The way Finn’s been moon-eyeing Rachel from Ellis Island to Yankee Stadium makes Quinn want to vomit, and the moment the doors open and the subway car packs in, she indulges in a fantasy where she spews pea soup bile all over the back of his head.
It used to keep her up at night - Finn’s never looking at her with the same amount of pain and ecstasy he always seemed to muster for Rachel - after all, Quinn Fabray was built to inspire that sort of reaction in men (and if that sculpted nose, and these lipoed thighs, and those shaved cheekbones couldn’t keep a dopey high school quarterback away from a girl with all of her character flaws firmly on display then what the hell had it all been for?)
And Quinn used to be good at turning Finn’s obvious loyalties into something like jealous girlfriend or jealous ex rage. It sat heavy on the anger of a jealous secret admirer, and kept it squashed down just below Quinn’s heart where she liked it to be.
(it was a lump that weighed heavy and uncomfortable on her insides, but when firmly in place, she never thought about why Rachel chose Finn or the real reason that fact made her miserable, so she breathed a bit easier.)
She watches Finn lean down and whisper in Rachel’s ear, she watches Rachel’s shoulders rise and fall with laughter, she watches Finn’s hesitant fingers brush against the hem of Rachel’s skirt, she coats him from head to toe with throw up in her mind.
Quinn’s truth has dislodged, slipped around a ventricle and swirls emboldened around her chest. She’s poking Finn in the side, she’s telling him Puck wants to see him, because right now the lies have been sucked up and her body is a car with its brake line dragging on the ground.
Before Lucy’s first communion, she got the bottom of her pretty white dress stained with playground dirt (an offense for which she would have to write out the rosary prayer fifty times.) Though she normally feared the wrath of Russell Fabray, there was the more pressing matter of hunting down Emily Connor from across the street.
Lucy had to tell her they couldn’t be friends anymore. There’d been times where holding Emily’s hand had felt better than opening all of her presents on Christmas morning, but as her mother had gently explained one evening when Lucy and Emily had been caught doing just that, there was a place for people with those feelings and it wasn’t in heaven with their loved ones.
“And your dad would be so disappointed. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”
When she took the Eucharist, Lucy allowed the priest to place it on her tongue the way she’d seen her father do.
There are two more stops before they reach the hotel, the space around her becomes crowded and Quinn is pushed up against Rachel’s back. Quinn’s hands grip Rachel’s side to steady her feet - it’s a touch that should’ve lasted half a second, but Rachel leans back and Quinn can’t will her arms to move.
Slowly, she presses her fingers into the fabric of Rachel’s blouse one by one.
Quinn had never taken confession seriously, but one evening she came home from cheer practice to find her diary splayed open on her bed, and her mother looking very grim.
Judy demanded to know all about Rachel Berry, and just why Quinn thought she loved to stare at her during World History, and just why Quinn thought about the shape of her animal sweaters. She made Quinn throw all tangible evidence that said Rachel Berry made her daughter’s heart stop and explode in the trashcan out back.
“What if your dad had seen this? What do you think he’d say?”
After that, Quinn made time to sit with one of the fathers at St. Peter’s once a week.
Rachel’s voice is high and uncharacteristically uncertain. One hand dropped to the hem of that skirt, and did what Finn lacked the courage to do - lift it up.
“What if someone…” Rachel begins, and Quinn puts her lips near her ear.
“Shhh.” Quinn lowers her voice an octave while her fingers trip back and forth over the skin between Rachel’s thigh and her ass. “Keep your eyes straight ahead, Rach.”
Dinners at the Fabray house were a predictable affair; Quinn and her sister, Fanny, set the table, Judy placed the biggest piece of meat on her husband’s plate, and Russell inquired about everyone’s day.
Fine. Everybody was always fine, and nobody was happy.
Quinn shushes her every time Rachel’s breathing dangerously increases. The wet between Quinn’s fingers and Rachel’s panties grows with each motion, and Quinn hopes that when she dies hell won’t be enough to contain her.
Rachel arches back, and Quinn hopes that when she makes this girl come that women will give birth to snakes and the moon will drip away in blood, and fire will engulf the earth, and that God lets her father know exactly who’s responsible.
“I never want to see a pair of pants on you,” Quinn says in that ear she’s grown quite fond of. “Only skirts, and dresses. And knee socks. God, I miss those fucking knee socks.”
It takes a second longer than it should have for Quinn to realize she forgot to lower her voice.
Her breath catches when Rachel stiffens, and she wants to scream when Rachel holds her hand in place. The train jerks to a stop, and Quinn pulls away sandwiching herself between an old woman with grocery bags and suit-clad man with a phone jammed against his ear.
She’d never seen Santana cry, and it was obvious from the way the girl huffed and swallowed that she wasn’t the kind to normally get teary in front of others.
Downstairs the other Cheerios were letting wine cooler tipsiness determine how far they’d let the football team’s hands wander - upstairs, Brittany was busy fastening her bra and Santana was making fists.
“If you tell anyone, I swear to god, Fabray…”
Quinn would never tell, because she was certain Santana wouldn’t tell on her either.
She watches Brittany giggle and place her foam Liberty hat on Santana’s head, while Rachel pulls at her arm and calls her name. She watches Brittany and Santana lock pinkies because they think no one is looking, while Rachel pulls on her arm and calls her name.
“Quinn, I really think we should talk about…”
“About what?” she snaps. She and Rachel stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and let the rest of the group fade into the distance.
Rachel blushes, her head dipping for a moment of composure. “What happened on-on the subway.”
Quinn arches a brow. “And what do you think happened?”
“I…well, I mean…” Rachel shakes her head, growing flustered. “You know,” she whispers harshly.
“I don’t.” Quinn swallows. “Try to keep me out of your little lesbian fantasies.”
That wounded look that is as familiar to Quinn as the back of her hand settles onto Rachel’s face, and Quinn catches her own reflection in the store window just before Rachel walks away without another word.
With the truth back in place just below her heart, Quinn thinks perhaps she’s grown a bit stale and lost some of her charms. That it has to be the reason behind her losing Finn’s worshipful gaze. And Quinn Fabray was built for exactly for this, so maybe she should change her game.
Perhaps she’ll cut her hair.