#disc002

Quinn felt like she'd been bracing for impact all day. Actually, from the moment she'd driven away from the facility - the swipe of the black credit card her father hadn't really bothered her, not really, though she knew it would come around eventually. 

What bothered her was Sam. 

She'd made her peace, or at least told herself she had made her peace with Sam not wanting to speak to her anymore over it. As she methodically wiped down the Maggie's bar, she reminded herself that mattered less than James getting help. 

She finished her deep clean and moved on, picking up the inventory clipboard and her pen. She had to know how many glasses that punk replacement had actually dropped, and she had to keep herself busy, because Sam was due any minute, and she couldn't keep staring at the door like that. So she brushed her jaggedy pink hair behind her ear, set the clipboard down, and started to pull (freshly cleaned) glasses down to count. The more she could do before Sam ordered her out of his bar, the better.

The day had been uneventful and short, with only a few clients on the books at the shop so Sam opted to cut out early. If he were lucky, he could manage to get a nap in before having to make his way to the Maggie for the evening. He reached the house in record time, stepping into the silence and finding nothing unusual about it. It was always quiet.  It could use some dusting, no doubt yet another thing he'd have to tackle before the holiday. Stacy would be home and the last thing he wanted was her, seeing how things had moved further into disarray. In the kitchen, he found a glass on the small table, half full of whiskey and a ring of melted ice around the base. That, that was unusual. His father almost never walked away from a drink, unless he had another nearby. It prompted Sam to look in the living room, but found no trace of glasses or bottles. It was possible James had retreated to his room but that was empty as well. Bed rumpled, curtains drawn, a stale smell of liquor and sadness emanating from it that Sam didn't linger long. He'd searched the whole house and called around to some of James' friends, the ones he hadn't managed to alienate, but no one had seen him. Sometimes, James would take walks, leaving the door unlocked, and glass in hand. Just to really give the town something more to laugh about. The headache was already forming when Sam got back into his truck, driving to all the spots his father frequented. The bench in Knights Park where James and Maggie ended their first date. The diner, where thoughts of Tina and the last time he managed to discover his father in a place where he shouldn't have been (sprawled on their front porch) hit him. The last stop and ideally the place where he would've most likely been, Sam reached the Maggie, finding not his father but...Quinn. Resurfaced, clipboard in hand, and sporting pink hair. Sam was momentarily confused at the sight, of her (and her hair) before he spoke. "Is he back there? I've been all over town and no one's seen him...can't decide if that's good or bad."

Quinn looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look on her face, which she would've been amused about, in other circumstances. 

"It's a good thing," Quinn answered, keeping her voice soft as set her pen down on the clipboard. "He's in treatment." Quinn took a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. "This is the address and room number." Quinn held Sam's gaze, determined not to shrink or stutter. "I took him last night. He's there for at least 30 days, probably longer, depending on how it goes." Quinn swallowed. 

"He's doing it for you. And for Stacy." Quinn hesitated. "And your mother," she added something like a smile ghosting her face,  "because he knows Mrs. Evans would've kicked his ass already. His words."

"What?" Sam, who was still stuck on the fact that Quinn's hair was pink (seriously, when the fuck did that happen?) had to mentally run the tape back. Olive-colored eyes narrowed as he moved closer, noting the folded paper in her hand as she spoke of an address and a room number. For treatment. 

His reaction was slow to build, confusion giving way to anger, the heated sensation of it spreading the more Quinn spoke and he barely let her finish, the mention of his mother snapping him into focus and his gaze hardened. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He was gobsmacked by it all. 

The boldness of her butting in and the casual way she upended his life, as it were as easy as ticking off a box on her checklist. Sam would not be surprised in the least if that fucking clipboard actually had a 'butt in' written somewhere. The audacity of it all, as if his father was something to be handled, as if it were her problem, and then to bring Sam himself into it...and Stacy.... "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Your friend," Quinn answered evenly, resolutely refusing to flinch. Boys who got loud were the worst. 

"I spoke with Stacy. She and I agreed this was the only card left in our deck. He can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this, and please don't tell me you can, because that would be insulting to both of us." 

Quinn let out a slow breath and resisted the urge to cross her arms, to ruffle her feathers and raise her hackles. She would not be angry with Sam. She simply refused to be. 

"He knows, I know, Stacy knows, you know that it's not fair or right to strap this to you like a big, boozy anchor. It's not right. So he's trying to correct himself so that you and your sister have a hope in hell of ever getting out."

It was the thing he hated, what Quinn had always done, even when they were younger. Speaking in that bossy way she had, as if everyone else were merely the pieces she had to move to suit her needs. It grated him then, but over time, it hovered been irritating and amusing.   But today it needled him. He didn't need her pushing her way through, behaving as if she were the only one who knew best, roping his sister into her nonsense and then pretending like she cared. "You disappear for weeks, with nothing but a text, and then show up pulling a fuckin' move like this without telling me.  And you drag my sister into it? And I'm supposed to think you've got my best interests in mind? Seriously? That's bullshit, Quinn." Sam took a deep breath, his tone still hard and flat, voice rumbling in that quiet, angry way he hated to be. "Whatever the issue with my father is, that's my business. I was already looking into some places Hunter gave me a list of. Which you would've known had you bothered askin' instead of doing what you always do. How the fuck is hiding this from me helping? What, did you need to be the one who saved my father from himself? First the bar now the owner? What the fuck else are you planning to overhaul in my family's life? Just so I can know when to move out of the way, since apparently you're the one calling the shots now."

It took a godly amount of restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at him, but she did resist the urge, if just barely. She let him snap at her, fine, sure, and moved around out from the bar to stand properly across from him, nothing in between. "Tell me this," Quinn said, "tell me what 'having your best interests in mind' would look like. If not this, what? Letting you skulk around like a bad Sam impersonator for the rest of our lives? Letting your sister tell me that this needed to happen and proceeding to do absolutely nothing in response? Which, just so we're clear, I didn't drag Stacy anywhere, and haven't since she was ten years old and I wanted to go shopping and babysit at the same time. She's an adult. We had a conversation, one that wouldn't have been the least productive with you and me, or with you and her. So was I supposed to argue with you about it, even though you apparently already knew it was true?" Quinn snorted. "That's the bullshit part, Sam. That you're pissed that you weren't 'the one who got to' kick his ass to get clean." Quinn used the air quotes, and then she did roll her eyes. "It doesn't matter who kicked what. It matters that he got into the car instead of knocking back a shot. It matters that he's actually following through with it. There's no 'credit' except his credit for getting up and making a change." She rested her hands on her hips and met his gaze. "Furthermore. You are my business, as long as you are my friend, Sam. You know that. You know I wasn't trying to sneak anywhere or hide anything. I'm standing right here. You know that if I was really trying to be underhanded about it, I'd be underhanded, and no one would know anything about it for a very long time." Quinn sighed, her expression going just a little soft. "I understand that I--that I disappeared on you. I understand that I hurt and disappointed you when I did that. I apologize for that, Sam, I do. I won't apologize for doing what needed to be done."

"Everybody's an adult, who can make decisions. Except for me. I'm the one that's gotta be handled around the issue and shut out of the big kid conversations? You did something with my father and didn't even fuckin' discuss it with me, and took it to my sister like I'm some irrational asshole and I need to be grateful? 'Cause he actually went with you? Do you even hear yourself?" Sam could feel himself getting worked up and he took a step back, needing to put some distance between them. "You're never fuckin'  sorry, Quinn. So I don't ever expect you to give an actual fuck about invading my family's space or guilt tripping or threatening my father into following your orders. You overstepped. Plain and fucking simple. I don't give a shit what you talked about with Stacy. You had no right to do what you did. And if you didn't want to swoop in and play savior, answer me this: Who's footing the bill for this massive change? 'Cause my sister's a broke college student and no one bothered to clue me in on anything. So unless my father managed to hit the numbers in the time it took for you to drive him to this life changing facility, I'm guessing this sober sweat out is sponsored by the bank of Fabray ." Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed out a tired, bitter laugh. "We should be so lucky. Castleport's favorite daughter, returning home and making my family her personal fuckin' charity case for the holiday. I'll look out for the write-up in the Gazette. I know how your family's paper loves to keep tabs on my old man's public antics."  Sam stalked past Quinn to move behind the counter, his face hard and expressionless as he threw a passing glance in her direction. "We're done here."

Quinn could have snapped back. She could have argued each and every one of Sam's points until they were both furious and going for the jugular. She could see it - she could feel it, the words heavy on her tongue, exactly how she'd fight it. Fight him. How she'd say, oh, you think you're angry now? You think we're done? We're just getting started, Evans, and don't think you can go round for round with me about this, because she was Quinn Fabray, and Quinn Fabray didn't lose arguments. No, Quinn lost friends. Quinn lost family. Quinn lost jobs and boyfriends and futures and pasts. That was part of who she was, part of how she was, and she'd accepted it a long time ago. Fabrays were lonely creatures by nature, the sort that never really ever had the capacity for anything like companionship. They were built, on their best days, for partnership, but even that was a stretch, a rarity. Frannie and her husband were outliers, and even then, Frannie made every important decision for the two of them. Quinn was just so damn tired of losing things. She was so, so tired of trying to do what was right and getting screamed at for it. She was just tired. "It wasn't an order," Quinn said, without bothering to turn around and look at him, because if she did, she'd probably lose it. "And you're not a fucking charity case." Maybe that was what she was angriest about. Or maybe it was the mention of her family and their finances. Or maybe it was the accusation that Quinn didn't actually care. Because she did. "I do hear myself. I never heard myself tell you you had to feel anything." Now she did at least tilt her head toward him, slightly over her shoulder, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed away from him, because her nails were digging into her skin in a bad way, in a way that told her to just walk the fuck away, to walk away from the whole damn friendship because it was crashing and burning anyway and as per usual, it was her fault.

She was really tired of losing people, but away was the only direction people walked anymore, so she turned around to look at him. 

"You don't care what I talked about with Stacy - fine. I'm not sorry - sure. I don't care about invading your family's space - you're three for three. I'm a rich girl who's just here to flaunt how together her life is, how much I love taking people under my wing, as long as I get my name in the paper or mentioned in someone's early Sunday gossip. If that's honestly what you think is true about me, then maybe we are done here." Quinn's nails dug deeper into her skin. Focus. 

"But that's - frankly, I knew that. I knew doing what I did might make us go back to whatever we were before. Or worse. I accepted that. It was less important than the good this will do you in the long run, whether or not you ever say so out loud or even to yourself. If you keep throwing a tantrum about this for the rest of our lives, so be it. I'll walk out that door and not look back or so much as darken your doorstep again if that's what you want. I'm willing to do that not because I don't care about you or this place, but because I do, and I know that in the long run, this will help. Even if he can't stick with it. Even if it's not lifechanging. I'm willing to do it because I know if the situation were reversed..." 

Quinn trailed off and shook her head. 

“Never mind. I'm sure you'd be perfectly respectful and let me have all the space I needed to drown myself in guilt and the appearance of responsibility while the misery chipped away at my soul. But - well, I guess I wouldn't have that problem, because I'm Princess of Castleport who doesn't know what hard work or suffering is like, and everything I do is either calculated, careless or intentionally hurtful, right? You wouldn't ever need to do anything like this, because Quinn and the Bank of Fabray don't have any real problems, so I just want to glide in, wave my magic wand and fix other people's, specifically people who I don't care about and who I'm secretly just using for...attention, I guess, or the rush of pretending at being a good person or...whatever it is you think motivated this. You, known for being so level-headed and wise, would never dare overstep with me if you thought it would help me and that I was too stubborn to take the steps myself. You'd never be so...what, hateful? Disrespectful? Insert whatever adjective you like, I don't care. If you don't want him there, you have the address and a car. Go get him, if you don't think this will actually help him, and you, and Stacy. If you genuinely think it was a mistake, go undo it. Tell me to get out or tell me to finish the inventory and I'll do whichever one you like." 

She let the challenge hang there for a long minute and tried to ignore the regret she already felt creeping around the pit of her stomach. 

Goodbye, Sam. It never made sense that they were close anyway, did it. They shouldn't have been. Maybe this was just the natural order coming back to itself. Maybe Sam was just a blip, a glitch - someone whose feelings she'd been apparently only imagining to understand all these months. Maybe Sam hadn't actually seen her the way she thought he did. It was a disquieting thought, but one she had to wrestle with - maybe he was the one who'd had her fooled, instead of the other way around. 

And people thought she was a good actress.

Sam's jaw tightened, teeth clenched so tightly it felt like he'd snap in half if he didn't ease up. He pressed his palms to the bar, needing that bit of grounding as Quinn spoke, completely twisting his words and if Sam wasn't so damn furious he'd probably be impressed by the spin of it. "Knock it off," he told her, broad shoulders as he pushed off the counter. "Don't tell me you care about me and then dismiss my feelings to a tantrum 'cause you're not getting the reaction you wanted. What did you think would happen, Quinn? You went behind my back. I don't care how great the good was, I would've never--" His words caught in his throat, and he took great care to swallow down the rising emotion.

"I never said your life was together. Or you didn't have problems. Otherwise you would've never been back in this bar or have that hair and no one, not even your parents, I'm guessing would've heard from you in months. But you made me feel like this project you had to take on. And maybe if the situation were reversed, I would've reached out to you. But you didn't do that. You treated me like an obstacle, instead of the friend you apparently give a shit about. And you can justify it however you want and explain it whatever way's gonna ease that guilt and call me a hot headed asshole, but I would've never made you feel this way." Useless, as if all the work he'd been trying to juggle, and the effort it took to maintain everything, to keep the bar afloat, to manage his father, look out for his sister, boiled down to nothing when someone else, someone he once trusted could yank the rug out from under him. Could make the burden he carried for years disappear with a swipe of a card. As if it were that easy. And he supposed it was with money and connections. And that gnawed at him, the anger and bitterness rising in his throat, tasting sour. "What's done is done. You did what you wanted, like you always do." He pushed the paper back at her, uncaring about the location, the name of the place, or how long James would be there. "I didn't have shit to do with this, so we'll just keep that energy. You can take Stacy if you want, since y'all are making the decisions now. Whether it helps or doesn't, it's not my problem or concern. You started this. You can see it through. I'm done."

Quinn sighed. He was probably right. Because friends don't make friends feel 'this way'. Sam was much, much better at being a friend than she was. And she had treated him like an obstacle, because he sort of was one, since he already had too much on his plate to give it the attention it needed, and anyway he would've just told her to fuck off, which was counterproductive. 

Quinn took the paper, tucking it back into her pocket. "Fair enough." Her voice came out flat, and she couldn't argue with him. She knew he'd be upset, angry, furious - there wasn't any point in trying to change that. 

It would just make it worse. She would just make it worse. 

She let the silence drag, then shook her head. "I'm going to do inventory," she said, only getting close enough to him to grab her clipboard and pen. "I'll be in the back if you need anything." 

With that, Quinn made her way past the bar and into the stockroom, determined to keep the shaky feeling in her hands and the terrible disappointment in her heart to herself, at least until she was alone.