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Sometimes it was easy to be a follower of Jesus Christ. There was this sermon, at youth convention when she was fourteen, about fans in the stands versus followers, players on the field who gave it all instead of just saying “Yay, God!” It stuck with her, through the years. When she joined the Chastity Club, followed her parents to church, went to youth and to camp, it was easy. But many times, it was easier to just wear to face paint and hold a sign than to do what she was supposed to. She could start a chastity club without really meaning anything she said, she could preach at everyone and keep it up for her parents. After last year, though, she was trying. She wasn’t very good at following God’s will- cheating, lying, gossiping, these were all things that came too easy to her. But when she heard Sam’s tearful prayer request at youth, Quinn Fabray felt Convicted. She could pray for him and give him a hug, and that was all that was really expected of her. But- she was capable of more. She closed her eyes, mentally putting on the jersey. Sam was leaving the room, and she called out, “Wait up!”
For what she considered an “act of service”, babysitting Stacy and Stevie wasn’t too bad. They were good kids, and between the craft projects, homework, and Veggietale movies, the time went quickly. She did something right.
Sometimes, Kurt would stop by, bringing clothes for Sam, old books and movies and puzzles for Stevie, and some adorable high heels and tiaras and princess dress-up kits for Stacie. She walked him out to his car after. “You really didn’t have to go buy Stacie something. Sam won’t be comfortable accepting anything...”
Kurt blushed, hands in pockets as he looked down at his boots. “Um, well.” He looked back up at her, smiling softly. “Actually, those were mine. They’ll never fit again and I might never have kids of my own and quite frankly, I own much classier tiaras now, so it’s really no problem.”
Quinn had to chuckle at the mental image of a tiny Kurt Hummel in a frilly pink dress and tiara, holding a plastic want. “Oh, my goodness. You must have been so cute.”
Kurt grinned at her. “I ran my poor dad ragged. He never knew what to expect with me.”
She hesitated a moment. “Did you- this is probably going to come out wrong, but...did you want to be a girl?”
Kurt sighed and tilted his head to the side. “Can I say it’s complicated? I am a guy, I feel like a boy, I always have. But, you know, I like Disney. I wanted to marry Prince Charming, and only princesses get to marry princes. I love fashion and stereotypically female things, but I like dressing this body with high fashion.” He gestured to himself. “It probably would have made my life simpler if I’d been born female, but I wouldn’t change for anything.”
Quinn bit her lip, glancing down. “That makes sense. I just...with the dresses...I wondered. Sorry.”
Kurt looked her in the eye calmly. “You asked, Q. You didn’t assume or taunt or spread rumors, and I truly appreciate that. Last year? You totally would’ve used this as ammunition.”
“Well, you know, judge not lest ye be judge, all that. I’m not very good at obeying that one, but I try.” She smirked. “And you did get your Prince Charming, even without the genderswap.”
Kurt tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.
“The Beast chases you away from your homeland and right into the arms of a charming, dapper, wealthy prince who sings? Your life is such a Disney musical.”
He giggled. “Oh, my gaga, that’s hilarious. How about you? Which musical is yours?”
She snorted. “You know me, I’m a Lifetime movie.” She said bitterly. “But- hey, there’s Sam. Home. From work.” Smooth, Lucy. Way to change the topic. She waved. “Hi, Sam!”
And sometimes, it was really, really hard. Santana might’ve been the one screaming about Lima Heights, Adjacent, but Quinn was furious, too. The midget got the guy, got New York, and then ruined it for the rest of them. She was going to break Finn’s heart at the end of the year, if not sooner- between both of their track records of cheating and lying and drama, she’s put bets on breaking up before Christmas.
Schue had her pass out the tickets home and she saw her name, then saw red. Really, Mr. Schue? Do you want murder on the plane? She sidled up next to Finn. “Not to break up the Munsters or anything, but I thought you might want to switch with me for the trip home.”
He looked incredibly grateful, and she hated him just a little for it. “Oh, thank you, so much! You’re the best ex ever.” He gave her a hug and ran off to go tell the hobbit and make out with her some more.
When she slid down in the seat next to Kurt, he removed an ear bud and raised an eyebrow. “Here to save me from a lovesick Finn?”
Quinn sighed. “No, to keep me from strangling Berry. Hudson’s annoying tendency to ramble about whatever’s on his mind was an afterthought, I assure you.”
“Of course. My enjoyment of peace and quiet may be an afterthought, but I thank you anyway.” He went back to his music, and let Quinn fume (and sleep) in peace.
Kurt wasn’t one for judging. Unless you had no fashion sense whatsoever, but... Quinn knew that he, at least, wouldn’t try to change her too much. She stopped going to church except when Mom forced her, mid-July, and now just wrote angry punk songs instead of sermon notes. She still felt like a fake, though. The pink hair and the skateboarder- they didn’t feel any more like her than the cardigans and blond did. So he was pretty much the only one she talked to over the summer. And by “talked with”, she meant, texted at odd hours and ranted into the phone at, past midnight.
He never told her to shut up. Get over yourself and take a chill pill, but never I don’t care what you’re saying so stop calling me.
That was more than she could say for Santana or Brittany, who really only wanted to be her friend when she fit in their little boxes of cheer. Sure, Kurt wasn’t her friend, but at least he was a tolerant frenemy.
She faded into the background of the play drama. It was a very Lucy thing to do, but with neither the uniform nor the boyfriend, she simply didn’t have the willpower to be Quinn and draw the attention in.
She saw Kurt’s gracious acceptance of his loss to Anderson. No matter of familial training in diplomacy could have made her do the same, in his situation. The judges were inane and shallow, and his audition wasn’t bad; Tony was just way too bland of a role for Kurt Fucking Hummel, and they all knew it. In something like a musical version of Batman, he would’ve held the starring role. Badass and more than a little gay, and the little flips and sword things made for great superheroes. He would adore or loath the costumes, depending on the decade chosen, because the tights and codpieces were hot, but the speedo-and-cape combination of latter issues was both tacky and impractical. Those old-school comics stashed under her bed actually had a lot of characters like Kurt- they all were too unique, too luminescent for small-town Ohio.
She’d actually loved Sam’s nerdiness. It allowed her talk about interesting things, things she’d liked when she was younger, without actually impacting her reputation. After all, knowing about Sam’s interests just made her a good girlfriend, right? Not a nerd herself.
But anyway, she was flying under the radar quite intentionally and was therefore completely surprised to get a call from Kurt Thursday afternoon. “Do you feel like blowing off steam and exercising a hatred of Rachel Berry with me tonight?” He said without preamble, a hard edge under his high voice.
“Damn, Hummel, you do know the way to a girl’s heart. I’m in.”
“Fabulous. You’re on my way, so, five minutes. Dress comfortably.” He hung up, and Quinn stared for a second in disbelief before shedding her dress and pulling on her ratty jeans and a torn t-shirt she’d never wear in front of Brittana. She was tying her cons when he rang the doorbell, and she grabbed her wallet and ran out before her mom would see who was there. She did not need the interrogation right now.
Kurt accepted her fashion choices without a single snide word, which is how she knew something was wrong. “Ready?” She nodded, and followed him out to the Navigator. Once she was belted in, he started the engine, saying, “Blaine’s ipod is in the glove box. Put on some angry chick music will you?
She snorted, but leaned forward anyway. “Why not use yours?”
“It’s predominantly Broadway. While that’s normally my preferred style, I don’t want a reminder of Rachel every song.”
“And Blaine’s won’t? Doesn’t he have showtunes?” Quinn asked and hooked it up, scrolling through the artists.
“Blaine’s hopelessly Top 40. I was shocked when he suggested Candles as a duet for regionals, more by the relative obscurity of the song than the fact that he wanted to sing a a breakup song with his brand-new boyfriend.”
She laughed. “That was a spectacularly bad song choice, I have to agree. But it made Puck cry, so it worked, and you were on key. And anything would be better than Jesus is a Friend, right?”
“Really? I thought you’d like that one, at least a little.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “No freaking way. One, way too perky. Two, the way they did it was just a parody of Christianity. If they wanted to do a Christian song as judge appeal, do Switchfoot, or Superchick, or something that’s Christian but not hitting people over the head with Bibles. That was bad, and I found it a little offensive. Not surprising, considering Sylvester, but still.”
“And how does that make you feel, Quinn?” He teased at the end of her rant.
“Oh, shut up." She glanced back down at the ipod. "Pink okay?”
“Perfect.”
She hit play, and they sang along the rest of the way to the Robin Hood Archery Center, where they obliterated two targets, then replaced them with posters of gold stars, which made the employee crack up.
Worship songs coming up on shuffle made her cry. She would start to pray, these days, and then feel wonderfully, horribly, unrepentant for everything she’d done and stop, mid-sentence. Because the problem with having a personal relationship with Jesus was that you felt bad lying in your prayers, even. It was like kicking a puppy, or making Brittany cry. Back when her faith was about Religion and going to church and keeping up appearances and keeping her parents happy and just- keeping on, it was easy. Because it was all going through the motions. Now? She knew the difference, between her real faith and the mask, and it hurt like hell to think about what she was doing. Getting Beth back was the important thing, now, and she’d do whatever it took. She knew it was wrong, planting evidence and whatever, okay, but if she just didn’t think about it, it would be okay. It had to be okay. She turned up the music to block out in the voice in her head that said, Lucy, love, you know better than this. Because she couldn't let herself get distracted.
Kurt stopped his car about a block away from the bar. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands and dialed a number labeled "Edmund", stolen surreptitiously from Santana's phone last May. He picked up after two rings.
"Hello? Who is this?"
"It's Kurt." His voice shook.
"Hummel? Didn't I just see you? Okay, let me go somewhere quieter." The background bar noises muted. "All right. What's wrong? You sound horrible."
Kurt inhaled slowly. "Blaine and I- we had a fight, and he was mad and drunk, and possibly roofied by that rat Sebastian, I don't know, he said he only had one beer but he was acting all weird and now he's going to walk home and he won't <i>listen</i>, and he can't walk home, it's too far, and I- I-" He choked off, not knowing what to say.
Dave's voice was gentle and calm. "Okay, Kurt. Take a deep breath for me." Kurt obeyed. "Are you in your car? And sober?"
"Y- yes. Designated driver."
"Okay. I want you to drive home once those tears clear up, so you don't miss your curfew and make your Dad worry. I'm going to get your boy home so he doesn't get himself killed. Understand? Get home, and don't worry."
"Um. Okay. Thank you."
"And Kurt? It's all going to work out."
The call ended with a click. Kurt bit at his knuckle and stared at the window at the cars driving by for a second before taking a deep, albiet shaky, breath and setting his phone down in the cupholder. He dialled a number and put the phone on speaker.
“Kurt, it’s past eleven. You better have a good reason for calling.” Quinn’s voice was groggy.
“Had a fight. With Blaine. Don’t want to talk about it. Just- can you distract me so I an drive home?” He turned on the engine, signalling the empty road.
Her harsh laugh was warmed by the summer of angst and cigarettes. “No problem, Hummel. So your brother’s punching Berry’s V-Card tonight. She convened the unholy trinity, plus Tina, for a little sex talk. Totally ignored us when we told her that first times suck, because Cohen-Chang monologued about true love for, like, ten minutes.”
Kurt laughed. “Oh, gaga, give me brain bleach. I so do not want to imagine Finn Hudson getting it on. With anyone.”
“Tell that to yourself, sophomore year.”
“Don’t remind me. Speaking of bad taste in men, what’s the update on Puckerman?”
Her wit and sarcasm and pure insanity got him all the way home, eyes dry by the time he walked through the front door, two minutes ‘till curfew. Not that it mattered- Dad was out of town, but he somehow always knew if they missed curfew, even when he wasn’t home. Finn couldn’t tell that anything was wrong, and so he could go to sleep and worry about Blaine in the morning. And thank Karofsky sometime when the sun was out, and ask Rachel what happened, and...
He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, that stupid song from the bar playing on repeat in his head.