|to strum gently with calloused hands
Author: emilyforprez PM
it's too perfect.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Poetry/Romance - Puck & Quinn F. - Words: 561 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 20 - Follows: 1 - Published: 06-11-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6042323
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: I am writing so much PQ lately it's ridic. Takes place after the finale, sometime when Quinn is regularly spending the night at his house or something.
It's a Saturday.
She never gets up before noon on a Saturday, but the light filtering through his blinds is blinding, and her eyes flutter open without regard. The morning smells like waffles and over-cooked Jimmy Dean sausage links and she wrinkles her nose but still remains in bed, lying there quietly while not saying a single word.
She can hear him tuning his guitar - his only real talent - and mumbling soft words to himself, as if he's afraid to wake her. She can hear his calloused fingertips brushing smoothly over the strings, filling the air with strange chords and off-tune melodies.
It's a pretty sound, she says to herself in the confines of her gloriously blank mind. He really is only good at guitar. She thinks it must be a redemption for all the horrible things he's ever done in his life, like impregnating people or tossing gay kids in the dumpster.
His voice is still nearly silent when he sings, a song she doesn't know but thinks is beautiful the way he sings it. He hums to himself and plucks a few more strings for good measure.
If he always does this before noon on a Saturday, she thinks she might want to start waking up a little earlier.
They're always up a little bit past midnight. When she lived there, Ms. Puckerman refused to let her in the same room as he past a certain hour, but her governing rules are invalid when she's simply there for him, and not because she has nowhere else. They stay up past midnight sometimes doing couple-y things like kissing or having sex (which was never couple-y for them before) but sometimes they stay up watching TV or something.
Tonight, she closes her eyes a little bit past midnight and asks him to play something for her on his guitar. "I heard you playing this morning and I want to hear you again." She lays down in the darkness on the bed they sometimes share, slight moonlight coming in through his cracked window.
He plays her a song without words, something she thinks she must've heard before, but it's so new and beautiful that she wonders if he simply made it up. His voice is slow and steady as he sings words she can't distinguish, hums in a slow, sad way that makes her want to cry.
"It's pretty." She says this after he's done, swallowing thickly in the silence. "What is it?"
He doesn't answer for a long while, and before she can ask him again, he says, "I really love you." She thinks this must be the best thing she's ever heard and she wants to cry, it's so perfect.
"Play that song for me again." Her voice is quiet when she says this and as he strums the strings again, humming a sad song and playing a sorrowful tune, she thinks it must be the greatest song she's ever heard. She'd ask him the name of it again if she didn't know he wrote it about her.