Title: What Dreams are Made Of (1/1)
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn, Finn/Quinn, Finn/Rachel
Summary: Quinn and Rachel's moment in the bathroom on Prom Night: expanded.
Warnings/Spoilers: "Prom Queen"
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own Glee. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.
Author's Note: Please review if you read.
(1/1) WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF
The corsage matches her eyes, just like you knew it would. If you spritzed it with a bit of water, they would actually be identical.
You do more thinking about her than you're willing to admit. You think about how pretty she is. Not just in the way that she is physically attractive, but how everything she does is beautiful in some way. You put on her pedestal, almost as high as the one you hope to be on one day.
"Quinn," you say. She glances up and your words are gone. You don't look away. You just look into those eyes and wish that it were easier to do this.
You have a lot in common. You're both talented. Dated Finn. Are never enough for him. Get more attention than the other girls, but still somehow manage to be overlooked and ignored at the least opportune times. Deserve better than spending part of prom in a dirty bathroom with a bruised cheek and ego. (It's obvious who has which.)
She sighs. Her focus goes back to the mirror. Without glancing at you, she admits, "He fought Jesse because he still wants you."
You tell her, "But he always wants you. He always wants whichever one of us isn't kissing him. I don't think he actually know himself who he'd rather be with."
"Who would you rather be with?" she asks. You know she means between Finn and Jesse, but - despite the way you fawn and lose all intelligence once Jesse St. James walks into the room - you imagine she's part of the equation too. She's your answer.
"I'm on the fence," you tell her. She sighs. Maybe she is too.
You turn to the mirror yourself. Does it show on your face how much you want to be her? Be with her? You would love to place labels and chase after her, but really, you don't think it would make any difference. Whether you call yourself bisexual, Quinnsexual, or fluid, you're still going to imagine what it'd be like to turn around, grab hold of that sullen face, and kiss her until she smiles like the queen she is. Kiss her until she feels every bit as pretty and worthwhile as she did before these last two years made her doubt it.
"I voted for you," you say. She pauses and her eyes dart towards you. You shrug. Who else would you vote for honestly?
"Why not vote for Santana? Or Lauren?"
"Santana tries so hard, but she doesn't want it as much as you do. And Lauren told people something that was yours to tell," you say.
She stops looking at you. Looking into her mirror, though, you see the way her eyes glaze over as if seeing those pictures all over the halls again. You reach your hand out to place it on top of hers. Her eyes regain focus and widen. You put it on the sink beside her instead.
She watches your hand, each flex of your finger and slight movement with your breath. She follows it back up to your face before she goes back to watching it. You wonder if she's always been this… evasive. Or if it's something that Quinn does because of Lucy.
"I don't hate you, Rachel," she says, "I've said it before, but I just slapped you and I feel like saying it again. I don't hate you." She turns her body to face yours. You note that her grip on the sink tightens as if she's forcing her hand not to move towards yours. You don't comment on it because she's speaking again.
She adds, "Actually, I wish I had your strength. We made fun of you and called you horrible names. You never changed yourself. You never hid."
You laugh just a bit. Her shock makes you regret it just a bit. You explain, "I hide in my voice, Quinn. I hide in the big smiles, pretending that the big picture makes everything else okay. I cried to my dads for hours, every day, for years. I force myself to dress the way I do because if I'm going to be harassed for nothing, I might as well have something that I can blame it on. It's the sweaters, or the skirts, or the socks. It's not me. It's not who I am inside that gets picked on."
"But what if it is?" Quinn asks. You pause. Way to not hate you.
"Wow," you breathe.
"I meant for me, Rachel. It's not how I look that makes people hate me now. It's how I act. It's…" her sentence falls a bit as she struggles to keep the tears from falling. "I needed tonight. I needed to feel like I haven't ruined the rest of my life."
"And you thought winning prom queen would do that?" you check.
She snaps, "What else? Can you make me feel like that?"
She freezes. Shit. You said it aloud.
"How?" she asks.
Your many years of Broadway productions and romantic comedy films have left you with only one option. Without answering verbally, you step in and place your lips on hers. It's brief. Barely there. In fact, you could even pretend it never happened. But it does. When you pull back, she laughs. She honestly laughs. It starts out in the tone of 'oh great, another fucking thing that just ruins it all', but somewhere along the way it turns into a full belly, hysterical, happy laugh. You join in because you honestly can't help it. (Besides, laughing is better than crying, right?) Eventually, you're both on the floor, clutching your sides and leaning on each other to keep your heads from going under the bathroom sinks.
Just as quickly as it started, the laughter stops. She looks into your eyes and says, "Thank you."
She laughs again before pushing herself up. She extends a hand towards you. You take it instantly. The two of you hold hands a bit longer than necessary. She lets go first. No surprise there. She walks away. Again, you saw it coming.
She stops at the door though. She looks over her shoulder at you, sizing you up. What does she want? You won't tell. You promise.
"No one will know about this," you assure her.
She shakes her head. Maybe that wasn't what she was thinking. Hmm.
Her gaze drifts and you follow it down to your own wrist. The homemade corsage gifted by Sam. You refused to let Jesse by you a new one. This one matches your eyes. Like hers does. You look back towards those eyes and they're waiting for you.
Quinn says, "If anyone could call me 'Lucy,' it'd be you, Rachel."
"What do you want me to call you?" you ask. You expect silence in response. Or her to walk away. Or just the obvious use of her middle name.
"Tonight. Call me tonight. We'll talk," she says.
"Oh, and Rachel?"
"Thanks for the corsage."
You smile. She returns it before leaving the bathroom.
Later, your gaggle of friends piles into the limo to head home. Sam and Mercedes giggle and gush about the end of the dance. When they ask how you liked it, you answer with a wistful,
"Best night ever."
Title - "What Dreams are Made Of (Reprise)" from the Lizzie McGuire Movie