define good (unreal | rachel/quinn)

[fiachairecht]

define good. unreal, rachel/quinn. they said they wouldn't talk about murder, not that they wouldn't do murder. 790w, rated t. for iomixit in writingrainbowexchange nail polish round.

It's gone midnight when Rachel's old-fashioned key rattles in the lock, and Quinn isn't, strictly speaking, waiting up for her, but she is still awake. It's just her and the lonely circle of lamplight illuminating the carved wooden headboard, the crumpled pile of the duvet, half-empty bottle of Grey Goose on the nightstand, and it's — homey, the girl at the registration desk had said when she handed the keys over fifteen hours ago, and Quinn had bitten back all the things she wanted to say about those sorts of homes after one look at the ridiculous softness in Rachel's eyes.

The lock turns over with a final click, and Rachel slips inside with the gracelessness of someone trying a little too hard to be quiet, the scent of weed heavy in the air around her. Quinn wrinkles her nose.

"Don't even think about getting in this bed smelling like ..." She trails off as she realises Rachel hasn't moved any closer. "Rachel?"

"Sorry," Rachel says, "I just ..." 

She doesn't sound drunk, but when Quinn looks up she's swaying slightly, pale under her makeup. "Rachel," she says, disentangling herself from the sheets and crossing the cold oak floor, flipping lamps on along the way. She almost regrets it, a little bit, because Rachel in the light is a wreck, hair mussed and mascara dripping. "Hey." She reaches up to cup her cheek, nails digging into the slick of cried-on foundation, and Rachel takes a shuddering breath. Grounded.

"You know the thing we said we wouldn't talk about? And we wouldn't do again?"

There's been more than a few of those, in their lives, but Quinn drops her hand and steps back to look Rachel up and down — her hand trembling at her side, her mouth pinched tight and sad like she's just waiting for a lecture, her shirt clinging damp and crimson to her stomach, her left stiletto gone — and she's pretty sure she knows which one Rachel's talking about.

They'd chosen this place for the deal just in case, after all.

"Let me guess," she says, and she couldn't fight the edge of pride creeping into her voice if she tried. "You did it anyway."

"He signed first!" Rachel says. She pushes her bangs away from her forehead, light glinting off the diamonds draped over her wrist. They don't quite cover money, dick, power, and that old flash of possibility flares in Quinn's chest again. "He signed, it's airtight, the network's stuck with us even without Jeff, but after—"

She doesn't need to say. Knows better than to say, even, and Quinn searches for something to fill the silence.

"You good?" She tries, and then, as Rachel's eyebrows rise, she rethinks that. "Stupid question."

But Rachel's starting to smile, under the incredulity, her tightrope mouth slackening as her shoulders slump. "Define good."

That's all it takes for Quinn to laugh, and then Rachel too, and the moment cracks between them, comfort flooding back in. "Get rid of the shirt," Quinn says, "And try not to. You know. Get blood on shit."

Rachel nods, and Quinn leaves her to it as she heads for their bags. Rachel's is near empty — underwear and jeans, the absolute minimum packing job she could be trusted to come up with — so Quinn digs out her third set of pajamas.  When she turns around, Rachel's standing on one of the pool towels in a puddle of her party clothes, shivering in the plain black silk bra and panties Quinn had watched her buy after season five.

The laughter's faded, but so has the fear, and she looks ... tired. Tired enough that she doesn't protest when Quinn approaches, pajamas held out like a question. Just holds her arms out and lets Quinn wipe her down with the other towel, lifts her legs to step into the pants.

"I'm not doing this again," she says, yanking the shirt over Rachel's head. "Not the next time."

Rachel's head pops out of the neck, gaze wary under the coppery gold of faded eyeshadow. "Next?"

"Yeah," Quinn says, and tilts Rachel's head up to kiss her, deep and slow enough to make Rachel moan. "I have a whole list of execs worse than Jeff. If you want."

There's a smile tugging at the corner of Rachel's mouth, the sort of smile that makes Quinn want to undress her again, and again, crawl right inside her and never come out. "I won't talk about those either."

She steps forward, pushing Quinn back towards the bed, and the light in her eyes is worth the cleanup job that awaits them tomorrow. "But I'm keeping the pajamas."

The backs of Quinn's knees hit the side of the mattress, and she can't bring herself to argue.