside. Whirling around with her fist cocked back, she’s immediately grabbed up by strong, wiry arms. Before panic can set in, she recognizes the blue eyes and the airy chuckle.
“Brittany?”
“Hi Quinn! I knew it was you. I’d recognize that,” she says gesturing towards Quinn’s ass, “anywhere.”
Ignoring the lecherous smirk on her face, Quinn embraces her friend in earnest. Brittany squeezes her tightly and it reminds Quinn that she always gave the best hugs and lessens her frustration with the current turn of events. Brittany stays with her until the tow truck comes and rides with them to Quinn’s apartment. It’s a tight squeeze in the cab with Quinn forced to sit halfway in Brittany’s lap, but it’s more comfortable than awkward when Brittany starts enthusiastically divulging the details of her life.
Brittany is apparently a jack-of-all-trades now, having worked as a dog walker, a telemarketer, a bartender, a courier and a dance instructor. She is currently an assistant at the University’s veterinary hospital. Each position comes with a humorous anecdote that from anyone else would be an exaggeration but from Brittany is undoubtedly true. When she tells Quinn about the time she’d been rollerblading while walking a St. Bernard and they’d both ended up in the Logan Circle fountain, Quinn laughs so hard her sides ache. The steady stream of chatter continues as Quinn retrieves her key from the mailbox and enters her new apartment for the first time. As much as she tries not to show it, she’s glad Brittany is here. It’s been a while since she talked to someone who she didn’t need to impress or who wasn’t trying to prove they were the smartest person in the room; someone who just talked because they were happy and wanted to share it.
Once Brittany feels they’ve properly appreciated her high ceilings and miniscule backyard, she drags Quinn down the stairs and insists on buying her dinner. They go to Allegro’s, which is the place to get pizza on campus. She orders and pays and leads Quinn around in that pushy way Quinn recognizes but has never been on the receiving end of before. There isn’t time to dwell on it because Allegro’s sells beer and pretty soon they’re toasting to everything under the sun and laughing at the drunk undergraduates stumbling in to load up on carbs. Hours later, when she has eaten more than she physically thought possible and Brittany offers up her couch so Quinn won’t have to deal with unpacking her bedding tonight, they walk arm in arm to Brittany’s building, a square beige structure amongst a block of square beige structures that looks out of place with the rest of the neighborhood. They’ve barely pulled out the sofa bed before Quinn undresses and collapses onto it, exhausted from the stress and the drive and the food and the alcohol.
___
Brittany likes this new Quinn. Not that she didn’t love old-Quinn, but this one is easier to be around. Maybe new isn’t the right word. Quinn’s still the same serious, quietly judgmental girl she’s known since age fourteen, but she seems looser somehow. Brittany doesn’t know if she’s finally happy, happy in the way she deserves, but she’s definitely way less unhappy. Her smiles are both more genuine and more frequent. Her hair is long again like it was when they met, but her eyes are brighter and unsad in a way Brittany has never seen before. Brittany decides to call her hybrid-Quinn when she looks in on her the next morning. She still sleeps curled up in a ball as if she doesn’t have the entire mattress to herself but is wearing the kind of underwear that would have been deemed way too scandalous a few years ago. Brittany is curious to learn what had changed for Quinn over the years, almost as curious as she is to see if her panties match that deliciously sinful lace bra.
Catching that train of thought before it can leave the station, she prods Quinn awake. Brittany is sure Quinn will be much less of a fan of her empty apartment today when she fully appreciates how much effort it’s going to take to make it not-empty. She’s also probably going to want to do something with the depressing brown paint in the bedroom. Today is Brittany’s last day off for a while so if she’s going to help, they’re going to need to get started soon. Sitting on the arm of the couch, she pokes Quinn in the shoulder a few times before running her fingers through her hair. She really is glad Quinn kept it long. As much as that haircut junior year had been symbolic in a good way, Brittany much preferred Quinn’s hair in long golden waves. Gradually, the shuffling below leads to stretching, which leads to Quinn sitting up and frowning at Brittany. The way her eyes narrow in a half glare, half pout is so reminiscent of teenage sleepovers that Brittany bursts out laughing. It turns out grumpy morning-Quinn is someone that will never truly go away.
“Hey sleepyhead. Ready to go home?”
“Why?” Quinn croaks, “It’s Sunday. Do you have to be somewhere?”
“Yep. I’m freelancing as a mover-slash-painter today. That is, I would be, if my client stopped being so lazy.”
It takes a little longer than it should for Quinn to put it together, but when it clicks, a shy smile escapes and she squeezes Brittany’s knee.
“Thanks, Britt. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.” She's stretching again, causing the covers to fall even lower around her waist and doing nothing to dampen Brittany’s urge for scientific inquiry. Brittany goes to finish getting ready herself, more than a little impressed that Quinn still seems to be in top Cheerio condition even if she’s still hiding it under those old lady dresses.
___
Between the two of them, they get everything into the apartment by early afternoon. The sheer amount of belongings Quinn managed to fit into the station wagon have them both sweating through their T shirts even against the early winter chill. By the time they’re done, a slight line of perspiration runs down Brittany’s back and Quinn has more than once noticed the way her biceps strain when she climbs the stairs carrying twice as much as Quinn on each trip.
The apartment comes furnished with a few things: a dining room table, built in bookcases, and an oak dresser that is probably older than both of them combined, but it’s largely free for Quinn to style as she sees fit. She picks up the mattress and bed frame she’d ordered and Brittany sweet-talks her neighbor into helping them move it and put it together. Peter is a handsome guy with caramel colored skin and deep dimples. He’s helpful and charming and seems like a really nice guy but for the way he’s flirting with Brittany. For some reason, it’s setting Quinn on edge. She busies herself putting books away while Brittany “helps” Peter assemble the bed frame. Her assistance consists of sitting on a stack of crates and attempting to read the non-English instructions on the reverse side of the manual. Once the bed is properly put together, Peter excuses himself saying he has to run to work. Quinn can’t remember what he said he does and feels a little guilty for not being as friendly as her upbringing dictates. She resolves to invite him over when everything is settled. He is her neighbor after all.
Quinn had hoped painting her bedroom would be a simple task; a few coats and then maybe crashing in the living room to give it time to fully dry. What she doesn’t count on is Brittany’s involvement. They argue over the color in the middle of the paint store as if Brittany is the one who has to live with it. Quinn vetoes a bright yellow and an insanely violent green but gives in to a light teal since Brittany is so adamant that she can’t paint her walls plain white. Her correction that it’s actually eggshell falls on deaf ears. The process of painting itself moves quickly with four hands. So quickly that Quinn isn’t even upset that the large amount of paint on her clothes and skin had only partially gotten there by accident. She feels better about the two blue handprints on her ass when she gives up attempting to be mature and just swipes her paint roller across Brittany’s midsection and runs away before she can retaliate.
Brittany goes home to shower and by the time Quinn has changed, she’s back with Chinese and a bottle of tequila. The idea of mixing those two already has her stomach in knots, but she’s starving and she knows she’s going to drink if only to celebrate finally getting all the paint out of her hair. This is the second night she’s spent with Brittany in a row and the second night she’s gotten tipsy. She’d be concerned if she weren’t having so much fun. It took her a long time to not be paranoid about alcohol, but here in her own home with one of her oldest friends she has no issues with letting loose.
Looking back, she’ll later realize that everything starts when Brittany wants to play a game. With just the two of them, options are limited; it’s hard to play Kings or Mafia with just two people. They settle on “Truth or Dare” which quickly turns into “Dare or Dare”, each task more outrageous than the last. Her favorite is making Brittany go coning at the McDonald’s down the block. Brittany decides not to waste the perfectly good ice cream and happily finishes it on the way back.
“Truth or Dare?” Brittany asks, wiping her hands on one of the good bath towels since Quinn hasn’t gotten around to unpacking the regular ones. She leans forward, mischief clear on her face and Quinn can practically see her brain working to come up with an even better dare so she takes the easy way out.
“Truth.”
“I dare you to - wait what?”
“I pick truth.”
Brittany’s face falls just a little and it almost makes Quinn want to take it back. Almost.
“What was your first sexual fantasy?”
“Excuse me?” Quinn chokes a little on her drink and Brittany’s grin widens to Cheshire proportions.
“Your first sexual fantasy, ever. And I want details.”
Quinn considers lying or begging out of the game since it’s late, but the combination of pride and tequila running through her system won’t let her commit such a dishonor. She takes a deep breath and prepares to share something she’s never told anyone.
“Freshman year, I had to go see the athletic trainer after Cheerio practice because my shoulder was acting up. By the time I finished, I expected the locker room to be empty. It wasn’t. You were there, with Santana.”
She hopes that’s enough for Brittany to connect the dots, but she’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at Quinn expectantly.
“Since then, I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Kissing another girl.”
Brittany falls silent and Quinn wonders if she just made it awkward. She’s replaying everything when Brittany moves forward to where Quinn is sitting on the couch. She presses in between her knees and leans up until their faces are about an inch apart. Her hands are firm on Quinn’s thighs but her eyes are hesitant like she’s asking a question. Tomorrow, Quinn will blame her actions on the drinks or on the way Brittany is so warm and still smells like ice cream, but when she finally connects their mouths and Brittany smiles against her lips, she isn’t thinking of anything past how this kiss feels even better than she imagined.
___
The MBA program isn’t really that intense right now, so Quinn still has a lot of free time on her hands. She spends the better part of her first week in town scouring secondhand furniture stores and catching up with Brittany, sometimes both at the same time. The way Brittany acts as if no time has passed since they last saw each other four Thanksgivings ago makes Quinn feel that much worse for not keeping in touch. She eventually makes nice with Peter, who it turns out is a total sweetheart when he isn’t eyeing her best friend. Out of the blue, he brings over an absolutely divine apple crumble made from his grandmother’s secret recipe. After that small gesture and the subsequent sugar shock, Quinn decides to have him over more often. The three of them hit it off and it’s always great to have someone around for the heavy lifting as well as the heavy baking. Once Brittany is satisfied that Quinn is quite capable of looking after herself, they establish a routine of brunches, movie nights, alternating museum visits (Quinn) and random attractions (Brittany) that occur at least once a week.
Possibly the worst (and yet also best) thing about Brittany is that she somehow became a responsible adult while remaining utterly impulsive. One can still never guess exactly what she’ll do or say or, Quinn is noticing, when she’ll turn up. Brittany doesn’t have a key to her apartment. Giving her one in case of emergencies is not outside the realm of possibilities, but it has not yet happened. So when something flops down on her bed while she’s sleeping, Quinn nearly has a heart attack. In her rush to escape, she gets tangled up in her blankets and tumbles off the side of the bed. Righting herself and grabbing the lamp to bludgeon her assailant, she’s ready to strike when a familiar voice gives her pause.
Brittany is sitting in the middle of her bed digging into a bag of doughnuts, laughing at her. Quinn tells herself its the bacon sandwich for her and the related coffee sitting on the nightstand that keeps her from yelling, especially given that those are powered doughnuts and she just washed her sheets. But deep down she admits that she’s always happy to see Brittany, even very early on a Sunday when time could better be spent sleeping. If she were really doling out truths to herself, she’d acknowledge that she’s disappointed whenever Brittany isn’t around to poke fun at her and drag her into things. That her desire to devour her own bacon and cheese sandwich pales in comparison with her wish to lean over and kiss away the small amount of jelly that makes Brittany’s lower lip shine with sticky sweetness. A pink tongue beats her to it and snaps her out of her staring.
“So what do you want to do today?”
Quinn laughs because that’s exactly the type of thing Brittany would ask.
“I don’t know. You woke me up, remember?”
“Someone had to. You take daily hibernation to the next level.” Brittany shifts to sit next to Quinn against the headboard. “I’ll make you a deal. It’s first Sunday so the art museum is free today. We can go and see the new exhibits if you come on a run with me and we do the steps like Rocky.”
___
Quinn doesn’t mind the run. It had been a staple of her life in high school and a habit she’s kept since then. Becoming more comfortable in her own skin and having a baby resulted in a healthier relationship with food than her 14-year-old self had, but she still knows that Lucy is lurking just around the corner, ready to capitalize on any lapse in vigilance. What is extremely discomfiting is entering one of the most prestigious art museums in the country sweaty and underdressed. She really hadn’t considered that part when Brittany had smiled her out of bed and into an old McKinley hoodie and a pair of track pants. Now she’s fairly certain she’s being judged by an elderly woman out “culturing” grandchildren who look anything but enthused. She’s debating turning around and coming back appropriately dressed when the attendant waves them forward. They collect the little pins the museum issues to visitors and Brittany pouts when she sees that they’re orange instead of green. The old woman is still eyeing them but Brittany shoves Quinn lightly and laces their fingers together and pretty much everything else fades away.
Brittany spends quite a lot of time in the abstract expressionism galleries, which is unsurprising. What is shocking is that for once Quinn goes to a museum and doesn’t become enthralled by the exhibits. Usually, she blocks out any and all distractions, including paid tour guides, but today her mind is on something else. Something simultaneously light-years away from any painting or photograph and yet close enough to reach out and touch. Someone. She trails through the Fernand Leger exhibition knowing that this artist had a huge hand in developing the Pop art movement and in practically redefining painting as a medium. She knows this is a perfect juxtaposition of classic technique and popular culture, but she can’t truly focus on anything more than the hand tangled with hers and the cheery presence beside her. She spends more time watching Brittany’s reactions than actually seeing anything.
Everything is suddenly Brittany, Brittany, Brittany and Quinn is overwhelmed. Nothing in her life prepared her for what it was like to have the full attention of someone like her. She feels like Peter, like Artie and Sam, even like Santana. All the people who’d been charmed speechless by Brittany’s beauty and openness. At the time, she’d been cynical of their feelings and maybe even a little jealous of her friend, but feeling the full effect of that blazing magnetism leaves her stunned and just wanting more. She’ll never be able to completely experience what it’s like to really be with Brittany and have that radiance spill over onto her, but with Brittany contendedly swinging their joined hands between them like that, she thinks she might try. There’s no alcohol to blame out in the sculpture garden when she yanks Brittany towards her and rather aggressively attacks her mouth. The main installation, aptly entitled Lips, is so bold and colorful and whimsical and it reminds Quinn so much of the girl next to her that she just can’t help herself.
___
Brittany isn’t expecting Quinn to kiss her and certainly not so forcefully, but she thinks it makes sense. She’s a great kisser and Quinn is pretty awesome too, so obviously she isn’t against practicing. They break apart and their shared breath mists in the chilly December air. They’re still in gym clothes and are shivering into each other, but that isn’t what’s important here. Brittany honestly thought Quinn had forgotten about their night of Truths and Dares but this kiss is evidence to the contrary. The way Quinn bites her lip says she’s been thinking about it a lot. Most importantly, it opens up the door for many future kisses.
___
It's decided they’ll drive back to Lima together and that they’ll get a rental since neither wants to chance it with Quinn’s ancient vehicle. They leave just before midnight so they won’t have to deal with traffic and will arrive during the day. Quinn thinks that just means they’ll crash upon arrival and ruin their internal clocks, but that’s the way Brittany always does it so she just goes along with the plan. The rental is a midsize sedan with more than enough room for them and their suitcases and presents and a vast excess space that’s begging to be filled with snacks so they stop at the Wal-Mart on the way out of town to stock up. Brittany’s side of the cart is filled with sugary candy and pop while Quinn has about a dozen apples and a few bottles of water. The way Quinn frowns at Brittany’s choices is almost too adorable for words. Brittany makes sure to buy the 48 box of Pop-Tarts just to scandalize her even more.
Quinn insists on driving and Brittany thinks it might be her way of creating a distraction. She’s been acting a little weird lately. They still hang out a lot and talk and text nearly everyday, but something is off. Its really puzzling because Brittany knows they haven’t had a fight even though with Quinn, sometimes you don’t know you’re fighting until she wins and you just have to deal with the aftermath. She knows Quinn isn’t angry with her or anything, but something is definitely wrong and its confusing the hell out of her. She doesn’t quite know how to bring it up but there’s no way she can ignore it. Brittany has seen what ignoring things will do to a perfectly good friendship. But she also knows that Quinn has to be approached just right or she’ll shut down completely and that would be the opposite of a fun road trip.
Everything goes fine for a few hours with Quinn driving while Brittany makes a mildly respectable dent in the food. Even she’ll admit that they packed for more like 9 days than 9 hours, though. When they aren’t talking about nothing, they’re singing along to the radio. She hasn’t been able to get Quinn to embrace hip-hop and house as acceptable genres for driving, but they’ve found common ground with a mix of top-40 hits and classic rock. It reminds Brittany of Glee Club; especially the way Quinn smiles her special happy smile when one of her favorites comes on.
Once they hit Breezewood though, the smile disappears and Brittany feels like an idiot for not realizing this would happen. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is probably the worst stretch of road in the country. It’s narrow and poorly graded and literally cuts through the mountains in such a way that there are places where the road pretty much just drops off into a black abyss. Every twist has Quinn driving slower and slower until Brittany could probably run faster. She’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white and she practically vibrates with tension. It’s clear that she’s never driven this road before. Brittany realizes then that Mrs. Fabray drove her to Yale and she flew home for the holidays and then just drove down to Philadelphia. Quinn had no idea what to expect. And really, the worst hasn’t even happened yet. She’s calling herself ten kinds of stupid when a truck comes speeding out of one of the tunnels and Quinn actually flinches.
“Quinn,” she murmurs, turning the radio down. “Honey, why don’t you pull over and I’ll drive.”
She’s not sure if its OK to touch Quinn right now so she just sits quietly until the car turns into the next rest stop. As soon as the engine is off, she’s out of the car and rounding to the driver’s side. Brittany pulls open the door and lets Quinn fall into her arms. She knows that later they won’t mention the way Quinn is trembling or she how has a stranglehold on Brittany for a good ten minutes. It’s one of those things that just doesn’t really have to acknowledged, like how even though it’s possibly even less safe than letting Quinn drive, Brittany holds her hand over the center console until they come down out of the mountains and cross the state line just as the sun comes over the horizon behind them.
___
Whether it’s by fate or by design, Brittany only sees Quinn once while they’re in Lima. The day after Christmas, they meet at Schoonover Park and walk around the pond. It has snowed nearly a foot since they’ve been there and Brittany is kicking it up in frosty plumes at every opportunity. They’ve made it to the observatory before they finally get around to exchanging gifts. Brittany pulls out the rectangular box she’d been awkwardly hiding in her jacket and hands it to Quinn, unsure why she’s nervous. It’s a great gift. The wrapping paper is gently removed and neatly folded because obviously; it's Quinn. It takes only a minute before a little squeal slips out of her and Brittany breathes a sigh of relief.
“You got me the other four books.”
“Yep. Your collection is now complete.”
When they’d finally unpacked the last of Quinn’s stuff they’d noticed they share A Wrinkle in Time as one of their favorite books. Quinn somehow didn’t know there were four other books featuring the Murry family and it seemed like a pretty big sign to Brittany. It was pretty rare to be able to get someone something that they both wanted and needed. And Quinn needed those books. A Swiftly Tilting Planet had always been Brittany’s favorite anyway. She was looking forward to talking with Quinn about it, watching her come alive as she got into it. So really, it was for both of them. The bashful little face Quinn makes when she reaches into her own bag is enough to be a gift in and of itself, but she comes up with this lumpy package wrapped in shiny silver paper. Unlike Quinn’s, this paper is not removed gracefully.
“Mittens! Score. Did you make these?”
“Well...you’ve lost 3 pairs of gloves in the last month. I figured it would save you some money if you didn’t have to by more. There’s a blue pair and a purple pair, for variety.”
“Aww. Quinn this is the best.” Brittany says, pulling on one mitten of each color. “But you know what would be better?”
At Quinn’s raised eyebrow, she tosses the other two gloves into her hands and takes a few steps back.
“Put those on.”
“Why? I made them for-“
The snowball hits Quinn square in the mouth. Like part of it actually goes in her mouth while it was open so now she’s spitting snow onto the ground. There’s a more than fifty percent chance Quinn will get angry, but Brittany is too busy cackling to check. That’s how Quinn gets her on the side of the neck with a particularly hard missile. From then on, it’s all out war and Brittany finds herself admitting this was a mistake. She’s bigger and faster than Quinn and has longer arms, but she forgot just how competitive and vicious Quinn can be. To save herself, she ends up tackling Quinn to the ground and pining her arms to her sides. She tries to catch her breath but Quinn is so pretty right now. She’s stopped struggling and she’s just lying there with wide eyes and cheeks red from the cold. Brittany finds her mittened hands on Quinn’s jaw sliding up to brush the hair back from her face. They’ve stopped moving, so soon it will be too cold to just lay here and they’ll be forced to find a warmer spot, but right now she just wants to stay in this moment with Quinn; leaning down towards her lips, eyes locked so she can see the swirling emotions in those hazel depths. She watches desire, excitement, and anticipation mix with...fear?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Quinn says. She shakes her head as if she’s also trying to convince herself. Brittany isn’t buying it.
“You never lie to me Quinn. You’re like the only person who doesn’t. Please don’t start now.”
She can practically hear Quinn thinking, panicking really, so when her arms push against Brittany's chest, she lets her up. It's only fun to hold people down when they like it. The wet patch where the snow has melted into the seat of Quinn’s pants would be funny if she couldn’t feel her friend pulling away from her.
“I just don’t think we should blur any more lines.”
Brittany knows a lot about body language and Quinn’s is fairly screaming for her to drop it. But you’re supposed to talk about these things, right?
“Is it because we’re both girls? I never thought you were like Santana but we could work through-“
“I’m not scared.” Quinn says. The sharp tone of her voice is hinting more at angry. The thing is though; angry-Quinn and scared-Quinn are sometimes the same person.
“Yeah, but it’s ok if you are.” Brittany steps towards her and moves to throw an arm across her shoulders.
“I’m not.” Quinn snaps. “I just don’t want to be something that’s convenient for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Quinn looks down at her feet and Brittany nearly misses it when she says, “I don’t want to start something that means more to me than it does to you.”
Brittany really wasn’t ready for any of that. Not the way Quinn sounds so close to tears or the way she can feel her own eyes burning. She hates feeling like this. Hate when people make her feel like this. Like because it’s easy for her to love, she somehow takes it less seriously. It hurts more than when people just assume she’s easy. There’s nothing wrong with being easy. Sex certainly shouldn’t be hard. It’s fun and she feels bad for people who aren’t able to enjoy it whenever they want. But for as much as people labeling her a slut rolls off her back, people doubting her feelings cuts her to the core. It’s really just another way of calling her stupid. Only it’s worse because this is the one area in which Brittany usually feels like a genius. How could Quinn say that?
“How can you say that?&rdquo
The way Brittany’s voice breaks halfway through the question shocks Quinn into looking up. Whatever she sees just makes her more miserable. If Brittany weren’t so hurt already, her heart would probably break from seeing Quinn crumple in on herself like that. Before she can say a word, Quinn turns on her heel and walks away. Brittany wants to go after her but she isn’t sure whether she would hug her, cry at her or yell. She stays put until Quinn disappears beyond a curve in the path and only then does she look away. A dark spot in the sea of white catches her eye. Quinn forgot her books.
___
Quinn feels like shit. Actually she feels like a huge bitch that goes around kicking puppies. It doesn’t take her Ivy League education to realize she was out of line with Brittany yesterday. She was right, Quinn is scared, but not because of the gay thing. Though she’d love to see her father’s face when he finds out she has ticked off another box on his list of Things Christian Girls Don’t Do. She’s scared because her entire life she’s combated her loneliness with an artificial persona. Even when she was in relationships, she felt like she had to be just the right person to make people stay. She’d thought the fake Quinn Fabray had died the moment she hightailed it out of Lima, but she’d reared her head in New Haven as well; every time Quinn pretended to have any interest whatsoever in campus athletics to impress the Yale version of jocks, or when she played a rather active role in her psychology professor’s midlife crisis. She’d left the drama department, but she was still playing a role until Brittany swooped in with her naughty jokes and innate charm.
Even if she wanted to, there’s no way to try and be what Brittany wants. Brittany is just too unpredictable on any given day to form a routine. Sometimes she wants Quinn get all dressed up to go clubbing but others she wants her to wake up at ungodly hours to watch Saturday morning cartoons. It’s like she just wants Quinn to be Quinn and just likes spending time with her. That is truly frightening. If Quinn can’t hold on to people when she gives them exactly what they want, how can she ever hold onto Brittany? If it’s been so painful to lose guys who don’t actually know her, won’t it destroy her to lose someone who cares about her so much?
By New Years Eve, it’s a sign that Quinn has grown a lot since high school because guilt outweighs fear for once. She’d seen the stricken look on Brittany’s face and couldn’t let her best friend continue thinking she meant what she said. It turns out Quinn hasn’t actually gotten all that brave because her thumb hovers over the call button, but she ends up sending a text instead.
Hi
The response is almost immediate.
You forgot your books.
I’m sorry
Ten seconds becomes ten minutes and it seems like Brittany is still upset. Quinn sets her phone down and debates heading over to talk in person when the loud vibration against the wood of her desk startles her.
Come over later? Like 10pm?
___
The loud music blaring from the Pierce house shouldn’t surprise her. Brittany’s parents and sister had left to see Mrs. Pierce’s aging mother in Detroit but Brittany had stayed to hang out with friends she hadn’t seen in a while. Clearly her response to Quinn being a complete ass is to invite her to a party and its just so Brittany that Quinn’s chuckling to herself as she knocks on the door.
“Quinn Fabray! As I live and breathe. I wasn’t expecting to see your sweet ass around tonight. You are aware there might be actual fun had here though, right?”
“Santana. I must be right on time. You’re not sobbing in a corner yet so there might still be some alcohol left.”
For a minute it looks like Santana wants to hit her, but then she breaks into a grin and drags Quinn over the threshold.
“I’ve missed you, you prissy bitch. Let’s find you a drink.”
They make it through the house to the kitchen where Santana starts pouring clear liquids into a cup and topping it off with Hawaiian Punch. There isn’t even an attempt to be classy and it reminds her so much of being seventeen that she wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Brittany comes in somewhere around the second or third shot Santana’s forced on her to “catch her up.” She takes in the scene and smiles at both of them before leaving to grab the mop out of the pantry.
“Remind me to never invite Jacob over again.” Brittany can clearly see what's going on here, if her smirk between Quinn and the refill Santana just handed her is any indication, but it’s obvious she isn’t coming to the rescue. Quinn guesses this must be her punishment.
The rest of the night is a blur. She remembers dancing with Santana and Mike and even flopping into Artie’s lap and staying there for about an hour because she was too lazy to move. She manages to get out of body shots, but she thinks that's only because Santana gets distracted by the sight of Rachel licking salt from Tina’s neck. She's not entirely sure who she kisses at midnight but they have soft lips and taste like fruity drinks and she sincerely hopes that it isn't Kurt.
The last thing she remembers is being helped up the stairs and put into bed, Santana’s mocking voice husking into her ear. “You want to know something? All those years ago, Q? I fucking knew it. There was literally no other explanation for your particular brand of crazy.”
She pats Quinn on the head before wobbling to her feet. “I feel like I should buy you a toaster or some shit.”
Quinn hears a strange kind of pride in her voice and she thinks she’s putting it all together but everything sort of goes fuzzy and then dark.
___
The sun is too bright and her body is too warm and every single muscle aches. It’s like she ate a giant communion wafer and it sucked every drop of moisture out of her body. Quinn wants to move but the blankets are just too tight. She wriggles a little and realizes that the blankets have arms. Something moves behind her and this is such a bad flashback that she jerks completely upright and immediately wants to die when her head starts pounding even worse. The shock of blonde hair on the pillow sends a flood of relief through her.
“Hey Britt,”
“Hi Quinn”
Because Brittany was playing hostess for most of last night and now is as good a time as any, she tries again with that apology.
"I really am sorry for what I said last week. I didn’t mean it."
"I know." Brittany’s hand finds hers under the covers. "You were being a little silly, but I think I know why you were worried. But you don’t have to. If you keep living in the past, you’re always going to be that sad little girl we both remember from high school. And even though you’re really, really pretty when you’re sad, I like it better when you’re happy.”
Quinn nods because Brittany is right. Something that she’s come to learn over the past few months is that Brittany is always right.
So when she sits up and scoots closer, Quinn just waits to hear what she has to say.
"When I kiss you I’m only thinking about you and not just how you’re there. You shouldn’t think you’re convenient because really, you’re not. You’re actually kind of difficult, Quinn. Like way complicated.” Brittany shakes her head to refocus her thoughts. “My point is, I like being with you and that shouldn’t scare you. You need to trust my feelings for you and to trust me. Can you do that?”
At Quinn’s nod, Brittany pulls her back into the pillows and snuggles her close. It takes Quinn a minute to register just how much skin is making contact with similarly bare skin. She’s been stripped down to her underwear, and Brittany isn’t wearing much more. This doesn’t seem like something Santana would have done while putting her to bed.
“Did…did we have sex?”
“No. But your clothes smelled like vodka. I mean, tequila I can sleep through because you know, practice, but smelling vodka would have made me throw up on you in your sleep. I put your clothes in my hamper.”
“Okay. “
“Do you want to have sex?” The question makes Quinn splutter and Brittany nuzzles her face into the tangled hair at the back of her neck. “I think you do. I can promise it’ll be fun.”
It definitely will be. Anyone who has seen Brittany dance or stretch before dancing, or perform any kind of movement knows that. But Quinn is still trying to comprehend that having what she wants can really be that simple. “Just like that?” she asks.
“Well, I was waiting for you to suggest it, but you were taking forever. They always say start the year as you mean to go on. And I mean to go about this year doing much more than kissing you.”
Some deeply buried, still conservative part of Quinn is shocked at how forward Brittany is. But the larger, smarter part thinks that's an excellent plan. Except,
“Not right now though. My head hurts. Maybe after breakfast?”
“Sure thing.” Brittany says relaxing against her. For the first time, Quinn thinks that just might be true.
Pairing: Quinn/Brittany
Rating: T
Spoilers: up to 4x09
Summary: Quinn's starting a new program in a new city when she runs into an old friend. They learn a lot about themselves and life just in time for the new year.
Yale had been good to Quinn. She branched out, met new people who hadn’t known she’d gotten knocked up or that her “perfect” high school relationship was just an obstacle to a cliché teen romance. She learned to have mature ideas about (safe) sex and had it often. Even though classes were hard and the concept of free time was something of a joke for at least forty percent of the school year, she had time enough to truly think about what she wanted. She’d been a member of the undergraduate Theatre Studies program for approximately half a semester before she realized that she was way too practical a person for a career in the performing arts. THST 110-111: a Survey of Theater and Drama, the prerequisite for the subsequent courses in the major, was a fairly enjoyable course but it became readily apparent that the other students in the class had a far deeper connection with the stage than she was ever likely to. In that way, they reminded her of Rachel Berry, overly eager, amazingly talented, and unashamedly irritating.
She would have done well as an actress; she’d performed flawlessly for the first sixteen years of her life and had then executed a few encores until she left Lima and stopped giving a damn about what anyone thought of her. But she didn’t have the fire for it. The first time she’d put on an informal skit for the class, there had been a rush, heady and tingly. Her heart raced and her hands shook just slightly enough to reveal that she was still capable of being nervous after all. But even though it had felt great to sink into the words and actions and emotions of a timeless character, it was no different than the feeling she got from leading the Cheerios or from her first oral presentation in her French class. Quinn liked commanding a room and performing in front of people, but that didn’t make her an actual performer.
One other factor marked the death of Quinn’s theatrical career. On a whim, she registered for an upper level economics class at the suggestion of her RA with whom she’d engaged in a heated discussion about the healthcare system just prior to the 2012 election. Health Economics and Public Policy was supposedly the best class offered to non-majors and was taught by one of the most engaging professors in the department. Still undecided and cognizant of exactly how much money Yale cost per credit, she’d tried it out and fell in love. The combination of manipulation and practicality required for business suited her to the ground as did the competitive gauntlet of on-campus recruiting once the hunt for summer internships started in earnest. Quinn Fabray was nothing if not ambitious and she secretly liked being able to measure her accomplishments by a widely accepted standard.
That's how she ends up graduating summa cum laude with an acceptance to the Healthcare Management program at Wharton and also how she finds herself in her current situation, slowly freezing to death while she waits for a tow truck. In her parents’ divorce, it had been stipulated that her father would pay for her college expenses. Russell had apparently felt enough remorse for throwing her out onto the street that he’d extended the arrangement to cover her MBA as well. That generosity, however, stopped just short of paying for a new car so Quinn drove the same secondhand beater her mother had driven to throughout the final two years of her high school career. It had been driven from Lima to New Haven and had somehow made it down to Philadelphia. The heat didn’t work and the radio was stuck on AM, but it ran. The pitiful machine made into University City before it sputtered out just past the I-76 off ramp. According to the map, her position on South Street is just a few minutes from campus and her new apartment.
Quinn has just called Triple A and is peering under the hood to pass the time when she hears a low whistle from behind her. Used to catcalls from entitled jerks at Yale, she ignores it until something connects firmly with her backside. Whirling around with her fist cocked back, she’s immediately grabbed up by strong, wiry arms. Before panic can set in, she recognizes the blue eyes and the airy chuckle.
“Brittany?”
“Hi Quinn! I knew it was you. I’d recognize that,” she says gesturing towards Quinn’s ass, “anywhere.”
Ignoring the lecherous smirk on her face, Quinn embraces her friend in earnest. Brittany squeezes her tightly and it reminds Quinn that she always gave the best hugs and lessens her frustration with the current turn of events. Brittany stays with her until the tow truck comes and rides with them to Quinn’s apartment. It’s a tight squeeze in the cab with Quinn forced to sit halfway in Brittany’s lap, but it’s more comfortable than awkward when Brittany starts enthusiastically divulging the details of her life.
Brittany is apparently a jack-of-all-trades now, having worked as a dog walker, a telemarketer, a bartender, a courier and a dance instructor. She is currently an assistant at the University’s veterinary hospital. Each position comes with a humorous anecdote that from anyone else would be an exaggeration but from Brittany is undoubtedly true. When she tells Quinn about the time she’d been rollerblading while walking a St. Bernard and they’d both ended up in the Logan Circle fountain, Quinn laughs so hard her sides ache. The steady stream of chatter continues as Quinn retrieves her key from the mailbox and enters her new apartment for the first time. As much as she tries not to show it, she’s glad Brittany is here. It’s been a while since she talked to someone who she didn’t need to impress or who wasn’t trying to prove they were the smartest person in the room; someone who just talked because they were happy and wanted to share it.
Once Brittany feels they’ve properly appreciated her high ceilings and miniscule backyard, she drags Quinn down the stairs and insists on buying her dinner. They go to Allegro’s, which is the place to get pizza on campus. She orders and pays and leads Quinn around in that pushy way Quinn recognizes but has never been on the receiving end of before. There isn’t time to dwell on it because Allegro’s sells beer and pretty soon they’re toasting to everything under the sun and laughing at the drunk undergraduates stumbling in to load up on carbs. Hours later, when she has eaten more than she physically thought possible and Brittany offers up her couch so Quinn won’t have to deal with unpacking her bedding tonight, they walk arm in arm to Brittany’s building, a square beige structure amongst a block of square beige structures that looks out of place with the rest of the neighborhood. They’ve barely pulled out the sofa bed before Quinn undresses and collapses onto it, exhausted from the stress and the drive and the food and the alcohol.
___
Brittany likes this new Quinn. Not that she didn’t love old-Quinn, but this one is easier to be around. Maybe new isn’t the right word. Quinn’s still the same serious, quietly judgmental girl she’s known since age fourteen, but she seems looser somehow. Brittany doesn’t know if she’s finally happy, happy in the way she deserves, but she’s definitely way less unhappy. Her smiles are both more genuine and more frequent. Her hair is long again like it was when they met, but her eyes are brighter and unsad in a way Brittany has never seen before. Brittany decides to call her hybrid-Quinn when she looks in on her the next morning. She still sleeps curled up in a ball as if she doesn’t have the entire mattress to herself but is wearing the kind of underwear that would have been deemed way too scandalous a few years ago. Brittany is curious to learn what had changed for Quinn over the years, almost as curious as she is to see if her panties match that deliciously sinful lace bra.
Catching that train of thought before it can leave the station, she prods Quinn awake. Brittany is sure Quinn will be much less of a fan of her empty apartment today when she fully appreciates how much effort it’s going to take to make it not-empty. She’s also probably going to want to do something with the depressing brown paint in the bedroom. Today is Brittany’s last day off for a while so if she’s going to help, they’re going to need to get started soon. Sitting on the arm of the couch, she pokes Quinn in the shoulder a few times before running her fingers through her hair. She really is glad Quinn kept it long. As much as that haircut junior year had been symbolic in a good way, Brittany much preferred Quinn’s hair in long golden waves. Gradually, the shuffling below leads to stretching, which leads to Quinn sitting up and frowning at Brittany. The way her eyes narrow in a half glare, half pout is so reminiscent of teenage sleepovers that Brittany bursts out laughing. It turns out grumpy morning-Quinn is someone that will never truly go away.
“Hey sleepyhead. Ready to go home?”
“Why?” Quinn croaks, “It’s Sunday. Do you have to be somewhere?”
“Yep. I’m freelancing as a mover-slash-painter today. That is, I would be, if my client stopped being so lazy.”
It takes a little longer than it should for Quinn to put it together, but when it clicks, a shy smile escapes and she squeezes Brittany’s knee.
“Thanks, Britt. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.” She's stretching again, causing the covers to fall even lower around her waist and doing nothing to dampen Brittany’s urge for scientific inquiry. Brittany goes to finish getting ready herself, more than a little impressed that Quinn still seems to be in top Cheerio condition even if she’s still hiding it under those old lady dresses.
___
Between the two of them, they get everything into the apartment by early afternoon. The sheer amount of belongings Quinn managed to fit into the station wagon have them both sweating through their T shirts even against the early winter chill. By the time they’re done, a slight line of perspiration runs down Brittany’s back and Quinn has more than once noticed the way her biceps strain when she climbs the stairs carrying twice as much as Quinn on each trip.
The apartment comes furnished with a few things: a dining room table, built in bookcases, and an oak dresser that is probably older than both of them combined, but it’s largely free for Quinn to style as she sees fit. She picks up the mattress and bed frame she’d ordered and Brittany sweet-talks her neighbor into helping them move it and put it together. Peter is a handsome guy with caramel colored skin and deep dimples. He’s helpful and charming and seems like a really nice guy but for the way he’s flirting with Brittany. For some reason, it’s setting Quinn on edge. She busies herself putting books away while Brittany “helps” Peter assemble the bed frame. Her assistance consists of sitting on a stack of crates and attempting to read the non-English instructions on the reverse side of the manual. Once the bed is properly put together, Peter excuses himself saying he has to run to work. Quinn can’t remember what he said he does and feels a little guilty for not being as friendly as her upbringing dictates. She resolves to invite him over when everything is settled. He is her neighbor after all.
Quinn had hoped painting her bedroom would be a simple task; a few coats and then maybe crashing in the living room to give it time to fully dry. What she doesn’t count on is Brittany’s involvement. They argue over the color in the middle of the paint store as if Brittany is the one who has to live with it. Quinn vetoes a bright yellow and an insanely violent green but gives in to a light teal since Brittany is so adamant that she can’t paint her walls plain white. Her correction that it’s actually eggshell falls on deaf ears. The process of painting itself moves quickly with four hands. So quickly that Quinn isn’t even upset that the large amount of paint on her clothes and skin had only partially gotten there by accident. She feels better about the two blue handprints on her ass when she gives up attempting to be mature and just swipes her paint roller across Brittany’s midsection and runs away before she can retaliate.
Brittany goes home to shower and by the time Quinn has changed, she’s back with Chinese and a bottle of tequila. The idea of mixing those two already has her stomach in knots, but she’s starving and she knows she’s going to drink if only to celebrate finally getting all the paint out of her hair. This is the second night she’s spent with Brittany in a row and the second night she’s gotten tipsy. She’d be concerned if she weren’t having so much fun. It took her a long time to not be paranoid about alcohol, but here in her own home with one of her oldest friends she has no issues with letting loose.
Looking back, she’ll later realize that everything starts when Brittany wants to play a game. With just the two of them, options are limited; it’s hard to play Kings or Mafia with just two people. They settle on “Truth or Dare” which quickly turns into “Dare or Dare”, each task more outrageous than the last. Her favorite is making Brittany go coning at the McDonald’s down the block. Brittany decides not to waste the perfectly good ice cream and happily finishes it on the way back.
“Truth or Dare?” Brittany asks, wiping her hands on one of the good bath towels since Quinn hasn’t gotten around to unpacking the regular ones. She leans forward, mischief clear on her face and Quinn can practically see her brain working to come up with an even better dare so she takes the easy way out.
“Truth.”
“I dare you to - wait what?”
“I pick truth.”
Brittany’s face falls just a little and it almost makes Quinn want to take it back. Almost.
“What was your first sexual fantasy?”
“Excuse me?” Quinn chokes a little on her drink and Brittany’s grin widens to Cheshire proportions.
“Your first sexual fantasy, ever. And I want details.”
Quinn considers lying or begging out of the game since it’s late, but the combination of pride and tequila running through her system won’t let her commit such a dishonor. She takes a deep breath and prepares to share something she’s never told anyone.
“Freshman year, I had to go see the athletic trainer after Cheerio practice because my shoulder was acting up. By the time I finished, I expected the locker room to be empty. It wasn’t. You were there, with Santana.”
She hopes that’s enough for Brittany to connect the dots, but she’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at Quinn expectantly.
“Since then, I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Kissing another girl.”
Brittany falls silent and Quinn wonders if she just made it awkward. She’s replaying everything when Brittany moves forward to where Quinn is sitting on the couch. She presses in between her knees and leans up until their faces are about an inch apart. Her hands are firm on Quinn’s thighs but her eyes are hesitant like she’s asking a question. Tomorrow, Quinn will blame her actions on the drinks or on the way Brittany is so warm and still smells like ice cream, but when she finally connects their mouths and Brittany smiles against her lips, she isn’t thinking of anything past how this kiss feels even better than she imagined.
___
The MBA program isn’t really that intense right now, so Quinn still has a lot of free time on her hands. She spends the better part of her first week in town scouring secondhand furniture stores and catching up with Brittany, sometimes both at the same time. The way Brittany acts as if no time has passed since they last saw each other four Thanksgivings ago makes Quinn feel that much worse for not keeping in touch. She eventually makes nice with Peter, who it turns out is a total sweetheart when he isn’t eyeing her best friend. Out of the blue, he brings over an absolutely divine apple crumble made from his grandmother’s secret recipe. After that small gesture and the subsequent sugar shock, Quinn decides to have him over more often. The three of them hit it off and it’s always great to have someone around for the heavy lifting as well as the heavy baking. Once Brittany is satisfied that Quinn is quite capable of looking after herself, they establish a routine of brunches, movie nights, alternating museum visits (Quinn) and random attractions (Brittany) that occur at least once a week.
Possibly the worst (and yet also best) thing about Brittany is that she somehow became a responsible adult while remaining utterly impulsive. One can still never guess exactly what she’ll do or say or, Quinn is noticing, when she’ll turn up. Brittany doesn’t have a key to her apartment. Giving her one in case of emergencies is not outside the realm of possibilities, but it has not yet happened. So when something flops down on her bed while she’s sleeping, Quinn nearly has a heart attack. In her rush to escape, she gets tangled up in her blankets and tumbles off the side of the bed. Righting herself and grabbing the lamp to bludgeon her assailant, she’s ready to strike when a familiar voice gives her pause.
Brittany is sitting in the middle of her bed digging into a bag of doughnuts, laughing at her. Quinn tells herself its the bacon sandwich for her and the related coffee sitting on the nightstand that keeps her from yelling, especially given that those are powered doughnuts and she just washed her sheets. But deep down she admits that she’s always happy to see Brittany, even very early on a Sunday when time could better be spent sleeping. If she were really doling out truths to herself, she’d acknowledge that she’s disappointed whenever Brittany isn’t around to poke fun at her and drag her into things. That her desire to devour her own bacon and cheese sandwich pales in comparison with her wish to lean over and kiss away the small amount of jelly that makes Brittany’s lower lip shine with sticky sweetness. A pink tongue beats her to it and snaps her out of her staring.
“So what do you want to do today?”
Quinn laughs because that’s exactly the type of thing Brittany would ask.
“I don’t know. You woke me up, remember?”
“Someone had to. You take daily hibernation to the next level.” Brittany shifts to sit next to Quinn against the headboard. “I’ll make you a deal. It’s first Sunday so the art museum is free today. We can go and see the new exhibits if you come on a run with me and we do the steps like Rocky.”
___
Quinn doesn’t mind the run. It had been a staple of her life in high school and a habit she’s kept since then. Becoming more comfortable in her own skin and having a baby resulted in a healthier relationship with food than her 14-year-old self had, but she still knows that Lucy is lurking just around the corner, ready to capitalize on any lapse in vigilance. What is extremely discomfiting is entering one of the most prestigious art museums in the country sweaty and underdressed. She really hadn’t considered that part when Brittany had smiled her out of bed and into an old McKinley hoodie and a pair of track pants. Now she’s fairly certain she’s being judged by an elderly woman out “culturing” grandchildren who look anything but enthused. She’s debating turning around and coming back appropriately dressed when the attendant waves them forward. They collect the little pins the museum issues to visitors and Brittany pouts when she sees that they’re orange instead of green. The old woman is still eyeing them but Brittany shoves Quinn lightly and laces their fingers together and pretty much everything else fades away.
Brittany spends quite a lot of time in the abstract expressionism galleries, which is unsurprising. What is shocking is that for once Quinn goes to a museum and doesn’t become enthralled by the exhibits. Usually, she blocks out any and all distractions, including paid tour guides, but today her mind is on something else. Something simultaneously light-years away from any painting or photograph and yet close enough to reach out and touch. Someone. She trails through the Fernand Leger exhibition knowing that this artist had a huge hand in developing the Pop art movement and in practically redefining painting as a medium. She knows this is a perfect juxtaposition of classic technique and popular culture, but she can’t truly focus on anything more than the hand tangled with hers and the cheery presence beside her. She spends more time watching Brittany’s reactions than actually seeing anything.
Everything is suddenly Brittany, Brittany, Brittany and Quinn is overwhelmed. Nothing in her life prepared her for what it was like to have the full attention of someone like her. She feels like Peter, like Artie and Sam, even like Santana. All the people who’d been charmed speechless by Brittany’s beauty and openness. At the time, she’d been cynical of their feelings and maybe even a little jealous of her friend, but feeling the full effect of that blazing magnetism leaves her stunned and just wanting more. She’ll never be able to completely experience what it’s like to really be with Brittany and have that radiance spill over onto her, but with Brittany contendedly swinging their joined hands between them like that, she thinks she might try. There’s no alcohol to blame out in the sculpture garden when she yanks Brittany towards her and rather aggressively attacks her mouth. The main installation, aptly entitled Lips, is so bold and colorful and whimsical and it reminds Quinn so much of the girl next to her that she just can’t help herself.
___
Brittany isn’t expecting Quinn to kiss her and certainly not so forcefully, but she thinks it makes sense. She’s a great kisser and Quinn is pretty awesome too, so obviously she isn’t against practicing. They break apart and their shared breath mists in the chilly December air. They’re still in gym clothes and are shivering into each other, but that isn’t what’s important here. Brittany honestly thought Quinn had forgotten about their night of Truths and Dares but this kiss is evidence to the contrary. The way Quinn bites her lip says she’s been thinking about it a lot. Most importantly, it opens up the door for many future kisses.
___
It's decided they’ll drive back to Lima together and that they’ll get a rental since neither wants to chance it with Quinn’s ancient vehicle. They leave just before midnight so they won’t have to deal with traffic and will arrive during the day. Quinn thinks that just means they’ll crash upon arrival and ruin their internal clocks, but that’s the way Brittany always does it so she just goes along with the plan. The rental is a midsize sedan with more than enough room for them and their suitcases and presents and a vast excess space that’s begging to be filled with snacks so they stop at the Wal-Mart on the way out of town to stock up. Brittany’s side of the cart is filled with sugary candy and pop while Quinn has about a dozen apples and a few bottles of water. The way Quinn frowns at Brittany’s choices is almost too adorable for words. Brittany makes sure to buy the 48 box of Pop-Tarts just to scandalize her even more.
Quinn insists on driving and Brittany thinks it might be her way of creating a distraction. She’s been acting a little weird lately. They still hang out a lot and talk and text nearly everyday, but something is off. Its really puzzling because Brittany knows they haven’t had a fight even though with Quinn, sometimes you don’t know you’re fighting until she wins and you just have to deal with the aftermath. She knows Quinn isn’t angry with her or anything, but something is definitely wrong and its confusing the hell out of her. She doesn’t quite know how to bring it up but there’s no way she can ignore it. Brittany has seen what ignoring things will do to a perfectly good friendship. But she also knows that Quinn has to be approached just right or she’ll shut down completely and that would be the opposite of a fun road trip.
Everything goes fine for a few hours with Quinn driving while Brittany makes a mildly respectable dent in the food. Even she’ll admit that they packed for more like 9 days than 9 hours, though. When they aren’t talking about nothing, they’re singing along to the radio. She hasn’t been able to get Quinn to embrace hip-hop and house as acceptable genres for driving, but they’ve found common ground with a mix of top-40 hits and classic rock. It reminds Brittany of Glee Club; especially the way Quinn smiles her special happy smile when one of her favorites comes on.
Once they hit Breezewood though, the smile disappears and Brittany feels like an idiot for not realizing this would happen. The Pennsylvania Turnpike is probably the worst stretch of road in the country. It’s narrow and poorly graded and literally cuts through the mountains in such a way that there are places where the road pretty much just drops off into a black abyss. Every twist has Quinn driving slower and slower until Brittany could probably run faster. She’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white and she practically vibrates with tension. It’s clear that she’s never driven this road before. Brittany realizes then that Mrs. Fabray drove her to Yale and she flew home for the holidays and then just drove down to Philadelphia. Quinn had no idea what to expect. And really, the worst hasn’t even happened yet. She’s calling herself ten kinds of stupid when a truck comes speeding out of one of the tunnels and Quinn actually flinches.
“Quinn,” she murmurs, turning the radio down. “Honey, why don’t you pull over and I’ll drive.”
She’s not sure if its OK to touch Quinn right now so she just sits quietly until the car turns into the next rest stop. As soon as the engine is off, she’s out of the car and rounding to the driver’s side. Brittany pulls open the door and lets Quinn fall into her arms. She knows that later they won’t mention the way Quinn is trembling or she how has a stranglehold on Brittany for a good ten minutes. It’s one of those things that just doesn’t really have to acknowledged, like how even though it’s possibly even less safe than letting Quinn drive, Brittany holds her hand over the center console until they come down out of the mountains and cross the state line just as the sun comes over the horizon behind them.
___
Whether it’s by fate or by design, Brittany only sees Quinn once while they’re in Lima. The day after Christmas, they meet at Schoonover Park and walk around the pond. It has snowed nearly a foot since they’ve been there and Brittany is kicking it up in frosty plumes at every opportunity. They’ve made it to the observatory before they finally get around to exchanging gifts. Brittany pulls out the rectangular box she’d been awkwardly hiding in her jacket and hands it to Quinn, unsure why she’s nervous. It’s a great gift. The wrapping paper is gently removed and neatly folded because obviously; it's Quinn. It takes only a minute before a little squeal slips out of her and Brittany breathes a sigh of relief.
“You got me the other four books.”
“Yep. Your collection is now complete.”
When they’d finally unpacked the last of Quinn’s stuff they’d noticed they share A Wrinkle in Time as one of their favorite books. Quinn somehow didn’t know there were four other books featuring the Murry family and it seemed like a pretty big sign to Brittany. It was pretty rare to be able to get someone something that they both wanted and needed. And Quinn needed those books. A Swiftly Tilting Planet had always been Brittany’s favorite anyway. She was looking forward to talking with Quinn about it, watching her come alive as she got into it. So really, it was for both of them. The bashful little face Quinn makes when she reaches into her own bag is enough to be a gift in and of itself, but she comes up with this lumpy package wrapped in shiny silver paper. Unlike Quinn’s, this paper is not removed gracefully.
“Mittens! Score. Did you make these?”
“Well...you’ve lost 3 pairs of gloves in the last month. I figured it would save you some money if you didn’t have to by more. There’s a blue pair and a purple pair, for variety.”
“Aww. Quinn this is the best.” Brittany says, pulling on one mitten of each color. “But you know what would be better?”
At Quinn’s raised eyebrow, she tosses the other two gloves into her hands and takes a few steps back.
“Put those on.”
“Why? I made them for-“
The snowball hits Quinn square in the mouth. Like part of it actually goes in her mouth while it was open so now she’s spitting snow onto the ground. There’s a more than fifty percent chance Quinn will get angry, but Brittany is too busy cackling to check. That’s how Quinn gets her on the side of the neck with a particularly hard missile. From then on, it’s all out war and Brittany finds herself admitting this was a mistake. She’s bigger and faster than Quinn and has longer arms, but she forgot just how competitive and vicious Quinn can be. To save herself, she ends up tackling Quinn to the ground and pining her arms to her sides. She tries to catch her breath but Quinn is so pretty right now. She’s stopped struggling and she’s just lying there with wide eyes and cheeks red from the cold. Brittany finds her mittened hands on Quinn’s jaw sliding up to brush the hair back from her face. They’ve stopped moving, so soon it will be too cold to just lay here and they’ll be forced to find a warmer spot, but right now she just wants to stay in this moment with Quinn; leaning down towards her lips, eyes locked so she can see the swirling emotions in those hazel depths. She watches desire, excitement, and anticipation mix with...fear?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Quinn says. She shakes her head as if she’s also trying to convince herself. Brittany isn’t buying it.
“You never lie to me Quinn. You’re like the only person who doesn’t. Please don’t start now.”
She can practically hear Quinn thinking, panicking really, so when her arms push against Brittany's chest, she lets her up. It's only fun to hold people down when they like it. The wet patch where the snow has melted into the seat of Quinn’s pants would be funny if she couldn’t feel her friend pulling away from her.
“I just don’t think we should blur any more lines.”
Brittany knows a lot about body language and Quinn’s is fairly screaming for her to drop it. But you’re supposed to talk about these things, right?
“Is it because we’re both girls? I never thought you were like Santana but we could work through-“
“I’m not scared.” Quinn says. The sharp tone of her voice is hinting more at angry. The thing is though; angry-Quinn and scared-Quinn are sometimes the same person.
“Yeah, but it’s ok if you are.” Brittany steps towards her and moves to throw an arm across her shoulders.
“I’m not.” Quinn snaps. “I just don’t want to be something that’s convenient for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Quinn looks down at her feet and Brittany nearly misses it when she says, “I don’t want to start something that means more to me than it does to you.”
Brittany really wasn’t ready for any of that. Not the way Quinn sounds so close to tears or the way she can feel her own eyes burning. She hates feeling like this. Hate when people make her feel like this. Like because it’s easy for her to love, she somehow takes it less seriously. It hurts more than when people just assume she’s easy. There’s nothing wrong with being easy. Sex certainly shouldn’t be hard. It’s fun and she feels bad for people who aren’t able to enjoy it whenever they want. But for as much as people labeling her a slut rolls off her back, people doubting her feelings cuts her to the core. It’s really just another way of calling her stupid. Only it’s worse because this is the one area in which Brittany usually feels like a genius. How could Quinn say that?
“How can you say that?&rdquo
The way Brittany’s voice breaks halfway through the question shocks Quinn into looking up. Whatever she sees just makes her more miserable. If Brittany weren’t so hurt already, her heart would probably break from seeing Quinn crumple in on herself like that. Before she can say a word, Quinn turns on her heel and walks away. Brittany wants to go after her but she isn’t sure whether she would hug her, cry at her or yell. She stays put until Quinn disappears beyond a curve in the path and only then does she look away. A dark spot in the sea of white catches her eye. Quinn forgot her books.
___
Quinn feels like shit. Actually she feels like a huge bitch that goes around kicking puppies. It doesn’t take her Ivy League education to realize she was out of line with Brittany yesterday. She was right, Quinn is scared, but not because of the gay thing. Though she’d love to see her father’s face when he finds out she has ticked off another box on his list of Things Christian Girls Don’t Do. She’s scared because her entire life she’s combated her loneliness with an artificial persona. Even when she was in relationships, she felt like she had to be just the right person to make people stay. She’d thought the fake Quinn Fabray had died the moment she hightailed it out of Lima, but she’d reared her head in New Haven as well; every time Quinn pretended to have any interest whatsoever in campus athletics to impress the Yale version of jocks, or when she played a rather active role in her psychology professor’s midlife crisis. She’d left the drama department, but she was still playing a role until Brittany swooped in with her naughty jokes and innate charm.
Even if she wanted to, there’s no way to try and be what Brittany wants. Brittany is just too unpredictable on any given day to form a routine. Sometimes she wants Quinn get all dressed up to go clubbing but others she wants her to wake up at ungodly hours to watch Saturday morning cartoons. It’s like she just wants Quinn to be Quinn and just likes spending time with her. That is truly frightening. If Quinn can’t hold on to people when she gives them exactly what they want, how can she ever hold onto Brittany? If it’s been so painful to lose guys who don’t actually know her, won’t it destroy her to lose someone who cares about her so much?
By New Years Eve, it’s a sign that Quinn has grown a lot since high school because guilt outweighs fear for once. She’d seen the stricken look on Brittany’s face and couldn’t let her best friend continue thinking she meant what she said. It turns out Quinn hasn’t actually gotten all that brave because her thumb hovers over the call button, but she ends up sending a text instead.
Hi
The response is almost immediate.
You forgot your books.
I’m sorry
Ten seconds becomes ten minutes and it seems like Brittany is still upset. Quinn sets her phone down and debates heading over to talk in person when the loud vibration against the wood of her desk startles her.
Come over later? Like 10pm?
___
The loud music blaring from the Pierce house shouldn’t surprise her. Brittany’s parents and sister had left to see Mrs. Pierce’s aging mother in Detroit but Brittany had stayed to hang out with friends she hadn’t seen in a while. Clearly her response to Quinn being a complete ass is to invite her to a party and its just so Brittany that Quinn’s chuckling to herself as she knocks on the door.
“Quinn Fabray! As I live and breathe. I wasn’t expecting to see your sweet ass around tonight. You are aware there might be actual fun had here though, right?”
“Santana. I must be right on time. You’re not sobbing in a corner yet so there might still be some alcohol left.”
For a minute it looks like Santana wants to hit her, but then she breaks into a grin and drags Quinn over the threshold.
“I’ve missed you, you prissy bitch. Let’s find you a drink.”
They make it through the house to the kitchen where Santana starts pouring clear liquids into a cup and topping it off with Hawaiian Punch. There isn’t even an attempt to be classy and it reminds her so much of being seventeen that she wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Brittany comes in somewhere around the second or third shot Santana’s forced on her to “catch her up.” She takes in the scene and smiles at both of them before leaving to grab the mop out of the pantry.
“Remind me to never invite Jacob over again.” Brittany can clearly see what's going on here, if her smirk between Quinn and the refill Santana just handed her is any indication, but it’s obvious she isn’t coming to the rescue. Quinn guesses this must be her punishment.
The rest of the night is a blur. She remembers dancing with Santana and Mike and even flopping into Artie’s lap and staying there for about an hour because she was too lazy to move. She manages to get out of body shots, but she thinks that's only because Santana gets distracted by the sight of Rachel licking salt from Tina’s neck. She's not entirely sure who she kisses at midnight but they have soft lips and taste like fruity drinks and she sincerely hopes that it isn't Kurt.
The last thing she remembers is being helped up the stairs and put into bed, Santana’s mocking voice husking into her ear. “You want to know something? All those years ago, Q? I fucking knew it. There was literally no other explanation for your particular brand of crazy.”
She pats Quinn on the head before wobbling to her feet. “I feel like I should buy you a toaster or some shit.”
Quinn hears a strange kind of pride in her voice and she thinks she’s putting it all together but everything sort of goes fuzzy and then dark.
___
The sun is too bright and her body is too warm and every single muscle aches. It’s like she ate a giant communion wafer and it sucked every drop of moisture out of her body. Quinn wants to move but the blankets are just too tight. She wriggles a little and realizes that the blankets have arms. Something moves behind her and this is such a bad flashback that she jerks completely upright and immediately wants to die when her head starts pounding even worse. The shock of blonde hair on the pillow sends a flood of relief through her.
“Hey Britt,”
“Hi Quinn”
Because Brittany was playing hostess for most of last night and now is as good a time as any, she tries again with that apology.
"I really am sorry for what I said last week. I didn’t mean it."
"I know." Brittany’s hand finds hers under the covers. "You were being a little silly, but I think I know why you were worried. But you don’t have to. If you keep living in the past, you’re always going to be that sad little girl we both remember from high school. And even though you’re really, really pretty when you’re sad, I like it better when you’re happy.”
Quinn nods because Brittany is right. Something that she’s come to learn over the past few months is that Brittany is always right.
So when she sits up and scoots closer, Quinn just waits to hear what she has to say.
"When I kiss you I’m only thinking about you and not just how you’re there. You shouldn’t think you’re convenient because really, you’re not. You’re actually kind of difficult, Quinn. Like way complicated.” Brittany shakes her head to refocus her thoughts. “My point is, I like being with you and that shouldn’t scare you. You need to trust my feelings for you and to trust me. Can you do that?”
At Quinn’s nod, Brittany pulls her back into the pillows and snuggles her close. It takes Quinn a minute to register just how much skin is making contact with similarly bare skin. She’s been stripped down to her underwear, and Brittany isn’t wearing much more. This doesn’t seem like something Santana would have done while putting her to bed.
“Did…did we have sex?”
“No. But your clothes smelled like vodka. I mean, tequila I can sleep through because you know, practice, but smelling vodka would have made me throw up on you in your sleep. I put your clothes in my hamper.”
“Okay. “
“Do you want to have sex?” The question makes Quinn splutter and Brittany nuzzles her face into the tangled hair at the back of her neck. “I think you do. I can promise it’ll be fun.”
It definitely will be. Anyone who has seen Brittany dance or stretch before dancing, or perform any kind of movement knows that. But Quinn is still trying to comprehend that having what she wants can really be that simple. “Just like that?” she asks.
“Well, I was waiting for you to suggest it, but you were taking forever. They always say start the year as you mean to go on. And I mean to go about this year doing much more than kissing you.”
Some deeply buried, still conservative part of Quinn is shocked at how forward Brittany is. But the larger, smarter part thinks that's an excellent plan. Except,
“Not right now though. My head hurts. Maybe after breakfast?”
“Sure thing.” Brittany says relaxing against her. For the first time, Quinn thinks that just might be true.