Title: Beers and Strippers

Chapter: 19/?

Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry || Faberry. (Quinn-centric)

Rating: T to M (and I'm too lazy to tell you which chapters are which, so just assume they're all M).

Summary: Sometimes people were made to be together. Sometimes, 'good' people can do horrible things. What would Quinn's life be like without Russell Fabray? Faberry. Set the start of S2, AU onwards. Spoilers for everything

Disclaimer: Don't own a single damn thing. Don't want to, either, to be honest. I just own my own blunders in this fic since it's un-beta'ed. If e'er there were a disclaimer, it'd be this: I am not responsible for any spontaneous sobbing, retching, and/or peeing that occurs within (or around you) when you read this story.

A/N: I decided to just post it as one chapter. Why not? This was written in a very specific way for a reason. Feel free, if you do not enjoy, to go over to the left side of the room.

Quinn is supposed to be the first person to show up to Rachel's house because she promised she'd be there to ease her nerves (apparently, party-throwing is nerve-wracking) but the outfit-picking kind of threw her off-schedule and she's actually one of the later ones. In fact, the only two people who haven't gotten here, yet, are Finn and Kurt who are probably riding together since they both live together and, honestly, Quinn wouldn't be surprised if Finn just skipped this one (though she wouldn't be surprised if he showed up just to drunkenly serenade Rachel). Even Santana is sitting on the couch with Brittany on top of her, both of them laughing.

"Hey, Girlfriend!" Rachel cheers as soon as Quinn walks around the edge of the stairs and the blonde awkwardly laughs as a small bundle of brunette energy tackles into her and nearly knocks her off-balance.

"Hey there, peppy." She cautiously tries and Rachel just beams up at her, not letting go.

"You're late." Rachel pouts, a frown on her lips and finally she can smell a hint of alcohol on her friend's breath and nods knowingly.

"You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk!" Is her instant response.

"She only had one drink." Puck throws in, smirk in place and Quinn doesn't mind absolutely glaring at him. He throws his hands up defensively, "Hey, woah, she was freaking out about the party and stuff so I just thought it would, like, help and stuff. Chill. She's happy now."

"Yes, Noah was the first person to arrive, Quinn, unlike other people—" Rachel guilts, even though her arms are still around Quinn's waist.

"You were the first person here?" This honestly surprises her because, seriously, Puck has rules about this kind of stuff. A "Cool Dude Jew" (self-proclaimed) is to show up at least two hours late with a bunch of booze and sometimes contraband. The fact that he showed up first is utterly confusing.

Puck shrugs. "Yeah. I was hungry."

"I fed him." Rachel nods. "You could have been fed, too, if you had just—"

Quinn just shrugs her arm out from under Rachel's vice grip and places it unceremoniously on her lips, quirking an eyebrow at her child's father. He shrinks a little under her gaze.

"You gave her alcohol." Quinn's tone is murderous, even if it is quiet, and it's probably a good thing that the rest of Glee hasn't noticed her arrival, yet, due to the alcohol and the music blaring through the basement. Quinn likes Puck now, but her last experience with the man and alcoholic beverages—when alone—lead to some pretty bad things.

Puck was alone with Rachel. With alcohol.

Puck must follow her line of thinking because his hands shake wildly, still up and defensive, eyes wide, "Woah, woah, no. I mean—not that I wouldn't, because she's totally a slammin' hot Jew—" This isn't the right thing to say. Quinn's hand protectively tightens on Rachel's back, other hand sealing a little hard against her mouth. "Chill, Babe." Puck finally settles on, running a hand through his mohawk. "It was just a small drink. It's not my fault she's a lightweight."

Quinn looks back down at Rachel's intent glare, easing her hand's grip.

"I'm not drunk." Her friend petulantly whines through Quinn's fingers and the ex-cheerleader rolls her eyes. "And don't be so discourteous towards Noah, Quinn Fabray. He has been more than a gentleman." Quinn still glares at Puck who lets out a rough sigh and mumbles whatever before stalking off. Rachel hits her shoulder.

"Oww. What—"

"Stop being so protective, Quinn." Rachel finally loosens her grip, fingers sliding down Quinn's arms to tangle with her hands. "Come join the party."

"It really is in full swing." Quinn notes, finally looking around the room.

Everyone, it appears, has already started drinking without her.

Brittany has taken to doing shots off of Santana's neck; Artie is beat-boxing in the corner with Mike, who is dancing like crazy; Mercedes and Tina are cheering on Brittany, tossing singles her way; and Sam is belting out karaoke over the sound system. Quinn blinks. Okay, Sam is belting out karaoke with no shirt on and a clown wig.

All of these things are new.

Quinn looks over at the clock on Rachel's wall and blinks—seriously, she's only, like, an hour late...how much drinking could they have done?

Rachel tugs Quinn towards the middle of the room, "Yes, with no help from you." She petulantly points out and her best friend rolls her eyes.

"Lay off it, already." She laughs. "I'm sorry." She admits when Rachel twists around, slipping a little, to glare at her, "I lost track of time." She actually just kind of stared at her phone awkwardly for a good hour, after picking out her clothes, but, still, she does feel like a jerk.

"It's alright." Rachel sincerely accepts, eyes bright and Quinn knows she's not really that drunk, in this moment, because her eyes are as clear as a summer's day. "It's better now that you're here, anyways." She bites her lip, "I'd understand if you don't wish to drink. I wasn't partial towards the idea, at first, but it actually is kind of nice." Rachel's fingers play with Quinn's, eyes darting to the side. "It's the first time I've drank, you see."

It's Rachel's first party, too, Quinn knows and she's not surprised that there's alcohol at it since her friend caves so easily to peer pressure. "You don't have to drink, you know." Quinn tries to give her an out. "I won't drink if you don't—"

"I'll feel better about it if you do it with me." Rachel rushes out, like this is a prepared bit of speech and her eyebrow quirks naturally in response. The smaller girl shifts awkwardly, hands dropping. "I mean, that is..." She clears her throat, "It really is quite enjoyable and I..." Rachel looks like she's trying to pin down an ideal or a fleeting thought or speech that she'd once had memorized, but it's been years sine she's thought of it. "I don't know. I'd like to share this first with you."

It's a really awkward sentiment to voice out loud and Quinn's throat dries at the idea of sharing any...firsts...with Rachel.

"I mean," Rachel sounds frustrated, shaking her head, "I certainly don't want to take advantage of your hospitality or need to appease. Nor would I wish to take advantage of you in your inebriated state," Quinn's not even sure she knows what that one means, "I just want my best friend to do it with me."

"You want me to get drunk with you." Quinn's amused voice asks and Rachel reddens.

"Well, I'd certainly like for your connotations with the notion of drinking to be more pleasant and I think that my drunken company could certainly provide a pleasurable time." Rachel's smile is hesitant and, once more, Quinn kicks herself because her throat goes dry.

She clears her voice, shrugging a little, "Right."

"It's just something I'd like to share with you, I suppose." Rachel finally settles on, eyes genuine and curious, but there's still something like practiced measure behind them. "You certainly don't have to if you do not wish to, but you rarely get to...let your hair down, anymore, so to speak." Rachel shifts on her feet, head ducking before their eyes once more meet. "You're always working," Quinn can't help the way her head nervously whips around to make sure no one's heard her friend and Rachel rolls her eyes, reaching up to tilt her cheek so that their eyes once more meet, "You're always moving and working and doing...things. I know I get to see you at ease but I would be lying if I said that there was no ulterior motive in throwing this party tonight other than celebration."

Quinn's eyes widen before they slit. She's not used to good ulterior motives, even from Rachel. Okay, actually, kind of especially from Rachel. She doesn't like crack houses. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Rachel drawls, sighing roughly, "I did it for you. I mean, yes, I'm happy we won Regionals and all that, but you work so hard, Quinn, and I don't even know when your birthday is!" She whines, stamping her foot a little, and the blonde shakes her head.

"Okay, I'm a little confused."

"I want you to relax." Rachel says easily, drink obviously loosening the majority of her nerves as her dark fingers come up to play with the curls on the back of her neck. Quinn gulps a little, stomach anything but relaxed. "I want you to have a little fun."

"That's a little ironic, coming from you." She jokes, hands hesitating for only a moment before they resume their familiar perch on her best friend's hips.

"Well, it's obviously also for me." Rachel states offhandedly

"Obviously." Quinn smiles.

"I want for both of us to just stop...thinking so much." Rachel says with more than one meaning, eyes shifting down before they slide up to meet Quinn's through heavy eyelashes, and the blonde knows there's more than one ulterior motive at play here. "I want to just have fun with my best friend and if alcohol helps that, then so be it."

"The alcohol was your idea." Quinn finally concludes, tone a little incredulous, and Rachel's hands lock behind her neck, the look on her face a tad sheepish.

"Maybe." She concedes.

Quinn laughs. "You're devious."

"I'm the title-holder, remember?" Rachel smirks, eyes twinkling, and Quinn nods, looking down into Rachel's close eyes. "So what do you say, girlfriend?" She repeats the term of endearment and breath is sparse in the waitresses' lungs for a long moment before she nods. Rachel is a little peppy, but she's not nearly intoxicated enough, and it's somewhere between the dangerously enticing look in Rachel's eyes and walking through the front door that Quinn decides that she has a valid enough reason to drink, tonight, earlier vow be damned.


Rachel's victorious smirk is anything but devious but Quinn doesn't care—Rachel Berry isn't the only one who can turn a situation to her advantage.







Brittany and Santana must finally notice that Quinn's walked through the door (ten minutes ago) because they're both suddenly shouting at her across the room and the called girl laughs. For a moment, staring at a very-drunk Santana and Brittany brings Quinn back to cheer camp, one summer, and she smiles warmly, tugging Rachel towards the two.

"Do shots off my abs." Brittany inquires.

"Don't you dare." Santana instantly says. "But I'll totally do them off of yours." She smirks, looking between both of them.

"Hey!" The other blonde drunkenly slurs, "That's, like, cheating. You can't be protective if you're just gonna do it anyways."

"Double-standards, B. I gots them."

Brittany huffs. "Whatever. I think—Oh! Oh! Sam! Sing louder, I love this song."

She proceeds to get up and start dancing a little too...saucily for Quinn's (not virgin) eyes and she idly turns to Rachel, who starts clapping and dancing, too, and sends a silent prayer to God.

"Where's that alcohol again?"

For once in her life, she's silently thankful for Puck having the innate talent to materialize wine coolers from thin air.

It's around the sixth drink that Quinn realizes that she must be a lightweight because, while it's a little ignorant of her, she never realized how differently different drinks affect a girl of her size.

Two winecoolers and four shots later, she's definitely affected, and she's had more than she definitely should, and she's definitely using definitely way too much.

She's also dancing on the table, hands above her head, to a Ke$ha song, all of the Glee club cheering her on. The way Rachel's looking at her only makes her dance harder and when she offers the brunette her hand to join her, she takes it without thinking twice.

Rachel's skin is hot against her own—her hair smells like vanilla and her neck smells like lavender that the smell of alcohol hasn't tainted—her arms are smooth and her breath wispy—her smile large and her eyes dark and carefree—she feels good and fantastic and right and she looks so beautiful and happy that Quinn just pulls her tighter against her.

There's no order, after this—no memory or reason or rhyme or sanity—and Quinn can't remember what goes where.

"My spy license!" Brittany shouts and Santana bellows and Quinn laughs and giggles when Rachel pulls her down next to her on the couch. Their feet tangle and Rachel's arms wrap around her waist.

"Quinn!" Rachel giggles when the blonde finally settles against her, brow full of sweat and shoulders lacking worry.

"My name's Lucy, y'know." Quinn taps Rachel on the nose, head lolling to the side of Rachel's bare shoulder, her shrug ditched in a time the other girl can't remember. Rachel vehemently shakes her head, knee slipping off the couch and forcing her further into the blonde's side.

"Nuh-uh." Rachel turns around fully, anchoring herself around Quinn's neck. "I think I'd notice."


"Nooooo." Rachel drawls it out like it's the prelude to Ghost Dawg. "Your name's Quinn Fabray." Rachel slurs when she says this, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "Quinn Fabray." She settles on.

"Yes it is!" Quinn takes offense, frowning. "I mean—it is—but it isn't. It is...n't. It's Lucy."


"Yes." Quinn has to strain to see Rachel's eyes.

"No." Rachel's still shaking her head.



"Cat fight!" Puck hoots from the side and Quinn and Rachel both turn their heads to the side to glare at him. Rachel nearly falls over from the motion but Quinn catches her, both of them pitching forward. Puck raises his eyebrows but doesn't push it further. "Sorry, whatever." He stumbles a little towards the other end of the room.

"I kinda like Lucy, though." Rachel finally decides, turning to Quinn. "Luuuuuuuucy." She sings it, giggling. "You're in the sky with diamonds!"

"Shut up." Quinn chuckles, leaning back into the couch, her head too heavy to move. She's heard that enough throughout her young years, she doesn't need her best friend to do it, too. Even drunk, Quinn hates those memories that swim in her vision like Rachel's sort of swimming in her vision, now.

"I like Quinn, though." Rachel nods, turning back to her best friend, hand sliding from her shoulder down to her stomach. "I like you." Rachel leans forward and places a sloppy kiss on Quinn's cheek. "I like Quinn lots." Rachel's not nearly as verbose drunk as she is sober (even though she totally is), but it's still warming to the blonde's heart. It's actually a lot easier to understand her, even so heavily intoxicated, so she definitely thinks it's a plus.

"I like you, too." Quinn beams, arms snaking around Rachel's waist to keep her on the cushions...to keep Rachel against her.

"Goodnight." Her breath is husky against her ear and eyes searing.

"She's a brick, dun-ah-dun-ah, hooooouuuuuuse!" Artie slurs, hands waving wildly in the air as he twirls his shirt around while Brittany pours hot sauce on his head.

"He knows he's not supposed to sing the actual acoustics of the song, right?" Rachel mumbles, giggle on her voice. Quinn shrugs. "You know, at first I thought truth and dare was lame..."

"Now it's totally awesome." Quinn agrees.

They turn together and high-five.

Santana just makes a gagging noise behind their back before screaming, "Don't forget the sex noises!"

Artie huffs before he starts moaning loudly (and somewhat like a little boy who fell off a ladder and can't climb back up).

The pair stiffens.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks, scared, timid, and a little pitiful. Quinn drunkenly pats her cheek, hand slipping down to her chin.

"Just say truth every time it's Santana's turn."

"Quinn the good," Rachel smiles, holding out her hand. "Might you escort me henceforth towards my chambers of awesomeness?"

Quinn just smiles, laughing softly, and pulls her in tight, unintentionally twirling until Rachel's pinned her against the edge of the stairs.

They slide down to the cold floor, giggling.

Breath, a pale pair of lips gasping it,


"Stop!" Tina shrieks, all smiles, across the room when Mike bites her ear.

"The only reason she didn't kick her off the team was because, even with a broken arm, Quinn was the biggest ball-buster Sylvester had ever seen. She'd make the team run suicides until ten at night and would do them like they were cake." Santana's head is in Brittany's lap and her tone is a little jealous.

"She even made Velma—this really, really smart senior—cry." Brittany's head lolls to the side and Rachel looks back at Quinn, her head on her shoulder, eyes dark, clouded, and curious.

"She, like, never went home, either." Santana grumbles. "It was annoying."

"I know!" Brittany gasps, laughing and pointing a finger at Quinn. Santana leans up on her elbows, head pressing against a bare stomach.

"Every day I'd come into school and there she'd be: practicing."

"That sounds so unhealthy, Quinn." Rachel chides, eyes searching hazel, and Quinn rolls her own eyes for good measure.

"It's whatever. I was just..." Her eyebrows furrow for a moment before she giggles, "Committed." She finds the idea of commitment a little baffling and hilarious while intoxicated. Santana, however, is still ranting.

"Even with a broken arm she could do a double dismount without even blinking twice. Hands down—chikita tengo game." Santana butchers, recounting Finn trying to speak spanish earlier in the night with a drunken smile

Santana, obviously, only gets like this when she's really drunk (complimentary and over-flattering) and Quinn rolls her eyes and stumbles over Rachel a little when she tries to grab her friend's drink off the table.

"No more drinks for you, Cap'n." She jokes, still trying to reach for the bottle, but Rachel doesn't move from her lap.

"Quinn always liked it better at the school." Brittany's fingers skim up Santana's arm in a droopy, tired slant. "I thought she just, like, lived there."

"We used to call her Kermit the Hermit behind her back."

"That was you?" Quinn moans, knocking over the glass onto the floor of the basement. All four of them stare at it for a moment before Rachel bursts out laughing and the rest follow up suit.

"Does it hurt?" She asks, eyes imploring and fingers too gentle for Quinn to feel like she deserves them.

"No." She says, shaking her head.

"I meant does it hurt..." She falters, for a moment, filter flickering back on for barely a moment. "Does it hurt to lose a father?"

Quinn shrugs and drops her head into dark skin. "I wouldn't know."

"I just mean you should, like, talk to her, Q." Finn slouches way too much when intoxicated and his hand is too heavy on Quinn's shoulder. She shrugs it off. "I know we've got our differences and everything but you should just discuss it with her."

Quinn's baffled for a moment. "How are you smarter drunk?" Differences? Discuss? The largest words that start with 'D' Finn Hudson knows are probably Damn and Duck. Maybe, after tonight, 'drunk'.

Finn just looks at her and Quinn, for a moment, hates him. But she's drunk and she remembers when he let her sleep in his bed and he took the floor and he used to sing to her stomach, at night. Her eyes soften and her tongue stings.

Fuck is a lot easier to think when drunk.

"Yeah, sure, Finn."

"I got that scar when I was five and Big Jimmy pushed me over on the playground." She looks sad, for a moment, and Quinn delicately pushes the hair further back on her head, leaning in closer than she'd normally let herself to examine. "I was advanced for my age, you see."

"Big Jimmy?" She asks, not too intoxicated enough to think that's a real name.

"I know. It's horrible to be bullied by such a Neanderthal." Rachel huffs, eyes dark.

"You never should have been bullied in the first place." Quinn sighs, sad, and Rachel looks into her eyes and leans back.

"I'm thirsty." Rachel whispers.

Quinn nods.

"I'll go get you some water."

Quinn throws her head around a little too much and hits it against the lamp (which she doesn't remember being there, but thinks that Puck might have moved it when him and Sam put up that home-made water slide).

"We'll never talk about this, will we?" She asks, dark eyes imploring and bare shoulders tight.

"I don't know." She replies.

She doesn't.

Apparently, large black women can't hold their liquor because the skin of Mercedes' back is cool and smooth when Quinn places her hand on it, soothing, other hand sweeping back a stream of black as the other girl bends over and prays to the porcelain gods.

Quinn tells her its okay and holds her when she cries because Mercedes did it for her too many times

"Kurt looks lovely in blue, doesn't he?" Rachel sounds so excited that people actually came and Quinn smiles indulgently.

"He looks better in your basement."

"I don't give two shits about her!" Puck shouts as he downs a car bomb and Quinn laughs like she believes him.

"The nerve he has, really!" Rachel sounds too sad when she's supposed to sound angry.

"I think I should stop doing shots off of Mike's abs." Tina whines, head buried in Kurt's lap as the skinny boy hums show tunes.

"Asians so don't have alcohol taller..." Mike's eyebrows scrunch, "Taller-ants."

"Dude, no one cares about ant farms!" Finn shouts, angry, across the room.

"I mean, I only talked to him because of you." Rachel insists, fingers trailing from Quinn's elbow to her neck. "I didn't even want to." She shakes her head. "All I can remember is how bad it was and I don't want things to be bad anymore. I don't want things to be bad. I don't want to be bad." Her fingers are desperate against Quinn's chin. "I don't want to feel like it anymore—like I'm using. I just want to be happy. I deserve that, right, Quinn?"

Quinn nods, eyes caught and lips parted.

"You tell me I deserve it but I don't believe you. You look at me like I deserve it but I don't believe you." Rachel's words slur and her eyes are so sad. "I want to believe you. I want to believe I can be happy but that...for me to be happy..." She trails off and then decides, "My dream, Quinn." She says, like it all wraps up.

Quinn nods, again, eyes holding Rachel as tightly as her fingers against her waist.

"Do you think Xavier makes his wheelchair out of, like, military grade shit, or do you just think he imports if from Italy?" Puck asks, arm slung around Quinn's shoulders.

"I wish I could import my chair from Italy." Artie sulks and Quinn shrugs.

"Why don't you?"

"Why doesn't Xavier just use his telekinesis to walk?" Rachel wonders, fingers pulling at Quinn's knee for some reason.

Santana looks like a revelation's hit her. "This is why you're friends!"

Artie just sighs and Kurt perkily tells him they should dance.

"Aww! Like Boq and Nessarose." Rachel coos.

"Boq hated—" Quinn glares down at Rachel.

"This is why we're not." Santana continues, tone bored, looking between Rachel, Quinn, and Artie. "Losers."

"I mean, you understand, don't you?" Trapped. Suffocated. Yes. She does. "I don't know what to do anymore." Rachel whispers, tone broken and Quinn shakes her head. Their eyes connect and she honestly can't breathe, anymore. "You understand, don't you, Quinn?"

Quinn doesn't have to pretend she does. She nods.

Rachel smiles, eyes full of something Quinn's not scared to recognize, tonight. "You always do."

Brittany looks curious as Mercedes sits next to them, on the couch, eyes sunken and face kind of flushed.

"What do taquitos taste like when they're bird food?"

Mercedes just scowls, "Girl, I do not feel good enough for this shit."

Quinn feels like an asshole because she laughs.

"I don't know." Quinn downplays. "She's trying." She concedes.

Rachel's fingers cup her cheek and her fingers play through her hair and her eyes are deep—endless—and Quinn smiles.

"You're beautiful, you know." Quinn whispers and Rachel's eyes just search her own, gaze intense and unblinking.

"You do want it, don't you?" Rachel asks like a statement and Quinn's tongue darts out between her lips.

"I took Rachel shopping last weekend." Kurt conspiratorially whispers against her ear and Quinn's eyebrow quirks and she's honestly trying to pay attention. "You don't like her talking to him, do you?" He asks, tone ever-perky and high and Quinn sighs, looking up from her cup into his sincere eyes. He's too perceptive for her liking.

"Ya think?" Sam grumbles from the chair and Quinn sighs, again, deeper, looking towards her blonde friend who smiles encouragingly at her.

"All I'm saying is that the outfit wasn't for Finn, obviously." Kurt points out and Quinn looks back down into her drink, scowling.

She's pretty sure it wasn't for her, either.

The bed feels cold when they stumble into it, Rachel on top of her, fingers in her hair and drunken murmurs not as smooth as probably thought.

"I'm telling you, Berry. Freddie would kick Hannibal's ass any day." Santana insists, shouting.

Rachel is vehement.

Debates, Quinn decides, are not for the drunks.

"Therefore, I think Sydney-Beth," Rachel appropriately uses the quiet name, "Will benefit greatly from being at Shelby's house."

"It makes you sad." Quinn points out.

"It makes you sad, too." Rachel rebuts and their eyes connect.

Quinn scoots over.

"I meant it, you know, I really do—"

The crashing of glass is too loud in the basement, but they're too loud to hear it.

They laugh and push and sing.

"I think all of my parents like you more than me." She pouts and Quinn shakes her head, pushing harder.

"I like you more than all of my parents."

Rachel laughs.

"This is shit!" Finn growls as his fist slams against the wall and Rachel looks so small behind him and all of Glee instantly moves to stand, even if they wobble a little bit on their feet. Quinn's arms are instantly around her waist, pulling her back, and Sam and Puck are twisting Finn around, and even Santana is asking if the brunette is okay. "I'm not gonna hurt her!" Finn shouts and shakes his head.

Rachel shrugs her shoulders and buries her face in Quinn's neck. "He won't." She promises but Quinn isn't sure. "He won't." She says, again, surer.

Puck looks between the two.

"Come on, man, let's get you something to drink."

The stairs cut into Quinn's back but not nearly as much as Rachel's fingers do.

"I think we should let them sleep." Rachel loudly, drunkenly, whispers into Quinn's ear. Half are passed out and only Puck and Kurt are playing strip poker, still, the karaoke sound system going on in the background. "Everyone's on their side." She assures and Quinn nods.

Sam is still singing Ke$ha.

Rachel's fingers twine with hers and they stumble up the stairs towards her bedroom.

"I should plug in my phone." Rachel pouts, looking down at it forlornly.

"You should plug in your attitude." Santana counters, hanging off the couch, and Rachel and Quinn just stare at her.

"You're not drunk enough that that made sense, are you?" Quinn mumbles in her best friend's ear. Rachel shakes her head.

"I'm not quite sure. She slurred too much...I...was she even speaking english?"

Quinn just shrugs.

Quinn giggles when Rachel lands unceremoniously on top of her, both of them sprawled out on the floor on the second landing, wood cold and the star-spangled banner looks somehow funny to Quinn, framed above their heads on the wall.

She starts singing it and Rachel joins her, laughing.

"No, Brittany!" Mercedes finally shouts, "Taquitos suck. Now lemme alone, you crazy bitch!"

"Quinn." Rachel gasps, back arching and fingers clasping into the back of Quinn's shoulder blades. Her name sounds beautiful from Rachel's parted lips and their eyes connect and stay.

Rachel's hands cup her cheeks and their foreheads meet and Quinn whispers it against the last space of breath between them.


"I should stop before I sing This Land is My Land," Rachel giggles, finger skimming down the line of Quinn's cheek to her chin. Quinn giggles with her, catching her finger and pressing the smallest of kisses to it, lips lingering.

Dark brown so beautiful—almost black—so many promises and words and life.

"It wouldn't be a mistake." Rachel recounts from hours and minutes ago and Quinn leans up and she does it. She finally does it.

She kisses her.

"I think I might transfer to Dalton." Kurt mumbles, eyes flitting along the side of the wall.

"Why?" Quinn asks and the small boy retreats into himself, taking a dainty sip of his drink.

It's okay. Quinn shouldn't expect him to talk to her when she doesn't talk to him.

Rachel tastes like alcohol and promises and something wonderful Quinn's drunken mind can't wrap her head around.

It's more than Quinn's ever felt she'd ever have, in life. Rachel's more than she ever felt she'd have in life.

So she clings to her like a lifeboat right next to the sinking Titanic.

"So do you think we'll win Nationals?" Sam asks, excited and eyes bright and drink still somewhat new in his hand.

"I don't really care!" Quinn shouts over the music. She doesn't. "I just want to go to New York!"

Sam looks hopeful and invested, "But we, like, have a shot, right?"

"I don't care!" Quinn repeats, taking a swig of his drink, "I just want to go to New York!"

Quinn points up at the star-spangled banner and quirks an eyebrow.

"Metaphors are important." She states easily, eyes dancing, clouded, and Rachel guffaws against her neck before she leans forward and whispers something that Quinn promises she'll never forget, in her ear.

She makes herself, the next morning, even though she never really does.

"Fathers suck." Puck agrees, thumb running up Quinn's neck to her ear.

"You didn't." Her head lolls to the side to meet his.

"Maybe I woulda." He mumbles.

"No." She's sure of very few things in her life—but she's sure of this.

"No." Rachel agrees, fingers lazily tightening around Quinn's. "You wouldn't have."

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

Teeth bite her ear and fingers scratch down her hips to her lower back.

She sucks on a pulse and holds her head against her own neck when she feels tears sting against the cut on her cheek. She's not sure if the tears are hers or Rachel's and she's not sure she wants to find out.

Rachel runs her fingers through her hair as she raises her hands to the sky and smooths her hips through the air like a painter takes a brush to canvas.

The music is loud and Ke$ha is warning all of them that something's 'bout to blow.

She leans over the couch, eyes half-lidded and dark, voice husky, and smile dangerous. Her arms slip around Quinn's neck and the taller of the two leans further into the couch, breath low. Tanned knees move to either side of her hips and thin fingers move to Rachel's back to keep her from falling backwards, giggling a little as the alcohol gets the best of her.

A pale throat bobs as she swallows, lips dry and eyes dark.

"I told you to just say truth!" Quinn says a little louder than just necessary when a nose is buried in her neck, laughter a low, rumbling sound. The group around them cheers, Puck smirking and Finn taking another shot.

"Wanna hear a secret?" Rachel mumbles, pulling back. Quinn nods. Their noses brush.

"Do it, already!" Santana hoots.

"I don't mind this one."

Quinn's eyes close, fingers slipping and going slack before she gasps and they tighten. Her neck. Her neck—

"Right...right th—"

"There's so little time." She mumbles into her collarbone, fingers tight and voice frantic, desperate. "There's no time."

"We'll make it." Quinn catches her face and brings it up so she can look at her, both of them blinking and swooning from the adjustment. "Anything."

"Anything." Rachel assents.

"I think we'll make it through anything." Rachel states proudly, fingers twined with Quinn's and the other girl just smiles widely, nodding.

"Good." She happily states. Rachel tries to tug her towards the stage. "I'm still not doing the duet with you, drunk or not." She still-happily-states.

Rachel pouts, then scowls, and stamps her foot before throwing her hands up in outrage.

Quinn just pokes her cheek. "It's okay." She snorts. "We'll make it through this."

Rachel just screams in frustration.

Rachel must not have eaten much the day before, because it all looks pretty sparse when she throws it up.

"It's okay, baby." Quinn soothes, hand more insistent than it was on Mercedes' back. "I'm right here."

"You want to lick her—" She sounds surprised and a little affronted.

"Tina!" Quinn shrieks, pouting. "I did not say that!"

Rachel rolls her eyes, cheeks red. "Perhaps it's not a good idea to play telephone while we are all intoxicated." Her fingers are still clasped in Quinn's.

Santana smiles lecherously across the room, "What are you talking about? I think this is fantastic."

"I know I want to lick—"

"Brittany!" Quinn yelps, face entirely red.

To her horror, Rachel just laughs.

"I can't stop." Rachel murmurs, fingers tight and tears too real. "I don't want to stop."

"I know."

"I should, shouldn't I?"

"Maybe? I don't know."

"Do you think we'll make it?"

"I think we'll try."

"That's so weird!" Quinn shakes her head. "I used to have a doctor named Ryan. I'd never, like, sleep with a guy named Ryan." Santana shakes her head.

"I'm just saying I'd totes sleep with Ryan Gosling." Brittany says, smile too wide and eyes dark.

"The Notebook made me cry." Santana admits and Rachel leans her head on her shoulder.

"It made me cry, too." The smaller brunette hums before looking at Quinn. "And it's okay, Quinn, I have a family friend named Ryan. I'd never sleep with him, either."

"I don't wanna sleep with any Ryans, period."

Instead of anyone laughing, all of the girls at the table just laugh and clink their glasses, sloshing a little, giggling here, here!

"I'm right here." Quinn whispers against Rachel's ear, their bra-clad chests pressed together, breaths panting and lips swollen. "I'm right here." She insists.

Rachel's mouth is insistent and desperate and loving.

"I know."

"He was supposed to love me." She mumbles against the edge of the toilet seat as she pulls back dark strands of hair. "I just wanted someone to love me."

"Let go." Rachel whispers against her ear and it sounds exactly like it does with the lights pitch black all around them—a stage bare and her toes tied and her eyes closed—and God. Oh, God. "Let go, Quinn." Her fingers twist and her nails bite and she's crying, teeth biting and knees pulling apart, pushing up and pulling her waist down, and—"For me."

She can't help it, gasping up into her mouth and twisting them, hand pushing up and eyes opening.

She let's go.