She’s been Fiona’s girlfriend for well over a decade, even if she doesn’t count that first year of college when they were apart. So it’s safe to say there are honestly few surprises left in the bedroom department at this point. She knows every inch of Fee’s body by heart, and she knows the same is true for her body and Fiona, and honestly, she wouldn’t exchange that safety and intimacy and trust for all the wild adventurous sex in the world. And the very best part is, she still feels a tingle down her spine when Fiona promises to take her dress off later. Even if she’s taken off hundreds of Rachel’s clothes before.
“Miss Hudson.” She has to channel her acting skills to say it in a stern, judgmental tone. If she was wearing pearls, she’d clutch them for effect. “A respectable teacher like yourself, taking off an Off-Broadway star’s dress?” She may not technically be a star yet, but she will be. As soon as her show opens and the world realizes what they’ve been missing all these years by ignoring her talent. The (theater) world will never be the same. And she knows Fee thinks of her as a star already, anyway. “How scandalous.”
“C’mon, Q, we’re not old!” I mean, she does feel old sometimes. Like, all the time, when someone mentions marriage or children, because she’s always kind of wanted the whole package thing, you know? A wife and a home filled with kids and maybe a dog or five. And in her wildest dreams, her house always looks like a gorgeous ranch down South (you can take the girl out of small town Tennessee, but you can’t take small town Tennessee out of the girl) and her wife always looks like…
Nope. Not going down that road.
“I mean sure, I always kinda assumed we’d be married by now.” Her eyes widen just so, and she’s like, stupid grateful everyone assumes she’s kinda dim because that means she can usually recover from foot-in-mouth situations without much trouble. Oh, you know Sammy. Kind of an airhead. “I mean. Not to each other. Obviously.” Because Quinn is straight. Obviously! “But like. You know what I mean. But we’re young in Manhattan, Q! The world is our oyster… I think. Is that the right saying? I never really got the oyster thing, to be honest.”
Fran chuckles, half because Bea’s exaggerated accent is amusing, and half because she’s on her second drink and everything’s a little funnier with a little help from good scotch. But then Bea turns the question on her, and Fran doesn’t find that quite so amusing, even if her smile remains. Because she’s a Fabray. And Fabrays don’t ever let their face show anything below ‘neutral’ on the mood scale.
“I don’t work.” She’s thirty five years old. She’s been married for seventeen years now, which is exactly how long she’s been a stay at home wife. And it still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Less so when she’s among the other trophy wives in her usual circle, but exponentially more when she’s surrounded by Quinn’s friends and their exciting lives, jobs, and relationships. “But I like to paint.” And normally she’d be at least a bit proud of that fact - many of Felicity’s friends’ mothers don’t have hobbies beyond shopping - but right now it feels a little like she’s desperate for validation. I’m not completely hollow inside. I have a life. I fucking paint.
“And I like scotch, too.” She jokes, kind of, showing Bea her empty glass. “I’ll go get a refill and bring back something for you.” She’s still smiling, so she hopes nothing will look particularly off as she makes her way to Fiona and Rachel’s guest room, hoping for a break from people to just forget about her own life and stop comparing it to the lives of everyone else out in the living room.
Well, now Fee’s just laughing. Rachel has that effect on her too. Like, she’s pretty sure that there are people (some of which might even be at this party) who find the more dramatic parts of Rachel’s personality a bit much, and that’s cool, in high school, she might have agreed -- but now she gets it. Rachel’s just a big dork too. A different brand than her, maybe -- but like, dork attracts dork, it’s science.
She thinks. It’s a good thing she teaches the fourth grade.
“Hey -- what the kids don’t know...” she wiggles her brows suggestively -- one dorky gesture always demanded another in return, like Einstein said. Or something. “Come on, fiancee, we should probably say hi to our friends so they get us good wedding presents,” she jokes... well, she’s mostly joking, so she thinks that makes it funny and not selfish - she just really wants that Darth Vadar waffle maker.
Sam always assumed they’d be married by now. And yeah, she’s sure she did mean individually married. To other people. But she’s blushing. Playing up the air head act she thinks she can pull off -- and maybe she can, with other people, but Quinn’s not other people, is she?
And so she smiles, something warm and just a little sympathetic. She hasn’t pictured the two of them married (recently... gals being pals, it’s ALL NORMAL), but Sam has. Or at least the insinuation that she has is enough to make her friend flustered. And it feels good. Bea’s will come and go, but they’re still at the top of each other’s lists.
“I get it, Sammy, honest,” she chuckles, only vaguely aware that Fran is leaving without her. “You’re right, we’re young, we’re in New York, there’s no rush -- still, maybe we should make one of those pacts. If we’re not married by forty or whatever. You know, just in case.” That was a normal thing to say, right? Not gay, certainly. Who wouldn’t rather marry their best friend than some overweight dude with hair plugs who is probably cheating on you with his secretary anyway?
She doesn’t know Fran -- but she is really good at reading people. So when Fran can’t seem to refresh her drink fast enough, Bea knows she’s hit a raw nerve. And as unintentional as it may be, she still feels terrible. But she gets it, she thinks. She’s been stuck in a life with choices she didn’t want to be making anymore -- unable to look in her Gran’s eyes to explain the reason she doesn’t look herself is that she’s been spending her nights drinking shit beer and getting high in the hopes of feeling something. She gets shame.
She just doesn’t think Fran has anything to be ashamed of. (Funny thing, shame. It only ever makes sense to the person who's experiencing it.)
So she places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze to get her attention. “I’m going to get us some drinks,” she says quietly, giving her Sam’s cheek a quick peck before turning to follow Fran’s retreating form.
Standing in the doorway, she finds herself hesitating. Like she said, she doesn’t know this woman. Maybe following her isn’t her best idea. Still, she finds herself chewing on her lip as she knocks on the frame. “You didn’t ask what I wanted,” she offers as an explanation, shrugging just so. Cute works for her. If she has overstepped hopefully the cute will keep her out of trouble.
