For the remainder of Tuesday, she just focuses on keeping busy.
She reads a book, or tries to.
It's a victory; for once, she actually makes it through three entire chapters before zoning out completely. When she does, it's not because of any of the usual reasons her mind shuts down: concerns about the job, or how long it will take before someone actually figures out she's destined to screw up in a way they can't hide from the press. Thoughts about how alone she is, even with Puck and Kurt and her other friends flitting in and out of her presence constantly. Memories of how things used to be.
No, this time, all she can think about is the way her shoulder still vaguely aches; and that's a reminder of Quinn, who is currently-
She glances at the clock, and then glances away, and finally heads to the bathroom for a bath.
Submerging her entire body just about dulls out any and all visuals she really doesn't want or need right now, and the heat of the water and the steam in the room a few minutes later just about make her drowsy enough for a single sleeping pill to knock her out.
...
That covers Tuesday. Which only leaves Wednesday, Thursday, and possibly Friday until they can do it all over again.
Although, again...
Rachel has no illusions about it ever being exactly the same as it was before. Quinn is an apt pupil, studying her reactions to everything they try together, and she's starting to distinguish between the things that do and don't make Rachel quiver underneath her.
Every time is better than the last, so far, regardless of whether they're even in the same room or not.
It's something to look forward to-the next time. And the fact that she finally has a real prospect is enough for her actually voice a few opinions during Wednesday's rehearsal. Later, she manages to make it on stage with only one Xanax in her bloodstream. The entire concert doesn't just pass her by in a daze, but she's a real part of it, and realizes that she doesn't want to keep doing the same songs, over and over.
She tells Kurt as much, afterwards; that it's open to discussion, but that she'd like to change the second opener into something more ... uplifting.
"Such as?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
She shrugs, letting him follow her back to her dressing room; she remembers (for a change) to wave at the few fans they encounter on the way, and offers them a mostly genuine smile. When they reach the door, she turns to Kurt and frowns at him slightly. "Something more ... like what we used to do in Glee club."
The hint of a smile plays around Kurt's lips, and after a moment he nods and leaves her be.
She pulls the pins out of her hair and glances at her phone, her heart jumping when there's a message there. Nobody contacts her during evening hours, really, because they know she won't see messages until she's ready to go to bed-unless it's an emergency, or...
"Or" is the better alternative, and for once, she feels like she's earned it.
I've been in a library cubicle for the last seven hours and am starting to feel like the walls are closing in on me. I thought you'd be able to relate.
She smirks at the forced casualness of the message, because Quinn is clearly taking her up on her suggestion that they could be friends in a very serious way-and here Rachel had been thinking she'd just get mercilessly teased for it during sex for the rest of her... summer. But no, Quinn is playing along, and somehow that's ... exactly what she needs, after a long but actually rewarding day.
I find that a bottle of Merlot and a hot bath normally get me back on track, she returns after a while of punching in words and erasing them again, because they're not quite right.
It's not even entirely untrue; the medication she's on is a precaution, but once an attack is triggered, nothing helps short of riding out the panic and then finding a place to be alone. Usually with wine. Usually in a bathtub.
She's already driving home when her phone sounds again, and while she normally doesn't check her messages while in a car-unless she's being driven, but that would mean being in New York-she can't really resist temptation, this time around.
I don't have a bottle of Merlot. :(
A red light about three minutes out from her house has her finger hovering over the send button for a long moment, but-surely she's not misinterpreting this? Quinn likes playing games, but she's never been subtle or coy to the point of that message not being a very deliberate hint.
I do. :)
She doesn't really expect another texted response, and then a good twenty minutes after she gets home, her doorbell rings, and she pulls on the collar of her t-shirt for a moment and then just sort of snorts at her attempt to, what, gussy up?
She's in sweat pants and her hair is in a messy bun and whatever, they're friends sharing a bottle of wine after a long day.
That's the idea, anyway.
When she answers the door, Quinn is in a UNLV hoodie and a pair of old, worn-looking jeans, and looks exhausted; a pair of glasses hang from the collar of the sweatshirt and she leans tiredly against the wall next to the door, right underneath the porch light.
"Not a single liquor store near your house?" Rachel asks, with a small smile.
Quinn just sort of rolls her eyes, and then steps in closer and-well, on a purely objective level, it's an almost friendly kiss. The objective level doesn't take into account the way Rachel's knees weaken at just the slightest hint of pressure from Quinn's lips against her own, however, or the way Quinn gives her a knowing look before tapping the tip of her nose with a murmured, "Smartass."
After that hello, she nudges past Rachel and into the hall like that one time she's been at Rachel's has been enough for her to forever be comfortable in the place, and Rachel watches her walk down the hall and toss her backpack onto the floor next to the couch.
"Is the wine breathing?" Quinn then calls out, heading left towards the kitchen, and for one long, gracious second Rachel just lets herself picture this scene as a permanent fixture: the end of a long work day, and Quinn asking about the wine before pouring them both a glass and then...
Well, not snuggling, perhaps, but something.
It's just a second, and then she closes the door and follows Quinn into the kitchen, before tipping onto her toes and attempting to pull two wine glasses from one of the top shelves.
Her breath catches when Quinn presses up against her back and reaches past her. "Not the handiest place for someone so ... minute to keep their wine glasses," she teases, in a low undertone.
"I don't drink by myself," Rachel responds, before turning around-her entire body brushing against Quinn's in the process, and that gently stirs the first shimmer of arousal, but only barely-and looking at Quinn wryly. "I figure one private drug habit is enough for any person."
"How was it today?" Quinn asks, putting the glasses on the counter but not backing away. "The show, I mean."
"Good. Okay, I mean. By both medical and personal standards," Rachel says, before taking a deep breath and gently pushing on Quinn's hips. "But I am exhausted, and I'd like... something uncomplicated, tonight. If that's okay."
Quinn sobers quickly at those words. "Of course. Truthfully, I'm not sure I have the energy to ... well. Get it up?"
Rachel laughs softly. "It's okay. I'm not just interested in ... your up-ness."
That gets her a small smile, and then Quinn backs away and picks up the Merlot; a 2012 bottle, rich and nutty, according to the label. Quinn's eyes scan past it quickly, and then she raises her eyebrows. "Twenty bucks says there's a decent episode of SVU on somewhere."
"Would that count as a professional interest or a personal one?" Rachel asks, grabbing the glasses, and following Quinn into the living room, where Quinn settles in the corner of the sofa and pulls her knees up to her chest, handing Rachel the bottle when she settles on the opposite end.
"Neither; I'm just past the point where I can handle the idea of watching something semi-intelligent," Quinn says, with a small yawn that finally actually dims the constant current of sexual tension between them.
It's nice, to feel just a little less on edge; but without that to focus on, it suddenly occurs to Rachel that she doesn't have many female friends, and the ones she does have don't tend to come over just to 'hang out'.
When she leans over to put the bottle back down, her arm brushes against Quinn's as she's putting her glass on the floor, and they both sort of chuckle.
Apparently, this isn't just new for her, then, Rachel thinks, before wondering what would happen if this was a scene in a play. She glances to the table, where the remotes are, and picks one up and tosses it towards Quinn. "You're probably right about SVU being on, but I'm not watching it unless it's an Alex Cabot episode."
Quinn sort of smirks at that. "Is that a quality control issue or..."
Rachel sighs and trains her eyes on the television, resting the wine glass against her cheek for a moment before taking a sip. "Mostly quality control," she then says, before sinking into the cushions more and waiting for Quinn to stop flicking through the channels.
After about ten minutes of watching the episode, she feels herself start to drift off, and then Quinn's hand is on her ankle, squeezing until her eyes blink open again.
"Do you need to go lie down?" she asks. And wow, those won't ever not be loaded words; Rachel knows she's blushing, but then shakes her head.
"Sorry-just... drifting."
"We could talk, instead of watching this... junk," Quinn suggests; some of her gloss has smudged onto the wine glass and Rachel has to look away from her as she takes another sip. It's all of these little things that just make her want to take these sparse moments and string them together, but tonight isn't the night for that. It's too soon.
"Sure," she just says, instead, stretching out her legs until she can plant her heels on the coffee table-and her dad would kill her for it, but there are some joys in being an adult-before tipping her head back and looking at Quinn. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Safe words," Quinn says, evenly, after a long pause.
A mouthful of Merlot sprays all over Rachel's sofa (white), rug (white) and shirt (light blue), and then she's just kind of hysterically coughing while Quinn snorts laughter and lifts off the couch, heading to the kitchen and returning a moment later with a wet rag.
"What is wrong with you?" Rachel complains, taking the rag and dabbing at ... well, everything, but red isn't going to come out without some professional cleaning and she knows it. The easiest thing to do is to just take off the shirt and get changed, and so she sighs and presses the wet rag back into Quinn's chest. "You can't just-say something like that to a person who is very casually enjoying a glass of wine next to you."
"Yes, because this is a topic of conversation that can be gently introduced somehow," Quinn says, rolling her eyes a little, and Rachel stills-her hand still pressing that wet rag against Quinn's chest, because... there's something there. A minor undercurrent of nervousness that...
"You've never done this before either, have you," she finally murmurs, and Quinn's eyes lock with hers for a long second, until they fall away.
"I've... no. Not... to the extent that I think I want to. With you," she then admits, softly. "It's been all I've been able to think about for the last two days, which... frankly, I'm running up against a chapter deadline and I thought that perhaps setting some boundaries with you would help me focus for the next two days. Until..."
"Until... the weekend," Rachel finishes, her breath catching in her throat.
It occurs to her very suddenly that they've talked a lot about her desires, both casually and within the context of Quinn's power games back at the club, but not the reverse; and, oh. Heat sinks down her body and courses back up just like that, and then she makes the mistake of looking into Quinn's eyes, and the way that even teeth are worrying a full lip, and-she swoons. On the spot.
"Yeah," Quinn agrees, shortly, her hand finally taking the rag away from Rachel and then brushing down the length of Rachel's arm, with a small, final tickle in Rachel's palm. "Go-get changed. Into something... not enticing, please. This is important, and we both need to be focused on what we're saying. Wear a parka, maybe?"
Rachel laughs abruptly, and takes a careful step back, and then can't help a small smirk. "I thought your whole thing was being in control."
"Sure. During, maybe. But... well, we can talk about that when you're... less transparent," Quinn says, roughly, with a quick raise of her eyebrows; Rachel laughs again, and watches as Quinn heads towards the kitchen, shaking her head.
Rachel almost runs to her bedroom, and ... well, she doesn't own a parka, but the loose-fitting cardigan she puts on ought to help them both keep it in check.
Maybe.
...
The bottle of wine gets corked again, and placed in the refrigerator for the time being, and it's close to midnight when they settle back in the living room to have this talk; Quinn in the armchair, this time, her hands folded together in her lap.
Quinn's posture reminds Rachel of a group therapy session she'd been in as a teenager, and almost instinctively she wraps her arms around herself and settles into the corner of the sofa furthest away from Quinn.
It's not how this conversation should start, maybe, but it's how they both can handle it.
"So," she finally says, when Quinn stays staring at the coffee table like it holds the answers to all of life's questions; her eyes are burning into it, almost, and for not the first time, and probably not the last, Rachel wishes she could just read Quinn's mind.
It would save them both so much effort, and time.
Quinn's eyes flicker over to hers, and then she smiles faintly. "So."
"Safe words, huh," Rachel says, forcing the words past the tightness in the throat. She doesn't really know why she's nervous. It's a conversation they should've had-and possibly did have, briefly-but they should've had it in more detail by now.
"I suggested Hudson, before, but..." Quinn hesitates, and licks her lips for a second before frowning at Rachel. "My research on ... this type of setup strongly suggests that any words chosen should hold some significance on the part of the..."
"The..." Rachel prompts, when Quinn trails off.
Quinn's cheeks color wildly when she adds, "The, uh, bottom."
Rachel feels her facial muscles contort, and she has no idea what the hell kind of look she has on her face right now, but in response to it, Quinn mumbles, "Sorry" and looks away.
Rachel takes a deep breath. "No, that's-okay. The bottom. That's .. okay. So ... a phrase that holds some sort of significance to me."
"Ideally, to us... but... yes, at the very least to you," Quinn says, still sounding incredibly embarrassed.
Rachel exhales slowly and then says, "Well. That definitely rules out Hudson."
Quinn starts laughing a moment later, before covering her mouth, and then just sighs and stares at the table again. "Okay. Sorry. I didn't expect this to be so ... strange, given that we've obviously figured a lot of this out instinctively."
"It's okay," Rachel says, with a small smile. "I appreciate that you're taking it seriously. My... comfort, I mean."
"It's for both our sakes. Because we've kept things fairly organic, so far, but-" Quinn says, before clearing her throat. "I ... you know. I don't know. I guess we could just write out a list of what we both want and swap notes but it's probably better if we establish the basic boundaries out loud. Together."
The word together somehow take this from one of the most awkward moments of her life to one of the more important ones, and she shifts until she's not quite as defensively far back as she was before; Quinn watches her, and then also stops clenching her hands together, instead leaving her palms facing up on her jeans.
It's better, immediately, and Rachel smiles after a moment.
"Julie Andrews."
Quinn blinks at her. "I'm sorry?"
"My safe word. Julie Andrews."
Quinn's lips part for a second, and then she just raises her eyebrows and says, "Well, I suppose it's comforting to know you wouldn't normally call out her name during sex."
"What ... what would you pick, if you were. You know. The bottom," Rachel says, with as much gravity as she can.
Quinn rolls her eyes, but muses over the question anyway, and then says, "I'm not sure. Jeffrey Dahmer, maybe."
"Oh, of course," Rachel says, dryly. "That's not disconcerting at all."
"It would get most sane people to stop, wouldn't it?" Quinn says, with a small smile.
It's kind of terrifying, the way she can't really tell if Quinn is kidding or not. But it doesn't really matter. Quinn isn't the bottom. Quinn will never be the bottom, and ... that's just the iceberg's tip, really, of a plethora of issues they need to work out here.
So many more miles to go, before they...
She blinks, and looks at Quinn's face again; so foreign, and yet so lovely.
"I haven't needed to Julie Andrews you, yet," she finally says.
Quinn's lips quirk at her choice of words, but her body language is primed for a further explanation. She's almost bracing herself, but making it look casual somehow.
It's-Rachel abruptly wonders what Quinn will be like as a professional. Not a stripper, but the psychologist she's training to be. Devastatingly efficient, she imagines. She wonders if the job comes with a lab coat. If not, it should. The image in her mind-
"Where did you just go?" Quinn asks, sounding amused.
"... I'll explain some other time," Rachel says, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. "I... what I meant was, you haven't... pushed me. And yet we've done nearly everything ... I mean, not literally, but in terms of how we relate to each other; I think we've touched upon everything I've admitted to wanting."
"Yes," Quinn agrees, after a moment. "It's mostly about surrendering control with you, isn't it."
Rachel hesitates for a second, and then says, "Yeah. Mostly. The other part of it is in fact a rather concrete desire to see you in your... element, I guess."
Quinn's eyes study her face briefly, and then she nods. "Okay. I can understand that."
"What about you?" Rachel asks, when there's another small lull in the conversation, even though it's decidedly less stilted than it was even two minutes ago.
"What about me?"
"What about... what you want?" Rachel asks, carefully.
It's so hard to tell how far is too far, because sometimes Quinn is downright accessible and light-hearted, but other times, even the slightest hint of proximity sends her shutting down. But-this isn't just about her own desires. Quinn must have some, or this would've never come up, and at the thought of Quinn wanting to take them further...
A sharp burst of want blooms in her chest, and suddenly, the physical gap between them is almost painfully wide-but it's necessary, because if Quinn actually wants to talk about her own needs, she probably won't be able to do so if Rachel gets closer.
She watches, as still as she can, as Quinn's forehead wrinkles and smooths over again, a few times in a row, until she finally stares out into Rachel's back yard, through the living room windows, and says, "I'm not into physical pain. Inflicting it, I mean, though I'm not into receiving it either."
Rachel blinks, because that isn't what she was expecting to hear-but now that the words are out there, she's not really sure why not. Her own rudimentary exploration of her sexual interests have led her down paths that she knows are not for her, and sado-masochism is among those.
"I'm not either. On both counts," she says, and Quinn visibly relaxes again.
"Good. Because I don't think I could do that for you. There are just limits to-what turns me on, and while obviously your submission is a very key element to that..."
Rachel smiles as encouragingly as she can. "Quinn-you're authoritative, but you've never been cruel. Not... physically, anyway."
Quinn looks at her again at those words, and then slowly asks, "But... I am verbally."
"Sometimes," Rachel admits, before sighing. "I find it hard to ... say anything about this because you ... you're a friend, now. Not a close one, obviously, but you're also hardly the girl who used to basically get her kicks from calling me names on a daily basis."
Quinn swallows visibly and then rubs at her cheeks with her knuckles. "Yes, I don't want to bring that into our... friendship. Obviously. God, I'm not that child anymore."
She still sounds slightly ashamed, but-she's right. That is in the past, and this conversation is very much not.
For now, Rachel just tilts her head and says, "... you don't want to bring that into our friendship, but-you do want to bring it into the bedroom?"
A strangled little noise escapes from Quinn's mouth and she licks her lips again, which Rachel is now starting to think of as an endearing, subconscious tic.
After another long moment of silence, Quinn just looks at her and says, "Do you?"
"If you're asking me if I get off on you ... demeaning me, somehow-" Rachel starts to say, slowly, and then has to swallow before she can actually finish the words. "... I... yes. I do. Not always, and not in all ways, but..."
Quinn nods. "I thought as much. I mean, again, we've played around with this-but I don't want to permanently scar you with ... throwaway words during sex. It's not-" She winces, and her hands start knotting together again. "I don't mean... I mean, ..."
"Hey-it's why we have safe words, isn't it?" Rachel asks, before Quinn can get any more flustered.
Quinn sighs. "Yeah, but-"
"Do you understand why I get off on being called... well, I don't know. A slut, for instance?"
Quinn sort of deflates. "Not even a little. I've had the word directed at me more time than you can imagine, from about age sixteen onwards, and I can't imagine wanting to be called it by someone who is sleeping with me."
"Okay. So you don't understand what this does for me, but you're okay with it," Rachel says, before raising her eyebrows. "Can you accept that it's the same for me, but in reverse? In that, I don't understand what you get out of this, and you don't have to tell me, but... I'm okay with it? And I understand it's a purely sexual desire that doesn't reflect poorly on you in other contexts?"
Quinn doesn't react for a long moment, and then finally just rubs her palms across her face and says, "Yeah. I think I can. As long as you-I mean it, Rachel, this is probably the way in which I'm most likely to actually hurt you and that's not... I'm not interested in that. You need to let me know, clearly, what your limits are, okay? And you need to stop me if I go to far."
"I'm fairly sure you won't, but-"
"Rachel."
She nods, at Quinn's urgent look.
Another slightly awkward silence, but even the awkwardness is starting to feel normal now, and so Rachel just waits it out.
Finally, Quinn takes a deep breath and says, "What about discipline?"
"Um," Rachel says, blinking a few times, then stares at the coffee table because-well, God, maybe it does have all of life's answers. "What do you-"
"Because I'm not generally interested in, well, most of what I've read about discipline, but the idea of spanking you is-"
"Oh, my God," Rachel blurts out, before she can stop herself; her cheeks burn, almost instantly, and then she looks at Quinn and they both start laughing.
"Is that a yes?"
"I-" Rachel says, and then has to take a deep, slow breath, at the multitude of visuals that are assaulting her brain all at once. She's always had a visual imagination. It helps, with seeing scripts come to life, but the kind of nonsense she has to read professionally doesn't come close to what she's currently seeing flit around her head.
"It's okay. You can think about it, if you-" Quinn starts saying, almost apologetically.
"No, no, that's... that's a yes. If you had any idea what was going on in... um," Rachel says, before covering her over-heated face with a slightly cooler palm and giving herself a few moments. "I'm not ... opposed. Just... you know. Your hands. Not a paddle or ..."
"How much reading on this have you done?" Quinn asks, now sounding a little breathless herself.
Rachel lowers her hand and then says, "There was a stretch in my freshman year of college where... well. I read everything I could. I haven't much since then. There hasn't been any point."
They both fall silent at that admission, and then finally Quinn takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry. I know you wanted something uncomplicated, tonight, but-"
"Quinn," Rachel cuts her off, as softly as she can, before giving her a wry smile. "When has anything between us ever been uncomplicated?"
"Yeah," Quinn exhales in a sigh, and then, after a second of tensing, gets out of the chair and sits down on the sofa next to Rachel. "There was one other thing I wanted to bring up, and it's... about the consequences of what we're both into. I know that the emotional release for... the bottom-"
"Stop it," Rachel says, swatting at her thigh, and Quinn chuckles before sobering quickly.
"You know I've said that I'm not much of a cuddler, but-it's part of my responsibility to make you feel safe, if we start pushing your limits further," she finally says.
"I trust you," Rachel says, almost instinctively, and she hears more than sees Quinn's sharp intake of breath at that admission.
"Yeah, and I'm saying that... maybe you shouldn't. Not with all of you, anyway."
"Maybe," Rachel concedes, but then reaches for Quinn's hand, pressed hard into the leather of the sofa, and covers it with her own. "But I do. And I know you'll take care of me."
They exchange the barest of glances after that, and Quinn's eyes flit to her mouth immediately afterwards, and Rachel holds her breath until slightly darker, and slightly more intense eyes focus on her again.
"We weren't going to do this tonight, but..."
Rachel can feel her mouth dry just at the way Quinn is staring at her, but gamely says, "But-"
"I want you," Quinn finally just says, plainly and in barely more than a whisper; but it starts to melt Rachel's resolve to work on their friendship before they get even more tangled up in ... the other parts of their interaction.
Said resolve evaporates completely when Quinn adds, in the exact same tone and volume, "Let me have you. Please."
The word always presses against the roof of her mouth, ready to be shared prematurely, but she swallows it, and instead just gives a simple nod that means yes, for now.
...
It's not really cuddling, but Quinn's arm is under her head and she's staring at the ceiling, catching her breath, and trying to rank this time among all the other times.
Had it been simpler? There had been no props; no scarves, no ties to blind her-it had just been Quinn, walking her backwards into her bedroom and lifting her onto the bed, and then pinning her down with nothing more than the weight of her body.
But the things Quinn can do, with just her hands and her instructions and her eyes, so destructive-
Quinn never needs the props. Rachel dismantles for her with the barest of suggestions, and had again tonight, tightening painfully hard around Quinn's fingers once, and then Quinn had bitten down, hard, on her nipple right as she'd stopped coming. It had felt like Quinn's way of saying, I decide when you're done. And that thought alone had been enough to make her come again, even harder than the first time, with barely any air left in her lungs.
She's starting to think that blacking out, after Quinn is done with her, is almost merciful; having to breathe through the aftermath is beyond draining, and she's exhausted now.
And they're not even done; not entirely, because Quinn's arm is tense underneath her neck, and when Rachel rolls onto her side, the entirety of Quinn's torso breaks out into goose bumps.
"May I?" she asks, after a long moment of just studying Quinn's measured, slow breaths, also directed at her ceiling fan, as if just breathing steadily can make Quinn's obvious arousal more long-term manageable.
Quinn's wet to the point of being uncomfortable. She has to be, by now. It's enough to perk her back up, and make her acutely want to give back; make Quinn feel at least an approximation of the things that Quinn makes her feel. If she even can. She's honestly not sure, but God, is she willing to work at it.
A curt nod is her answer, and then she's gently shifting on top of her now three-times lover-the first time in this position, and she moves slowly, not really sure just how Quinn will react to being literally, though not metaphorically, underneath her.
"If you start feeling trapped... Jeffrey Dahmer me?" she offers, softly.
Quinn's eyes focus on her face for a second, and then she reaches up with a steady hand that cups Rachel's jaw, stroking her cheek firmly with a thumb.
"I'll be fine," Quinn then says, before shifting her hand to the nape of Rachel's neck and tugging her down by it, into a kiss that says more than fine.
Five minutes later, after she's finally been given a chance to actually explore Quinn-all five and a half feet of her, and they are five and a half fucking perfect feet; from her hairline down to her toes, there isn't a part of Quinn Fabray that isn't worth worshipping-she's settling between Quinn's legs, and looks up to see Quinn watching her intently.
"Don't look away," Quinn instructs, almost conversationally, and Rachel almost laughs.
Out of all of Quinn's instructions, ranging from the initial no touching to tonight's finger your clit for me, Rachel, but don't make yourself come-this is going to be by far the easiest to follow, she thinks, before bending down just a little bit more and pressing her lips to Quinn's.
It's one of many things she'll never get tired of, and when hands tighten in her hair, hard, and start directing her, she knows she's going to need to come a third time before she stands even the slightest chance of falling asleep tonight.
...
"You should start keeping water in your bedroom," Quinn says, reappearing with a smile and tossing Rachel a half-empty bottle of water.
Rachel catches it, and then glances at the alarm clock. It's close to two in the morning, and it's why Rachel sits up on one elbow when Quinn starts pulling her jeans on again-commando, this time, for rather obvious reasons, but Rachel still winces at the mere idea of jean fabric being near her privates right now.
Or maybe, she winces at what's obviously happening here. Before she can think better of it, she blurts out what's on her mind. "Quinn, you don't have to-"
Quinn looks at her over her shoulder and starts buttoning up her jeans. "What, go home? I do, actually."
"... I have a guest bedroom, if this is about personal space or-your limits, or whatever," Rachel says, horribly awkwardly, but it's the truth and-maybe this is why Quinn had warned her, that she isn't cut out for this. That she's not going to meet Rachel's needs in every sense of the word.
Who the hell just runs off after...
She squeezes her lips together to not say anything else, and watches as Quinn tugs on a down-trodden pair of Converse again and then turns fully, shifting onto her knees, and putting two hands on Rachel's shoulders, before looking at her seriously.
"Don't ... turn this into a thing. I have a six am meeting with my supervisor and some teaching to do at eleven, so-"
"Okay," Rachel says, lowering her eyes. "Sorry, I thought-"
"I know," Quinn says. "And you're not wrong. The other part of this is that I don't want to ... overextend either of us. But I'm not trying to be dismissive. So-tell me what you need, right now, short of me staying here."
Rachel gnaws on her lip for a moment and then just says, " Are we still on for this weekend?"
"Yes," Quinn responds, with certainty. "Absolutely."
"I have ... a standing lunch date with Puck and Kurt on Saturday," Rachel adds, before looking up. "They know you're in town. They're how I know where you live. Puck has... his ways, I guess."
Quinn's expression tightens abruptly. "What are you saying?"
"You should join us. As my friend. Or, ... shit, Quinn, it's not just me you used to be friends with. I ... the stranger we act about this, the more questions they are going to ask, and..."
Quinn stares at her intently, before taking a deep breath. "I'll think about it."
"It's just-"
"No, Rachel, it's not just anything. You know that as well as I do," Quinn says; the quick kiss pressed to the corner of Rachel's mouth afterwards is something of a consolation prize, but not much of one. "The best I can do is tell you I'll consider it. Is that good enough for our plans to... hold out?"
Rachel sighs, and watches as Quinn gets to her feet. "Honestly, you need to stop assuming I'm still some petty high school girl who doesn't know how to compromise on things. My entire life has been a compromise for the last three years."
Quinn nods, looking remorseful. "You're right. I'll work on it."
"Thanks for... um, coming over," Rachel finally says, and ... there is no point in being modest, around Quinn, but she can't help but pull the sheets up anyway. Something about watching Quinn in her real life clothes, getting ready to head back to her real life, just makes her feel incredibly exposed, without warning.
"Thanks for... having me. And letting me have you," Quinn says, with a small smile. "I'll talk to you soon, okay?"
Please just stay is not an appropriate response to that, and Rachel knows it; and so she watches as Quinn closes the bedroom door behind her, and then flops onto her back and stares at the ceiling.
"What are you doing, Rachel?" she says, out loud, just to test herself.
Some people say that talking to oneself is the first sign of encroaching insanity, but with the number of pill bottles in her medicine cabinet, it probably isn't the first sign.
Besides-who else can she talk to?
...
The answer to that comes to her the next morning, on the elliptical, when she's trying to ignore the mild chafing between her legs-Quinn's fingers are long, bigger than her own, and much more forceful, and while during it's absolute mind-blowingly good, the after tends to just remind her of how little sex she's had in the last... ever-and focusing on actually making her exercise goal for the day.
That just makes her think of who even set her exercise goals, and ... before she can think too hard about what she's doing, she's off the elliptical and on the phone to Brittany.
"I have a joke for you," she says, when Britt answers.
"Oh, awesome," is the response, and she smiles before rubbing at her own forehead.
"How many Broadway singers does it take to peel an onion?"
Brittany is silent for a moment, and then just says, "Um, are you using a peeler or not? Wait-is there even an onion peeler? Because there are potato peelers, but onions are all slippery. So maybe-wait, how long are your nails right now?"
This is so not where this conversation is supposed to be going, but it's her own damn fault for trying to get wisdom from Brittany using metaphors. Either way, it's making her feel a lot lighter than she has most of the morning, so why not?
"They're-shorter than they usually are," Rachel says, glancing at them for a moment and flushing with heat at the memory of just where her fingers were, not even six hours earlier.
"But if you're trying to peel an onion, you need long nails," Brittany counters.
"Trust me, Britt, the onion in question wouldn't appreciate it if I had long nails right now," Rachel finally says, trying not to laugh.
"... are you fucking the onion?" Brittany asks, suddenly a lot more serious sounding.
"I'm fucking the onion," Rachel admits, and just like that, it stops being funny.
"Okay, and just so I'm totally clear on this and ... I mean, I think we're talking about the same thing, but I don't know-maybe you're into vegetables these days-"
"Yes, I'm talking about Quinn," Rachel says, closing her eyes with a cringe. "And-Britt, please, this is just between us, okay? I need someone to talk to, but it can't be Santana. That's way too much difficult history right now and... the present is already almost more complicated than I can handle. I don't need Lima getting in the way of this."
The line is silent for a moment, and then Brittany sucks in a deep breath. "Okay. That's cool."
Rachel thinks of a few different things to say next, but none of them really cover the depth of her current-what is it, even? Happiness, but not complete? Confusion? Misery at the idea that this is all just a temporary fling that ... Quinn will be all too happy to put behind her when Rachel's show ends?
Before she can even attempt to sort any of that out-and damn it, she should've made a list; she always thinks best with lists-Brittany clears her throat and gently says, "So... um. How is the onion? In bed? Or ... outside of bed? Wait-if she's a stripper onion, is she peeling herself?"
It probably should surprise Rachel, that she bursts into tears out of nowhere, but it doesn't really.
She hasn't been emotionally stable in years, and the things that Quinn is pulling out of her just with a few carefully planned touches have her closer to her breaking point than she ever has been. Even if she also feels alive again, for the first time in years.
It's all just such a mess, and when Brittany softly sighs, "Oh, Rachel" in response to Rachel's muffled, but still clearly audible sobs, it's like the only thing holding her together just snaps in half.
She sinks to the ground and cries, for at least twenty minutes, and even after that, she can't find any words to say except, "I'm in so much trouble."
They say enough, for now.