Rachel growls and gives her suitcase a determined tug as she tows the hot pink canvas bag across the immaculately-maintained lawn towards the shed in the far corner of the yard. Suddenly the handle is flying out of her hand though, and her suitcase is falling, the top of it hitting the back of her foot.
She lets out a squeak of pain - a howl isn't worth the serious damange it could possibly inflict on her vocal cords - and whirls around to find the perpetrator behind her fumble.
She's met only with a raised line of dirt.
Scowling, she squints up at the window to their bedroom and lets out a shriek. "Quinn!" Noting bitterly how the well-being of her voice no longer seems to matter when she's reprimanding Quinn, the petite girl grabs a stone at the ground and chucks it at the window. "Quinn!"
There's no response.
Rachel sighs and scowls, kicking the upturned dirt angrily before grabbing her bag and stomping the rest of the way towards the shed. She'd told Quinn the mole needed to be taken care of. In fact, her pristine memory - how else is one supposed to remember one's lines, especially when one must carry an entire show? - recalls the conversation clearly.
"Quinn, I believe a mole has decided to make our yard its home."
"Okay."
"Okay?" Rachel's voice has that incredulous tone to it, her partner notices, and the blonde sighs. It's been a long day, and she's in no mood to bicker.
"Yes, Rachel. Okay."
"That's it? Just okay?" The brunette's voice is inching higher now. "A
rodent has made the exceedingly rude decision to make our home its stomping grounds to both uproot and potentially birth its children in, which can only lead to more of such rodents and greaten the infestation already running rampant through our flowerbeds-""One," Quinn begins warily, "we don't
have any flowerbeds. We have grass. Two," she holds up a hand when Rachel opens her mouth to interrupt, "there's only one mole, so saying it's going to procreate, even if it is a girl is pointless," here she ignores Rachel's mumbled "well you two better make friends because youwon't be getting any, either" and finishes, " and three, you said so yourself: it's a rodent. I'm pretty sure rodents don't make conscious decisions, let alone exceedingly rude ones."Rachel huffs and opens her mouth a second time, but Quinn interrupts her again.
"However - and this is just to avoid any fit you might through because I'm honestly just not in the mood for it tonight - I'll call the exterminator tomorrow."
Rachel's still scowling and Quinn's wishing it would lighten up, if just for a minute, and the tanner girl looks at her for a few more seconds before proclaiming "I'm going to bed" and stalking upstairs.
Quinn sighs and thinks that, while she would've preferred a kiss, a hug or even a handshake would be nice, not only because she really hates the concept of an exterminator - something Rachel instilled in her years ago, oddly enough - but also because sometimes, she admits to herself, sometimes she just misses soft hands and the smell of strawberries.
The brunette finally reaches the shed, after running through seven different why-didn't-Quinn-call-the-exterminator? scenarios in her head and settling on her personal favorite "because she's an insensitive bitch." Pleased with her selection, she cracks open the door and slips in, pulling her - now muddly - overnighter in behind her.
Flipping on the lights, she's instantly calmed and surveys the room with a smile. Upon first moving in, she'd renovated the garden shed in the backyard - gardening was something she left to her two gay dads ever since she'd been six and her bean sprout had been the only one in her class that failed to grow, resulting in Rachel Berry's first ever diva storm out as well as her first and only visit to the principal's office, something she was still attempting to get expunged from her otherwise pristine record - making it into a ballet studio, lined with obsessively cleaned mirrors and a shining birch ballet bar.
That's all Quinn knew about it, anyway.
Rachel glances out the door one last time, and satisfied when she's met only with remnants of the morning fog, lingering over moist grass and molehills, she gives it a gentle push, and, hearing a soft click, she smiles to herself as she slides the deadbolt into place, reveling for a moment in her sanctuary of a tin shed.
Quinn's eyes snap open as soon as she hears Rachel less-than-gracefully slamming shut the door of that godawful eyesore in their backyard, and she rises, padding over to the window and pulling aside a white linen curtain to examine the window. If Rachel's little scene earlier that morning - something Quinn had chosen to ignore, instead rolling both her eyes and over onto her other side to stare at the empty half of the bed next to her - had chipped the glass, Quinn was fully prepared to give her Hell when she returned from New York.
Instead, though, Quinn's eyes are met with smooth glass and the sight of their less than slightly dilapidated backyard. Oh, right. The exterminator.
Still, she thinks, sighing, as she heads towards the bathroom, she probably wouldn't have cared so much if Rachel's stone-throwing spectacle had been moreRomeo and Juliet than nagging wife.
Not that she wants Rachel to be her wife, of course.
By the time she's started brushing her teeth, she's forgotten all about the exterminator. Instead, she's making sure to brush her teeth in small circles. To get those hard to reach areas or whatever.
Rachel's dragging her valise back across the lawn, struggling futilely to lift it over the molehill, when she catches a flurry of movement coming from the bedroom window.
A blonde, well-manicured flurry of movement.
It's gone as soon as Rachel sees it, though, and before she knows it her bag is falling over again, this time making a splash as it falls into a mud puddle.
Rachel blames Quinn.
Quinn hears the garage door opening followed by the rumbling of the engine as Rachel's car starts up and then drives away. Of course Rachel would forget to close the garage door.
The blonde makes her way down the stairs, stomping perhaps a little too hard, and pausing to slip into the cool garage and make sure the door is properly closed before finally making her way into the kitchen. The sun is shining through the windows and she feels weirdly like Katrina and the Waves should be playing because even though she was having a bad day before, she isn't anymore.
A beep from her phone and she's back to reality, though, and Quinn jerks her attention away from the window, heading towards the oven.
Her fingers slide over the stainless steel surface, fingers lingering on buttons and pushing down just so even though the oven is neither in use nor about to be, and within a few short seconds the door is opening and gears are turning and something that's more of an arsenal than a tray and certainly doesn't belong in any sort of oven is emerging. There's a split second of contemplation on Quinn's face before she reaches out and slides a nickel Heckler & Koch P7M13 into her palm and then, as quickly as it emerged, the tray is disappearing back into the oven.
Contented smile on her face, Quinn slides the weapon into her purse and turns on the morning news.
"Mother Nature will be shaking off this chill soon enough," the weather girl is saying, "and ladies, you better pull those peasant tops right back out, because things will certainly be heating up soon."
A back piercing kick from Quinn and the oven door's slamming shut.
"Absolutely. I'll be there in the morning." Rachel's nodding.
"Of course." Quinn's examining her nails unconcernedly.
They're both on the phone.
Rachel ends her call with a curt "alright" while Quinn hangs up with a purse of her lips.
Rachel chances a glance at her counterpart. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah. My mother thinks she has pneumonia, but it's probably just a cold."
"Oh." Rachel is quiet for a minute. "Maybe you should go see her. I'm sure she'd enjoy that."
"Yeah. Maybe I will."
An awkward - but not unfamiliar - silence falls over the two, before Quinn turns to Rachel again. "Who was that on the phone?"
"Just a friend of mine in New York City who keeps a hand in the business, though I fear she'll be kept off the stage for a while due to a torn ACL."
Quinn looks at her pointedly. "And?"
Something in Rachel snaps. "I don't see why you have to know everything that's going on in my life, Quinn!"
There's a flash of something in Quinn's eyes for a split second and it's gone before Rachel can identify it. She calms, though, and sighs. "There are a few open calls for touring companies in the coming days and she felt I should audition."
Quinn's still looking at her and an unasked question is lingering in the air between them.
"I'll fly out in the morning," Rachel supplies, "and I'll be gone a couple of days."
"I see," Quinn turns on her side, back to Rachel, and flips off the light.
Rachel, who's gotten quiet, does the same.
Another "I see," whispered this time, fills the darkness, and it's the last thing either of them remember before they fall asleep.
There's a soft ding from a polished bell on the door as Rachel slips into Puckerman Traveling Agency, offering a small smile to the slightly ruffled-looking older woman behind the desk who's chirping a "morning Rachel!" at her.
Rachel manages a "morning Carole" back, and then glances around. "Is Noah in yet?"
When all Rachel gets is a delayed shrug in response, she has to remember to breathe because, if she's being honest with herself, Carole isn't doing anything terribly wrong and it really isn't like the poor woman is expected to know about the irksome manner in which Rachel's day has started out.
So Rachel breathes.
She breathes until Puck emerges from the bathroom, shoving his shirt down the front of his pants in an effort to tuck it in, but she notes the telltale wrinkles in its presentation and suddenly Carole's disheveled appearance is making a lot more sense.
Pairing an exasperated sigh with an overly-executed eye roll - she'd never been unable to comprehend exactly why melodrama had gone out of style - Rachel just grabs his wrinkled shirt sleeve and drags him into his office, slamming the door altogether too forcefully behind them and sliding up to sit on his desk.
Puck's eyebrows raise and waggle when she locks it, too. "What, you finally decide to drop the vagitarian thing? Because I can totally hook you up with something kosher, babe."
Rachel's quiet then, and when her shoulders slump, he knows something's up.
His voice lowers, taking an almost softer tone. "You and Quinn fight again?"
Rachel just stares at the floor, and, deciding sensitivity obviously isn't working, Puck grins. "What do you say to a little get together at my place this weekend? Barbecue, no chicks... It'll be the shit."
Rachel laughs a little bit in spite of herself before kicking playfully at him. "I'm a girl, you idiot!"
"Okay, okay. No girlfriends. How's that sound?"
"Well I'll have to check with Quinn first," Rachel murmurs, but Puck can still see the small smile on her face.
"You two must be on some killer cell phone plan, then, because I'm pretty sure you call that chick every time you want to do something. Do you have to ask her if you can scratch your own balls, too?"
Rachel wrinkles her nose and slips to the floor, pushing off the desk with a "you're disgusting," as she walks to the door. She throws him one last look over her shoulder, accompanied by a "and as I previously mentioned, I'm of the female variety. Don't make me tell you again!"
"Does that mean she's the dude?" Puck yells at her retreating back.
A muffled "you live with your mother!" reaches his ears before he hears Rachel's office door shut, and with an indignant huff, he knows he's lost.
"She's a nice lady," he mumbles under his breath.
Stiletto heels click curtly along the sidewalk, splashing in the occasional puddle as Quinn makes her way downtown, pulling the waterproof material tighter against her body. This weather is really the cherry on top a shitty morning, she thinks. The least this rain could do is do us all a favor and drown out that stupid mole./p
She stops when she reaches an older building, though, and slips inside the revolving door after a glance at the people around her. Quinn barely has time to label them - tacky, tacky, super tacky - before her feet have taken her to the elevator and the 15th floor.
Seeing Santana waiting for her, Quinn tries to look pleasant.
"Jesus, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?"
Apparently, Quinn wasn't trying hard enough.
"Good morning to you too, Santana. Ladies," Quinn nods at a group of women passing by, clad in black suits, neatly pressed white oxfords, and crimson ties. They nod at her in response, and Santana offers them a pointed glare before they scurry away, leaving her and Quinn to sit around a conference table. Santana promptly puts her feet up, and Quinn decides reminding her she's wearing a skirt today isn't worth the fight.
"Your target's name is Kurt Hummel," Santana drawls, opening up a manilla file folder and messily lining up the slew of glossy photos inside it, "aka the Tank."
Quinn snorts. The kid is probably 20 years old and has what she thinks is the epitome of a babyface. He's anything but a tank.
"Yeah, I know, right?"
"The Tank?" Quinn splutters. Her morning's already starting to go better, thanks to Kurt Hummel. Thanks to the Tank, she corrects herself, and snorts again.
"Seriously though, Quinn," Santana's voice has taken on a more serious edge and Quinn finds herself preferring her belittling drawl, "we need this quick, clean, and contained."
Quinn nods.
"He's being moved across the border to a federal facility tomorrow, and it's the perfect time. It's the convoy's only point of vulnerability..."
Santana's still talking, but Quinn's managed to tune her out, already planning out intricately staged tactical maneuvers. "I want GPS and spec in the canyon," she interrupts, ignoring the sudden tightness in Santana's jaw as soon as the blonde cuts her off. Quinn pauses, then, as an afterthought: "and get me weather reports from the last three days." If she has to be near the border, she figures, she'd better get a tan.
Quinn is sunburt. She's lying on her stomach on a rotting wood floor, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, waiting for some skinny little punk ass kid, and she'ssunburnt.
She supposes it could be worse.
She leans right to check a beat-up old laptop screen - "come on, Quinn, like you'd actually be allowed to take something quality into the desert," Santana had sniffed - and just as she's turning back to face the horizon, a gust of hot wind picks up and she promptly receives an abundance of sand to her face.
Just as she's frantically rubbing at her eyes and thinking now it really couldn't get any worse, there's a roaring sound and a deep red motorcycle comes roaring in from out of her left field of vision and three black Suburbans appear in the distance.
"Quinn," Santana's saying in her ear, "we're green. The perimeter is up and running."
Quinn groans. "Are you getting this, Santana?"
There's a snort.
"Santana!"
"What? You don't actually think it's a threat, do you, Q?"
Quinn glances back down at the motorcycle, its helmet-clad rider attempting to do a jump off a nearby rock only to completely miss his landing, rolling off the seat into the sand.
Santana's laughing in her ear, but all Quinn's seeing is red as she goes to pull the plug on her laptop. "That idiot's going to blow the charges."
She's still watching out of the corner of her eye, though, as the rider gets up, and, seeming to spot the rock he tried to jump for the first time, run-run-leaps over to it, clambering to the top of it and striking a pose. Quinn have expects him to proclaim he's king of the world, muttering "civilians" under her breath, when he slides his backpack off his back , letting it fall to the ground in front of him, and oh my God, he's pulling out a gun.
"Quinn?" Santana's not laughing anymore. "Any particular reason we're getting a weapons signature?"
"Shit!" is the the hissed response she gets. "Not a civilian!" Pushing her beat-up mirrored aviators up onto the bridge of her nose, she grabs her KTR-03S and takes aim, smirking when she hits the guy square in the chest. "Asshole."
Just as her target tumbles off the rock and to the ground, Santana's in her ear again. "Convoy's in the zone, Quinn, countdown is initiated..."
Rachel groans, sitting up and pulling a silver bullet out of her vest, scowling at the hole it's made in her new leather jacket. She'd got it specifically for today, and someone had just shot her- Someone had just shot her!
Brows furrowed as far as they could go and lips in a tight line, Rachel turns to face the tin shack from whence the shots came, hand thrust in her pocket. She smirks then, pulling out a grenade and yanking the pin out, glaring at the tin shed - in lieu of her unseen opponent - and expertly chucking the explosive.
The building erupts into flames, but Rachel scowls when she sees a motorbike - identical to her own, save for dark blue coloring - speeding away from the dilapidated shack.
At least my newfound rival has impeccable taste, Rachel thinks, and she's turning to leave when she notices a semi-charred laptop among the ruins.
"I think I got ID'd on that hit," Rachel's mumbling around her mixed field greens, tracing stars in the condensation of her water glass. "Have you ever been ID'd on a hit?"
Puck shrugs, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.
"Right." Rachel's quiet for a moment, then "I think I'm in trouble."
"You get a look at the dude?"
"Based on the short time he was within my range of vision, I'd speculate about 110. 115 tops," she adds as an afterthought. After all, she though, under absolutely no conditions should a potential rival weigh less than her.
Puck's mouth is so full of food, Rachel's surprised he can even speak, let alone her understand him. "Maybe dude's a midget."
"I'm not sure," Rachel turns to him after a moment of consideration, "it was a him."
Puck's fork stops and he lowers it back to his plate. "Are you saying," he says, turning to face her, "you got your ass kicked by some chick?"
Rachel rolls her eyes, ready to retort that, in case you'd forgotten, Noah, she was a girl too, but is interrupted when Puck opens his mouth again, eyes this time on their waitress.
"You two want any dessert?"
"Well," Noah draws out, "What do you have today, babe?"
"Ice cream," she says, obviously unaffected by Noah's advances.
"Well that sounds delicious," Puck's grin is widening as he leans forward, "what kind of flavors do you have?"
"Chocolate and vanilla."
"I don't think I want either of those," he sighs, letting a finger run lightly down the waitress's arm, "not separately, anyway..."
Rachel sees exactly what her friend is doing, and rolls her eyes.
"...but maybe mixed together they could be pretty awesome, right? And I'm not talking about some little spoon," he winks, "I want the whole sundae."
Rachel sees the crack in the woman's demeanor coming a mile away. "That could be arranged."
"Why thank you," Puck leers, and there's a pause while he's reading her name tag, "Mercedes."
She gives him a small smile before making her way back to the kitchen.
"You hear that?" Puck's turned back to Rachel now, running a hand through his mohawk. "It could be arranged. I'd like to have her kick my ass if you know what I mean."
Rachel snorts, but her attention is only half focused on her friend, having gone from tracing stars to nondescript shapes as she stares off into the space behind Puck's head.
"You know anything beside her weight class?" When he doesn't get a response, Puck flicks her temple. "You know, it makes it pretty hard for me to talk to you when you're in your crazy zone like that."
"Laptop."
"Huh?"
"Laptop."
"Rachel, I don't know what-"
"Laptop."
Puck throws his hands up in the air in defeat. "Alright, laptop."
Quinn's scowling as she storms into Santana's office, a scared-looking blonde following behind her, scissors and suturing wire in one hand, the other trying fruitlessly to secure a band-aid on Quinn's left shoulder.
"Quinn," another girl appears behind them.
"Get me that tape," Quinn's growling at Santana, who rolls her eyes and calls Quinn what sounds like "sore loser," but turns to her computer anyway.
"Quinn," the girl tries again, a little louder this time.
"What?" The blonde whirls around, whipping the girl behind her with her, scissors clattering to the floor and bandage ripping off of Quinn's back.
The girl blinks and meekly holds out a phone. "It's her."
Quinn cringes and takes the phone, tone softening. "The FBI secured the package. The window's closed."
"The voice on the other end of the phone sighs, "I thought you understood we couldn't afford any mistakes on this one."
"There was another player," Quinn growls.
The woman on the other line clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "Q, Q, Q. We do not leave witnesses."
The two other girls are watching quietly, while Santana crosses her arms and purses her lips.
"If this player ID'd you, you know you have 48 hours to clear the scene, Quinn."
Santana's watching Quinn a little more closely now.
"Looking forward to it, ma'am." Quinn claps the phone shut and all but throws it at the girl who'd brought it to her, shoving past her coworkers to look at Santana's computer. "Alright, ladies. We have a new target. Let's just find out who he is."
Rachel was uncomfortable.
She was clearly in the wrong place.
She remembers earlier that day, as she'd sat in Puck's garage, hunched over and sifting through the fried shell of what had once been a laptop, simultaneously lamenting her perfect posture, when she'd thought of her: Quinn's friend. The angry one. Rachel had never been her - oh, what was her name again? Samantha? Satan? Rachel hadn't felt a need to correct herself after arriving at that conclusion - biggest fan, partially because she had never Rachel's biggest fan, but Rachelhad remembered her talking about having some tech-savvy friend on one occasion. On multiple occasions, actually.
But here's Rachel, sitting here in this room, Zac Efron poster on the wall to her left - and really, that's hardly professional - and there's this... Blonde, who looks like she'd be better off touring with Beyoncé or in a squad of Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, staring placidly at her from across a table.
"Um," Rachel begins, but the blonde holds up a finger, and for some reason, Rachel finds herself actually closing her mouth.
"You weren't using this right."
Rachel stares down at the burnt laptop between them, then back up at the woman across from her, whose blue eyes are all but boring a hole into her head.
The blonde cocks her head a little bit, still staring serenely at Rachel, as if waiting for an answer.
Rachel supposes she should have known not to trust Satan. Snatching the laptop up from the table, she rises to her feet with a brisk, "well, thank you for your time, Ms. Pierce, but I'm afraid-"
The blonde's shaking her head now, and lighting a hand on Rachel's arm, and again, Rachel feels strangely compelled to do what she says - or rather, compelled not to upset her - and she sits, letting the woman across from her ease the laptop out of her grasp.
"Don't call me that."
Rachel blinks. "What?"
"I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that. It reminds me of the years I thought I was really bad at golf-"
It takes Rachel so long to figure out she's trying to say "the years I thought I was subpar" that she misses the rest of the woman's sentence. "I'm sorry, I beg your pardon?"
She's met with an extended hand and a grin. "Call me Brittany."
Rachel doesn't have the heart to tell Brittany they've already shaken hands, and Brittany had been the one to introduce herself as Ms. Pierce, so she just gives her a show smile and shakes.
"Now," Brittany says, pulling her hand out of Rachel's, "you weren't using this right."
Rachel sighs. "Well no, but it's not mine-"
"Rachel," and Brittany's actually shaking her head at Rachel, the irony of which does not go unnoticed by the latter, "it's a laptop. It's supposed to sit on top of your lap."
Rachel closes her eyes and breathes. She's going to kill Satan.
"Now, you said it wasn't your laptop, though, so let's find out whose it was so we can return it."
Rachel's eyes flutter open and she blinks and are her eyes deceiving her now because Brittany definitely has the laptop under a magnifying glass and she's using these bizarre little tweezers to pull what Rachel's going to assume is the computer chip out, and now Brittany's plugging it into her own laptop and this has to be some practical joke and now she's really going to kill that awful Satan woman, but Brittany's still talking.
"I can find you a billing address," she's saying - and with a murmured "though addresses aren't ducks so I never understood why they have bills" - adds, "that way you can go tell its owner that it if they kept it on their lap, it probably wouldn't explode."
Rachel's so disturbed by this point she has to distract herself as Brittany's laptop whirrs beside her, so she looks at the stickers on the back.
Emblazoned on a sticker across the center, in white letters on a bright red background, are the words "everybody loves a Latin girl."
"Brittany, of what does your heritage consist?"
Brittany doesn't even look up from her laptop. "It's my girlfriend's."
And suddenly just how much Samantha or Satan or whatever her name is talks about Brittany makes sense.
Rachel's quickly jerked away from her realization by a loud squeal. "It's Santana's office!"
Santana! Rachel thinks, That's her- But then Rachel stops as Brittany gushes "suite 1506a!" because Quinn and Santana have worked in the same firm together for years.
Quinn's standing and watching the same video for the sixteenth time that day, and when one of the two girls seated in front of her yawns, she puts a hand on either of their shoulders. "Go grab a latte, ladies," she murmurs.
Rachel steps out of the revolving door and into the lobby of an older building downtown - and ooh, that woman's wearing a lovely blouse - and, spying a directory up on the wall across from her, makes her way over to it.
If Quinn has to watch this idiot do bad ballet across the desert one more time, she's going to scream. One more time, though, she promises herself begrudgingly, but just as the figure takes up his pose on the rock, his back to the camera, Quinn's eyes widen and she hastens to zoom in.
Her finger's leaving prints as it runs down the glass covering the directory, but it's the last thing on Rachel's mind as she scours the list, stumbling backwards a little and mouth falling open as she reaches 1506: Sylvester and Sons Law Firm.
1506a: Quinn Fabray, Partner.
Santana strolls in, sipping idly on the Diet Coke in one hand, holding a phone in the other, and stops just behind Quinn when she sees what the other girl is staring at on the screen in front of them. "Pretty sure the point was to figure out whose ass it was and annihilate it, Quinn, not ogle it."
It takes Quinn a moment to tear her eyes away from the screen and turn in her chair to face the Santana. "What do you want now?"
Santana holds up the phone with an bored expression. "It's Rachel. She wants to know what time supper is. Her word, not mine," she adds with an eyeroll.
Quinn's back to staring at the screen again. "Tell her..." She bites her lip, then, setting her jaw, "tell her dinner's at seven. Oh, and Santana?"
She's met with a loud slurping sound as Santana sucks on her straw.
"Tighten up your tie before you go back to work."
Santana grinds her teeth and turns to walk away, but still tightens her tie as she puts the phone back to her ear. "She says dinner's at seven."
Still staring at the directory in front of her, Rachel shakes her head. "It always is."