Your Wayward Girl

. . .

Chapter 1: A star, alone in the sky.

. . .

All the passion and love in her heart sung to one place—this city.

She stood— crying for whole seconds—the very first time she ever got to call it home. Now, she belonged to it. She was its beacon—she shone for it.

"The difference between your success, and my success," Rachel Berry paused, watching Santana's dark eyes roll. She persisted, "The difference—"

"Wow interesting," Santana drawled, very slowly, "Now shut the fuck up."

Dark had descended perhaps two hours ago, but Rachel's internal clock estimated it was still very early in the evening. She gave a little gasp for show, but wasn't fussed about it particularly. She'd known Santana years and years.

"I hate when you interrupt stories in the middle, San."

And Brittany also—years and years.

Santana shook her head, pulling the tall diminutive blonde into the crook of her arm. She swayed into Santana like wheat stalk in the wind.

Brittany watched Rachel's vague hand gestures with bright eyes.

"Oh fine, Santana—be ignorant."

They walked along the street-light lit sidewalk with easy smiles—snow fell lightly; gleaming with the rusty shade of the lights. It was Christmas-time. Rachel was wearing a pink skating-cap that kept getting tugged over her face by Santana with a: "I get bored staring at your indignation, Berry" and a low chuckle.

They paused upon sight of the frosted, crystalline window of a brown-brick tavern—the name "Myra's" emblazoned in gold script across it. Rachel craned her neck up at them, "I'm parked approximately a block away, but do you want to stop in for drinks?"

They nodded simultaneously.

. . .

. . .

About half the crowd turned to watch them as they entered—quiet wonder at famous faces strolling leisurely into some bar.

The one thing Rachel hated—while she delighted in the attention—was the sudden halt in conversation whenever she stepped into a room. It felt too intrusive. People were sharing moments, private moments or ones with friends—and her very presence was disruptive to their dynamic; if only momentarily. She stuck her hands into her dress pockets and averted her eyes to the ceiling.

Dozens of girls sat, milling about small circular tables (lit subtly by tealight candles). They found one near the window—where Brittany wanted to be.

"Do you think there's service? Or should I go get our drinks?" Alcohol was almost always Santana's exclusive concern whenever they went out anywhere. She was far less sensitive to attention than Rachel; long-since used to being gawked at by bright, mal-intended eyes.

Somebody roared with laughter somewhere and the static din of conversation continued past the fleeting, star-struck lapse. Rachel no longer felt that she was being paraded through the room—her eyes swerved along the length of the bar.

. . .

Her disposition took a fall towards desperation; eyes dark. She stared, and not at all casually.

The girl was hunched over a book and a beer—blonde bangs tickled the bridge of her nose. It bothered Rachel; a tickle flittered through her face and she wished she knew the girl so she could tuck the wayward strands neatly behind her ear. Stare into her eyes unobstructed.

She was dressed in a green pea coat that seemed to sparkle—snow had fallen on her recently, Rachel realized (a tad delayed). For whole seconds she thought the girl must've fallen from the sky.

"I'll go get our drinks," Rachel told them, clearly interested.

Santana watched her, askance. She stared back innocently.

Dark eyes immediately snaked across the bar, searching faces, "A-ha! I'll betcha wanna get our drinks, Gay-Berry."

"Shut up."

Santana hooked a brow, "Are you really gonna be the awkward geek who tries to land the girl pretending to read in a bar? Ten bucks says she's waiting on a girlfriend."

Rachel nodded absentmindedly, "So…you think she's gay?"

Santana laughed and shook her head at the hugeness; the puerile obliviousness, of Rachel's eyes. She steered Brittany to their table, with a hand at her lower back, and called back, wryly, "She's in a gay bar—so yeah. Not that it even matters to a single-minded narcissist like you."

Brittany nuzzled her nose onto a rounded, brown cheek. She raised her willowy arms up to the ceiling—her fingertips humming with love and energy; she flexed them tight. "Things are about to go down!" she giggled, turning to whisper at Rachel, "And if you're lucky, you'll be one of them."

At Brittany's wink, Rachel smirked widely (with thick, butterscotch lips). She turned her shining gaze back to the bar.

. . .

The crowd shifted around her—giving her space and attention. The girl did not.

The bartender was nondescript and intuitive—she seemed to sense Rachel's intentions, and didn't approach her for an order.

Rachel glanced at the girl, often and obliquely. The girl appeared oblivious, eyes set devotedly on the pages. The romance was quickly dissipating from the scene; waning in the long, dry silence between them.

Rachel licked her lips.

"You don't belong here, you know," she told her, softly, finally, "In some dive bar, reading a book. You're too pretty. Much too pretty. I think—I think my penthouse apartment would be a much more fitting backdrop for a girl as pretty as you. So what do you say? I parked close and I haven't been drinking."

Tiresomely cold hazel eyes lifted from beneath long lashes to stare at her minutely, before turning soberly back towards her literature.

Rachel watched her (intently) for whole seconds, before repeating casually, "What do you say?"

The girl licked her fingertip, and flipped the page, "No, thank you."

Rachel believed that meant nothing definite. In fact, there was a tremulous exhilaration in the chase. It had gotten far too easy in recent years. This girl—apparently—had no idea who she was talking to.

"Then let me get you a drink. Please? Just a drink."

The girl glanced up, partly surprised, as if she had only just become aware that Rachel's presence was still there, "No. Thank you."

Rachel's smirk grew faint—until she was suddenly pouting, "You won't take a free drink?"

"Accepting a drink at a bar from a stranger is never as simple as accepting a drink—the way it's simple and just a sweet gesture whenever a friend gifts you something," the girl spoke, sure and soft, as if she were considering everything she said at great length before saying it (it was wonderfully rare, when one lived in a world where most people spoke strictly—directly—out of their asses), "There's always the implication—and at the end, you're accepting that too—the implication that you're free to engage me, and I owe you my attention, and even more than that depending on how much stake you put into the cost of a drink."

"Must you overthink it? It's only a drink," Rachel complained, tapping her heel against the leg of the girl's stool agitatedly, "How about a trade? A fair one. A drink for your name."

The thousands of infinitesimal sounds in the bar (the pouring of drinks, the happy chatter) coalesced into a single, dull hum as hazel penetrated chestnut, fully. For whole seconds the world stood still for Rachel, and then the girl's lips quirked up slightly. She turned to the bartender (standing off-center, hands clinched over a clean rag, and pretending not to've been listening).

"I'll have your most expensive drink—to be paid for by the tiny, loud brunette to my direct right. Thank you." She turned to Rachel, "Whenever I go to a bar I always ask for the biggest, cheapest thing they've got, which is usually a mug of some godawful domestic beer. I've always been curious as to whether there's that much of a difference between that and what people like you generally drink."

"Absolutely there is."

Intelligent green eyes grew wide, "There is?"

Rachel giggled; her nose wrinkled.

The girl caught on then, to the clever nuances of Rachel's smirk, and blushed noticeably (very prettily beneath the low bar lights).

"No, no," Rachel told her, "I wouldn't have the slightest clue. I've never had beer, really."

With near heart-breaking poignancy (careful and slow), the girl slid her mug towards Rachel's direction. Her large, pale hand seemed cooler than the drink. Rachel wished she could press its digits to her mouth—she took the mug by its handle; putting the brim to her lips. Foam and amber filled her mouth.

"Ugh, that's terrible."

The girl grinned magnificently. Rachel thought the sour bite of the beer turned smoother then, upon sight of it.

The sudden reappearance of the bartender went unrecognized—some tumbleweed off in the horizon, floating through the scenery. The girl watched the frothy red drink placed in front of her, wryly. She reached for it, and took a curious sip from a little black straw.

"Hmmm—tastes like berries."

Brown eyes lit up.

"Name!" Rachel reminded her, albeit abruptly, "Yours, your name. Our deal."

The girl balanced her chin on her knuckles—her elbow on the bar—and looked at Rachel obliquely, eyes twinkling almost, "Quinn."

Rachel held her breath for a beat, then, "That's all I get?"

Quinn nodded tenderly, "That's all you get."

"But Quinnnnn," Rachel pouted, "Whyyyyy?"

Quinn laughed—licked her lips and bit them, "One of us should leave."

Rachel shook her head, and nestled closer, mouth nearly brushing Quinn's jaw, "If you leave I'll be despondent all night."

Quinn pulled back (whole, unbearable inches), swallowing noticeably, "Why should I care how you feel? You're some girl I just met who, immediately upon meeting me, was trying to pressure me into anonymous sex. And I wouldn't even ever see you again, would I?"

Quinn's eyes seemed impassive. Rachel steeled herself—pokerface in place.

"Do you even want to see me again?"

"No."

"Then who cares?"

Quinn sighed, tiredly.

"I care. I don't do one-night stands, without exception."

Rachel smirked—ambiguous, and coy, "We don't have to…I do, I do have a cool apartment you know? It's big and lonely. Just distract me for tonight, that's all. We can—watch movies, or talk about…books, or, or whatever you want to do. And you don't have to worry about me. What do you have to worry about? I mean, you're so much bigger. If I get too frisky, I give you full permission to get rough with me."

Hazel eyes turned to listless amber slits, "You're…you're so see thru. Do you think I'm an idiot? Or that I'm so secretly desperate that I'd let myself fall for something that trite and superficial?— because you're just that charming, right? And you are, yeah, you're charming. And at some point that would've had my walls up immediately—but lucky for you, you're so shallowly charming and so see-thru there's no chance you'd actually trick me into sex. And lucky for you, I'm pretty sure slapping you in the face would be a hate crime against hobbits. So I'm just going to sit here and pretend to read while you huff and stomp your foot and walk away."

Her high, Grace Kelly-brows were quirked sardonically. Their prettiness tempered the heat beneath Rachel's cheeks—somewhat.

She sat for minutes, watching Quinn fake ennui brilliantly—languorous licks of her lips, and little yawns.

Words had never failed her before that single, silent moment. It wasn't momentous or anything—the air was thin, the bar lights swooned (ugly, turning ruddier with every blink), she felt cold—she was the frost, outside, latched to the window.

She huffed—scoffed, and rolled big eyes.

She stomped her foot for emphasis, and laid a little brown hand upon her hip.

She walked away.

. . .

. . .

Feeling very much sixteen, she drank saccharine daiquiris and emoted (across from San and Brit, by the window).

"I can't believe she said no—I'm Rachel Barbra Berry! Maybe floozies don't recognize me from my work on Broadway, but damn it that's why I do TV! It's the only reason I do TV, because frankly I find the medium to be tired and artless."

Santana glanced at Brittany's profile—the girl was distracted, swirling an olive across her martini glass. She decided then, to yield to every wicked impulse when it came to those sad doe eyes in front of her.

"Calm down, baby-tits—so the girl showed a modicum of taste."

Rachel rubbed at her eyes, as if to wake herself. The whole world was this bar—magick lanterns and the blonde haired girl.

She hadn't felt this petulant and temperamental since high school. Dark, moody eyes fixed on Santana's.

"It's simply inexplicable—no matter how I think about it. She had the once in a lifetime opportunity to fuck a thrice-tony-nominated, twice-tony- awarded actress—and by the way, that first time I was robbed. But whatever! That's—her choice."

Across her, Santana snorted. Her grin was wry, and callous; poised to speak.

"Don't you—dare, Santana," her full mouth was pulled into a perceptible pout; nearly sensual, "My distress should be palpable, so I expect only sympathy."

"From me?"

Rachel regarded the bar—indignant, dark-eyed, scowl enforced.

But then again: didn't fortune always favor the brave?

"This…isn't…the end of this."

Santana eyed her languidly, kittenish and bored already, "Why not?"

Rachel's head shook; incredulous. She was reasonable. She was diplomatic. She was right.

"Because there's just no way I'm going home alone tonight. Do you ever see a star alone in the sky? No. Not for very long, anyway. Fuck that. Fuck it. I'm fucking her."

Santana's brow quirked, "Whatever happened to your thrice-tony-nominated pussy being a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?"

Almost absentmindedly, Rachel mumbled a 'fuck you' before getting up off her seat; small hands knotted at the hem of her dress.

. . .

. . .

The girl—Quinn—could not confine her impish smirk; she felt Rachel at her back.

"Do you know who I am?"

Quinn beamed at her; amused by all accounts. Devout, golden-halo eyes watched her openly (up and down, for several, slow go-arounds).

"You're the girl who cries when she sings."

Quinn watched Rachel's startled mouth fall, for a small, satisfying moment. In a flash, she caught herself.

"Yes, that's—exactly! That is who I am. I am not the girl in high school who gets ignored by pretty cheerleaders anymore. I am a tony-awarded-actress! And in this scenario, any sane person would think you're an idiot for not engaging in weird, drunken back-alley sex with me right now."

Quinn winced, catching eyes with interested patrons, "You're also very loud."

With a pronounced, but woefully unassertive pout, Rachel sighed at her, "Just fuck me."

A brow quirked, almost in sympathy, "Was that your best second try?"

Rachel nodded her head; petulant.

"Go back to your friends," Quinn told her softly.

. . .

Laughter floated to her from across the short length of the table.

"Look at Berry's ego—as it immerses itself in newfound humility. Such a beautiful process."

"Like watching a Phoenix die."

She was back with her friends.

Sulking; dreaming up red hot baths with lily-scented bubbles, and a book of poems written by Plath.

"This still isn't the end of this," she told them, "Not by a long-shot."

Santana rolled her eyes above the rim of her jack and coke, "You're lucky I'm drunk and my senses are too dull to give a fuck that you're an idiot."

. . .