Fic: The Summer Quinn Fabray Learned About Rock 'n' Roll - Glee

[hyena_gal]

The Summer Quinn Fabray Learned About Rock 'n' Roll 
Glee, Quinn(/Rachel) & Brittana, PG-13, ~ 3,138 words
Erh, yeah. What the title says...

I just wanted to wring this out of my head before the glory of the pink-haired goodness which we will probably only be blessed with for one whole episode makes its appearance.  

*

It comes like a revelation of biblical proportions when Quinn realises what she has to do in order to make things better, seated on her bed as she is and staring unblinkingly at the wall opposite her on a Saturday morning two weeks after the fiasco that was Nationals in New York:

Rock is the answer. 

Truth be told, a music genre she has successfully ignored for her entire life in favour of hymns, Motown and folksy songs, and it's with something almost like an accompanying feeling of relief that it all falls into place in her mind then, like pieces of a puzzle. Even if the very thought is sacrilegious, she can't help wondering whether listening to Jars of Clay's version of "Awesome God" one too many times has a say in any of this. 

Her head feels light. Like, a drifting-cloud-on-a-spring-day light. Because, the answer is right there, right in front of her: screw the world, screw the rules, screw everyone who looks down on her because of what has happened in her life.

Enough is enough. She's been in a goddamn funk every since returning from the Big Apple and -- to be perfectly honest with herself -- *has* been for far longer than that. Her life's turned into a joke and one of those cautionary tales to scare kids thoroughly with before she's even had the chance of turning eighteen; the result of what happens if you get knocked up before marriage, kiddos, here for you to behold: a Potential Future and Career flushed out the toilet together with all the songs she could ever sing that would fill her heart with joy and peace and purpose again.

Quinn doesn't need to be told how insurmountably depressing this is. She *knows*. 

She's a... Quinntastrophe. 

And that's why she doesn't have anything left, nothing to latch onto and make her own, because it doesn't work like that anymore. She's ruined herself by squeezing a baby out between her legs and along with it any hope of *ever* making it out of this hole of a town called Lima, Ohio.

This place -- this town is her own personal ninth circle of Hell. 

Really. She owns nothing to call her own anymore; not the title of captain of the Cheerios, not devout Christian, not virgin no longer. 

Nothing but this -- this wild urge to throw things, smash everything around her on a daily basis. Even her mother has a tendency to stay clear of her, because she's just a nuclear reactor ready to blow up at this point, leaving her surroundings like the aftermath of a second version of Chernobyl. 

With a groan, Quinn gets to her feet and marches to her full-length mirror hanging near the door. 

Tries a snarl at it. She watches as white teeth are revealed, lips pulling back to bare two perfect rows of enamel. She's a - a- bear! No, a wolf. Erh, no, a lion. Yeah. Yeah, lion, that one is okay. A lion -- big and strong and fearless. I am woman, hear me roar.

Her mind supplies the part about being strong and invincible too and it makes a little cinder start in her body. Thank you, Helen Reddy, but something with a little more -- edge -- seems to be in order. 

Edge. Makes her think 'sharp', which just makes her think 'weapon'. Instantly imagines herself running through McKinley High with a ginormous chainsaw raised above her, cutting heads off left and right, blood spraying on the floor and the lockers in generous amounts. 

Yeah... yeah! Hey, that -- actually works! 

Isn't that what rock is about? Fuck the rules, fuck what other people think and say about you. Basically, it's about being as true to yourself as you can be. And that's what she wants to be. More than anything else, really.

If it means letting her anger show itself... 

Focuses on her face staring back at her again. Thinks angry thoughts; she pictures Finn's towering shape, incomprehension writ across his familiar features and the hot jab of rage rushes through her immediately. 

Thinks about Puck promising her things were going to be okay, just to close her eyes and relax as he leant in over her -- and the fury turns into a churning fire in her chest. Thinks about getting a slushie thrown in the face, of her father yelling at her to get out of his house, of Santana slamming her against a hard locker, of putting up the Glist, she thinks about those freaking stretch marks which she will never get rid of and the anger positively soars. 

And, and -- Rachel! Even though thinking about Rachel doesn't make her angry at all, only causes a strange throb deep down in her stomach, like someone is throwing a surprise party in her gut all of a sudden and she's the guest of honour.

You need cuss words too when you're about to embrace the rock 'n' roll style. Sort of makes obvious sense. She looks at herself; dishevelled hair, burning hazel eyes and wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

She's getting there. Slowly, but steadily.

"Fuck," she mutters at her reflection. Clears her throat and tries again: "Fuck." At least it's louder this time. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck! Fucking hell, fuck it all!"  

Man, that feels good. Like, removing a stone the size of her fist from each lung or something.

The smirk which follows is kind of effortlessly formed. Quinn throws herself full length on the bed and glares up at the insignificant whiteness of her ceiling for five minutes before sitting up and emphatically slapping her thighs once.

Right, time to get to work. 

Quinn connects her Macbook to her stereo with a cable, clicks Youtube and types the words in the search engine. Starts with the most fundamental names: finds songs by The Ramones, Sex Pistols, Rolling Stones, The Stranglers. She touches upon Nirvana and Alice in Chains briefly, before moving on to Motörhead, The Who, Mötley Crue and The Cult, ending up singing along to "Fire Woman" as she shimmies around her room a little, looking in her closet for anything which is black in colour.

Needless to say, it's a fruitless search.

When she returns to her laptop and glances at the right uppermost corner of her screen, it's already been four hours of doing nothing but listening to numerous rock tracks. Decides to fish her phone out from under her pillow then. Her thumb quickly finds the desired number.  

"Hey, Santana. Bring yourself and Brittany over here. Got nothing to do and nowhere to go -- I wanna be entertained. See ya in a bit." 

She's got "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" playing full blast when the door is pulled open and her two companions slip inside with startled expressions twenty-five minutes later. Spares a quick thought for her mother when she sees them: yes, Judy, I am terribly sorry, but you're daughter has turned into a seventeen-year-old metalhead all of a sudden. Don't expect me to change any time soon. 

Santana only needs a second to take it all in; Quinn sprawled on her bed, half-lidded eyes and a bit zoned out, the Mac hooked up to her stereo currently booming the very un-Quinn-like music and settles her hands on her hips.

"What. the. hell!"

When the supine girl's only reaction is to blink a few times, she crosses over to the bed and glares down at her like she's never seen her before in her life. 

"Q, are you high?" 

"No."

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Did you bump your head? I did that once and when I woke up again I had a ping-pong ball under my skin right here," Brittany says while pointing at some unspecific area of her blonde head. Quinn and Santana stare at her for a good full minute before looking at each other again, resuming the previous conversation: 

"What the fuck are you *listening* to?"

"Right now? The Plasmatics. I've just found something which inspires me," she explains as she sits up, watching as the two other Glee club members settle down next to her on the edge of the piece of furniture while wearing extremely wary expressions.  

"You've lost your mind. This isn't Quinn Fabray. Quinn Fabray doesn't listen to *this* type of music."

"How do you know?" 

Brown eyes lock on her. "Are you for real?"

Quinn jerks her chin at the other girl. "As real as you when you go all 'Lima Heights' on other people."

Santana blinks at her in complete disbelief before shaking her head with a slight smirk. "Y'know what that means, right? If you're not lying? No one is going to have the balls to hit on you when you return in all your shiny alternative glory once summer is over. Watch out -- the former captain of the Cheerios, now with added sneer and punk attitude."

The short-haired girl answers without really thinking. "Hey, I'm plenty hitable... erh --" 

"Yeah, in the face." 

Quinn gives her a dirty look. Then shoves at the nearest shoulder with a flat hand as her other one grabs the remote and starts channel-surfing instead.

Max two minutes later she zaps to a channel which is showing Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas of all things, which is... pretty rock and roll, so she remains there. They are in Bat Country and there can be no stopping!

That's on her new 'To Do List', by the way: get high at least once in her life. She's pretty sure her companions could be up for that at some time. Maybe not now.

Later, at another time. 

But, rock and roll or not, the movie is kind of a long ass one, which she has to concede after watching Johnny Depp herp-derping around for almost half an hour, so Quinn finally feels herself compelled to switch to another programme. Ends up zapping to the middle of an episode of Spongebob Squarepants, which is pretty... okay, not rock and roll, but Brittany has already lunged for the remote and is keeping it hostage like nobody's business at the first sight of the yellow square character, so whatevs. Not like she's an unreasonable girl. 

She turns up the volume of the song playing on the sound system behind them instead and listens to Hugh Cornwell growl "Lemme lemme fuck ya fuck ya lemme lemme fuck ya fuck ya!" as Spongebob decides to pick just that moment to perform some completely non-PG gyration of his hips on the TV.

Feels herself reflexively swallow. Well, fuck. Now she *is* thinking about fucking, or, to be correct, the *person* she wouldn't mind having premarital sex with. One certain short brunette, to be exact. An unbidden image of Rachel in a sweater with an animal motif on it, bright smile and all enthusiasm, pushes through to the front of her mind. The firmness of those Jewish breasts straining against the material of that godawful sweater --  

Quinn groans. Then decides to come clean about her not-so-much-anymore latent homoerotic fantasies. Santana is studying her nails with a critical eye and Brittany is totally transfixed by her cartoon, so it seems as good a time as any to just spit it out.

"You guys, don't freak -- but I... think I kind of like Rachel?"

"Like, like like?" Brittany asks completely unfaced as she bites at her thumbnail, eyes never leaving the TV screen. 

"Gross, are you serious? Little Miss Midget? God, at least have the decency to have some taste," Santana complains, face twisting in disgust as she folds her arms across her chest. 

"I think you should be the last person down on me for liking a girl, San." It's the only response she can come up with at moment. 

The black-haired girl simply aims a condescending, arched eyebrow at her. "Whatever. You could do better, is all I'm saying."  

Motörhead's "Bad Woman" starts playing. Kind of tries not to maintain any unnecessary eye-contact then. 

"Also, what happened to 'I'm not that into that'?" 

Quinn's only answer is a shrug. "I've had some time to reconsider?"

Santana sighs loudly while rolling her eyes. "Who would have thought listening to rock is like opening a floodgate of lesbianism and poor judgement when it comes to you?" 

Yeah, I'm postively pouring it, ain't I? The right corner of her mouth quirks slightly upwards despite herself. 

Brittany manages to pull herself away from the tube for a short time in order to rummage around in the messenger bag she's brought with her. She quickly retrieves a thin bottle which she throws at Quinn who instinctively catches it between her hands. 

"Lord Tubbington says you can borrow it. He went through an experimental phase as a kitten," she absently explains, all her focus back on Patrick and Spongebob again who are now busy dancing around in front of their houses together.  

She turns it over to look properly at it. "Hairdye?" And when it registers: "*Pink* hairdye?"

"Mmhm. 'Punky Pink'."

"Britt, did your cat really give you that?" Santana asks.

Brittany turns her head and gives her a look as though her on-and-off-again girlfriend just spoke fluent Chinese. She gives one firm nod. It doesn't invite any type of retort.   

Quinn is studying the object in her hand so intensely that the likelihood of burning a hole through it with her sheer gaze could very well happen. She clears her voice once and then says with certainty: "Okay. Let's do this."

Santana looks doubtful. Bless her stony bitch heart. "Are you sure?" 

The ex-captain of the Cheerios simply breathes in and out of her nose a few times as she shakes the bottle lightly. 

"Yes."

And that's why the three of them find themselves in the bathroom one minute later; Quinn with a towel slung across her shoulders, bending halfway into the walk-in shower while allowing Brittany to spray her hair with lukewarm water.  

When everything is applied where it should be applied, washed out where it should be washed out and blowdried where it should be blowdried, the hazel-eyed female's face emerges from the soft fuzzy depths of a towel, and she sees the new her looking back at her from the bathroom mirror for the first time.

"Awesome. Your head looks like cotton candy," Brittany grins as she runs a playful hand through her friend's 'do. "Now I'm hungry." 

The coloured damp hair in the large mirror is goddamn noticeably pink. 

Rock on. 

--

The first day back at school is both terrifying and exhilarating. Her new her is coming out for everyone to look at and openly judge -- both in the literal, but also kind of in the figurative sense. 

Quinn takes a deep breath before pressing the earbuds into her ears. Scrolls through the playlist on her Ipod. Presses play. And starts walking.

"Wild" by The Nuns fills her head. She listens as the delicious guitar kicks in and keeps the slight Ice Bitch Smirk™ firmly on her face as she makes her way down the hallway, ignoring every single student who turns and openly gapes at her or who mutters decisively nasty remarks about her under their breaths.

Judgemental buttholes. 

Whatever. Fuck them with a rusty crowbar.

She doesn't really care about them and they certainly aren't the one person she's currently trying to spot --

Ah. Of course. Already at her locker, getting the books she needs. Should have guessed.

The former blonde sidles up next to the smaller girl and leans casually against the closed locker next to hers, just waiting for her to pull her head back, shut it and --

Rachel gives a high-pitched squeal when her eyes land on Finn's ex-girlfriend standing to her immediate left.

Okay. So, she... didn't expect that, to be perfectly honest. 

"Quinn?! Wha --"

And that's all she says. Her brown eyes simply stay glued to the top of the pink head beside her, mouth slack.

Quinn leans closer, all half-lidded and voice low. Humor is the safest bet right now. "You can touch if you wanna, Berry," she jokes, eyebrow arching while her lips give a lop-sided smile. 

Still no answer. 

"You... like?"

Rachel finally seems to shake herself out of it. "I -- I'm sorry. Yes! Yes, I do. It's certainly -- different! May I enquire as to what prompted the drastic change of hair colour?" 

Mulls it over, while absently pulling at the bottom of her black T-shirt. Ugh, she should have gone with the holed jeans today to complete her outfit. Oh well. "I had a revelation during the summer, I guess you can say."

"Well, I for one approve of this look," the singer comments, smiling wide, and, God, Quinn can't deny it; right then and there, by Jove, she finds the girl incredibly adorable and cute and just... gorgeous. 

It's mainly the reason why she decides to softly call out after the short Jew as she starts making her way to her first class. 

"Hey, Rachel..."

Quinn steels herself for a second before just asking, because what's the worst thing that can happen? Except getting laughed and spat at, perhaps. 

Right. None of those thoughts right now, thanks, brain! 

"Wanna go to Breadstix? At some point? Just, y'know -- to hang out. Together. Why not, y'know."

Smooth, Fabray. Real smooth.

Rachel looks like she's just been thrown into an alternative dimension and is making a valiant attempt at trying to understand what the hell is going on around her. It's... 'encouraging', to say the least.

Just around the time where Quinn can feel herself quietly panicking with shrieking sirens going off inside her head and everything, there's finally an answer. "Erhm. Yes?"

Suc... cess?

When she dares to look over at Berry, there's an endearing smile waiting for her. "Yes, why not. We can agree on the specific hour, date and discuss the exact details after Glee today?"

Quinn nods and has an embarrassing moment of not knowing what to do with her hands before she settles on responding with her own goofy type of smile, leaning against the locker behind her. "Sure thing." 

And then the argyle sweater with the cute Rachel in it is moving away from her and her lungs finally feel like they can take oxygen in again and her heart resumes beating. 

Down the hall, she spots Santana and Brittany standing at the blue-eyed girl's locker. Brittany immediately gives her double thumbs up while the other ex-Cheerio simply gives an epic eyeroll, looking slightly nauseated as she does so. 

Quinn can't really bring herself to feel upset or annoyed at her right at the moment. 

She's still buzzing from asking Rachel Berry out on a 'sneak date'. 

end.