She screams for more, more than just a blue-eyed metaphor
And the trouble is, the trouble is: she's always searching.

She'll admit she's not quite exactly sure why she's doing this.

She bundles the knitted scarf tighter around her neck as the frosty winter air blows a dancing wave of white flurries into her face.

Impatiently, she brushes the stray wisps of blond curls out of her face, and continues on her way down the street. The lamplights flicker pathetically in a rhythm, on and off like a light switch.

Standing in front of the quaint, shadowed home, she considers leaving the package in his mailbox. She wonders how he'd feel discovering his little gift thrown back in his face. Her mouth curls up into a horribly bitter smirk, but taking a deep breath she bites her bottom lip and presses her gloved hand to the doorbell.

The door opens by a creak, and a young girl pokes her head out of the door, her metallic coloured eyes swimming with curiosity.

Her cupid-bow lips purse together in a frown.

"Who are you?" The little girl asks, tilting her blond head sideways.

"Beth, I thought I told you not to answer the door." An annoyed voice drifts through the cracks in the doorway, and making a noise that sounds quite like a squeak, the girl's head disappears from sight and Quinn hears footsteps receding into the distance.

Someone pushes the door further open, and Beth reappears, clutching onto his leg as if it's a lifeline. Sam stands there, leaning on the doorframe, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"Aunt Shelby will murder me for—Quinn. What do you want?" His blue eyes cloud over, flickering with a hidden emotion which he quickly conceals. Upon noticing her arrival, his posture tenses up and he folds his arms across his chest.

Now that it actually comes to it, she doesn't feel confident at all anymore. Her legs feel like gelatine and she fights hard to stand upright, finding support by pressing against the frame of the door. His gaze feels like it's burning a hole in the side of her cheek, and she presses her lips together, fighting to keep her outer calm.

"I don't want anything," she says in a rather hostile voice, turning her head away, refusing to meet those saccharine, candy-coloured blue eyes. She swallows the lump in her throat and continues on.

"In fact," she says, throwing her hands up, "I don't know why I came here at all. It's nothing, really."

It surprises her how convincing of a liar she can be when she wants to.

Then again, this is Sam, whom she loved for his gullibility. Sam, who believed she resuscitated Finn. Sam, the boy who knew nothing when her first came to McKinley, who thought everything could be solved with clichéd, good-intentioned promises.

She's about to leave when a silhouetted figure descends down the stairs behind him. The girl steps forward into the light, lifting her lacy sleeping mask and placing it around the top of her forehead like a stylish headband. She glares at Quinn from behind Sam's shoulder.

"'Kay," Santana asks coldly, her manicured hand pointed like a weapon. "What is she doing here, may I ask?"

"What she is doing is none of your business," Quinn counters back haughtily.

"Okay, first of all he's my boyfriend," Santana says spitefully, sneering, her hands making rude motions in the air and coming to rest on Sam's shoulder, "and I have a right to know exactly what he's doing, when he's doing it. So keep your little doll hands off of him, because he is mine."

"Oh," Quinn throws her hands up in the air, breathing in sharply, "and I suppose Sam knows exactly what you're doing with Brittany, when you're doing it?"

Santana squints at her hatefully. "Go fu—

Sam makes a loud coughing sound, nudging Santana with Beth still clinging to his leg. She scowls and pries the little girl off of him, picking her up and disappearing into the house.

"Great girlfriend you got there," she tells him with all the sarcasm she can muster, seething with anger. The chilly wind that brushes past her shoulder into her house is soothing rather than cold and she can feel something burning inside of her, coursing like streaks of adrenaline through her veins.

He just gives her a hard look, his eyes darkened with anger. "Yeah," he comments rather harshly, "I don't think you're in much of a position to judge that, are you?"

"You know what," she responds frostily, "I just remembered what I came here for." Her voice is dim, trembling with fury.

"This is yours." She reaches into her pocket. Grabbing his hand and ignoring the electrifying tingle that runs through her arm, she slaps it carelessly into his palm.

"Now I guess you can give it to Santana," she whispers loathingly, feeling tears sting the back of her eyes. She brushes her fingers over her eyelids, holding them above her temples and shaking her head, refusing to cry in front of him, "or anyone else you want."

She inhales deeply and steps back. His reaction goes from anger to surprise to confusion and she can see walls crumbling in his eyes.

"Look," he says, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips, seemingly nervous, "when I gave it to you, it was a promise. I said that I would never hurt you, and I don't intend to break that promise, even if it means we're not where we used to be."

He takes it out of the box and reaches for her hand, gently, uncurling her fisted hand and placing the cool metal band in her outstretched palm. He closes her fingers over it as she pulls her arm away, clutching it close to her chest as if it were wounded.

She makes a noise of indignation. "God, you'd never hurt me and you don't intend to break that promise ever? What, did you get that line from Avatar?"

"From Lord of the Rings, actually," he says helpfully, a glimmer of a smirk.

"Well, that's great," she says, swallowing, clenching the ring hard until her knuckles turn white. She looks away. "Only maybe one day you'll realize you already broke that promise when you broke up with me!"

"You were cheating on me with Finn," he says slowly. "Did you expect me to stand around and be your little puppy?"

Something in him snaps and he slams her up against the wall, pushing her against the bricks, holding her arms at the wrists. The sharp jagged rocks dig into her back. "Why did you have to fuck with me?" He whispers furiously, his breath hot against her neck. "I trusted you. Wouldn't it just have been enough to tell me that you didn't love me, that you didn't feel the same way I did?"

She swallows again, tears pricking her eyes. She ignores one as it rolls down her cheek. "Yeah, maybe it would have been," she says, "but I told you. I don't know what I feel, I did feel something with you and I could have loved you. I might have loved you, I felt something. I didn't know, and then you broke up with me, and Finn went back to Rachel."

Their heads are so close together their noses almost touch. He reaches up to brush a strand of hair plastered to her forehead, and she flinches, but she doesn't move away. And suddenly he's leaned down and pressed his lips to hers with a sort of urgency, feeling tingles of electricity as his hands brush over her body and with Finn she feels fireworks but with Sam it's like lightning, and god, something in the back of her brain tells her this isn't right—no it isn't right, and they shouldn't be doing this at all but it feels so good.

Her eyes snap open and she pushes him off of her, hair thoroughly dishevelled and lips swollen, gasping for air.

She stumbles backwards and runs (see, that's what Quinn Fabray does best) and all of a sudden it's raining, it's raining, and she's running away, and she's glad it's raining, because only then no one can see her cry.

a/n: Now, that is my sorry excuse for a written-in-5-minutes-snog-scene. And also, this piece actually helped me get out of this pit of writing despair I'd been in for the past few, and I'd always wanted to write some Fabrevans in retaliation towards Ryan Murphy and his abhorrent taste of couple pairings, so this is what came out. I'm sorry if the ending isn't good enough and if it seems rushed.

disclaimer: I don't own Glee, or Avatar, or Lord of the Rings. And I definitely don't own Hey Lady, which is where the quote at the top and the title came from because I was too lazy to come up with one.