Title: Evolution

Author: Lucy

Pairing: Rachel/Quinn

Rating: PG for swears, nothing else

I love hearing when people like my stories, but I also like hearing what people like about them specifically :) and feedback is love, so love me, okay?

Part One
The first slushy didn't change anything. Quinn was walking down the hallway, not necessarily looking for Rachel Berry, but when she spotted the brunette, she seemed as good a target as any. Quinn tossed the grape slushy in Rachel's face and smirked at the nice contrast between the purple ice and the green the girl had chosen to wear that day. The colors clashed horribly, making the slushying all the more delicious in Quinn's eyes.

Rachel headed for the bathroom to clean herself off, and waited until she got home to cry.

Quinn walked on.

The second slushy happened just like the first, only this time it was cherry. In the middle of a heated debate with Santana, Quinn didn't even have to think, dousing Rachel in slushy as they walked past, not even sparing a second look as she continued to extol the merits of red long sleeved shirts under their uniforms as a contrast to their usual white. Rachel was wearing white today, and in the back of her head Quinn knew that the red of the slushy had completely ruined the clothes - that stain would never come out. There would always be, however faded, a pink reminder of that particular moment of that particular day, of Quinn arguing with Santana and not even really caring, just throwing her slushy at Rachel out of habit.

Rachel headed for the bathroom to clean herself off, and waited until she got home to cry.

Quinn walked on.

The third was green. Quinn remembers that for once in a way, the slushy actually didn't clash with the hideousness Rachel insisted on wearing, but that didn't stop her throwing it in the brunette's face regardless. It was sort of a shame, Quinn remembers, because lime is her favorite flavor, but the habit of buying a slushy to throw at someone rather than drink is too ingrained to stop just because she likes lime flavored ice.

Rachel headed for the bathroom to clean herself off, but the tears came whether she was ready for them or not.

Quinn walked on, but not before she'd seen the tears.

The fourth slushy wasn't Quinn.

The fourth time was Karofsky, and the slushy was blue raspberry, and Quinn had nothing to do with it. She watched it happen, knew it was going to happen, and did nothing to stop it. Karofsky cackled loudly, slapping his friends five. He didn't look twice at Rachel. He didn't care about what he'd just done.

Slamming her locker shut, Quinn stalked up to Rachel, and saw the girl flinch as if she expected a second slushy attack, and Quinn supposed she couldn't blame her. But Quinn didn't have a slushy in her hands this time. Tossing the soft, clean towel she'd brought from home specially for this in Rachel's face, she made sure her sneer was firmly in place before she spoke. "Go and clean yourself up, Man Hands."

She hoped that was sufficiently harsh enough that no one thought she'd gone soft all of a sudden.

Rachel clutched the towel close to her, breathing in the scent of Quinn's fabric softener, and stared after the blond as she walked off down the hallway without a second glance.

This time when she got home, the tears didn't last quite as long.

Part Two
The towel had been completely unnecessary, of course. Rachel had carried a spare outfit, towel and toiletries enough for at least two slushy attacks every day since the second day of freshman year. But the towels Rachel brings from home don't seem nearly as fluffy, or smell nearly as good, as the soft blue towel that hit her gently in the face that day. So she left her towel in her locker, and took the Quinn towel with her to the bathroom.

Rachel didn't know why Quinn had thrown a towel at her. She analyzed it for the rest of the day, testing theories in her head - the throwing in of the towel usually signified a defeat, a cease of attack, but that certainly didn't seem to be the case in this instance. Rachel was fairly certain that the day Quinn Fabray threw a metaphorical towel would be the day Rachel made it all the way to the final bell without suffering a slushy to the face.

And yes, she still cried herself to sleep after her MySpace video was safely posted and gathering the usual hatemail from the Cheerios. She hated that her life had to be so hard, even though adversity often turned out the most amazing stars. She knew that one day when she wrote her tell all autobiography, the tale of her teenage years was sure to push her popularity up immeasurably (though by the time she was ready to write her autobiography, she knew, she was already going to be famous, on Broadway, and loved by young and old. This would, you know, just push her over the top). But knowing all that didn't help her now. She wasn't famous, wasn't even popular. She was just a sad little girl who had drawn the short straw in life, and it hurt.

But tonight there was a blue towel, with a couple of green patches on it, lying next to her head that made the hurt not quite so bad. When she inhaled she could still smell the blond's fabric softener. She pulled it close to her face so she could breathe in the scent as she fell asleep.

The next day Rachel brought Quinn's towel, freshly laundered (which was a shame, sort of, because now it smelled like Rachel and not like Quinn) and placed it neatly in her locker to return to Quinn at her earliest convenience.

The slushy beat her to it.

Gasping, covered in purple (it was grape again today, which was at least her favorite flavor to lick off her lips, even if it was her least favorite to get out of her shirts), this time the towel hit her in the face before she had even had a chance to notice Quinn anywhere in the vicinity.

"Go fix yourself, RuPaul."

It wasn't until she was rubbing her hair dry with the Quinn-scented towel that she realized, the first Quinn towel was still sitting neatly on top of her Algebra book in her locker. Quinn had brought a second towel. Quinn was... well, still a bitch, because she'd done nothing to stop the slushies. But she seemed to be at least attempting to help the situation. Rachel was happy to take what she could get.

Slushy free and dry, she retrieved the clean Quinn towel from her locker, walking cautiously over to where the blonde stood chatting animatedly with Santana and Brittany. Brittany was the first to see her coming and gave a half smile at her approach. Santana sneered openly, looking like she'd smelled something horrible (at least Rachel knew she didn't really smell, since she was fresh from the shower) and Quinn looked...

Rachel didn't have a word for Quinn's expression. It wasn't completely hostile like Santana, but it wasn't approaching friendly, like Brittany. It was sort of... sad.

The myriad speeches Rachel had prepared and rejected in her head for this moment, the returning of the towel, evaporated into mist and she opened and shut her mouth a few times, saying nothing. Santana and Brittany looked from Rachel to Quinn, wondering what was going on, waiting for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, Brittany took Santana by the arm and tugged her gently away, sensing in her intuitive way that Santana's glowering presence wasn't helping Rachel get out whatever she needed to get out.

Alone in the hallway now, Rachel held out the towel. "Thank you," she said, possibly the shortest and simplest thing she'd said since she first gained the ability to string a real sentence together at the age of two.

Quinn took the towel, shoving it in her locker roughly. "Whatever," she snapped, looking around to check if anyone was watching. No one was, and she slumped a little, closing her eyes as she sighed. "I'm..." she began, but stopped herself, because being Quinn Fabray meant never having to say you were sorry, especially to Rachel Berry. "You're welcome," she settled on, her voice barely audible, and she brushed quickly past Rachel and walked away.

Rachel inhaled, smelling not just the fabric softener the girl used on her laundry, but Quinn's shampoo and her perfume and oh, good grief. It figured that she would develop a crush on the meanest girl in school (not counting Santana) as soon as said girl showed the slightest sign of humanity.

Part Three
It would have been so simple to just stop the slushy attacks altogether. Santana was like a popularity mercenary, lending her fists to whatever cause would propel her highest up the food chain, and Quinn currently topped the food chain. One word in Santana's ear and the entire population of the school would be too scared to throw another slushy.

But that would be too easy, and it would also make Quinn look weak, and she just couldn't afford that. So for now, she stuck with the towels. One, two, three, four, a whole week worth of towels brought to school and tossed in Rachel Berry's face. It made Quinn feel better about herself in a way, feel like she was helping. And the towels still counted as a projectile, so she wasn't losing much of her street cred.

She spent the week watching Rachel. She told herself that she was watching for slushy attacks, for the moment when she could step in and throw the towel and a fresh insult, but really by the second or third time she was watching Rachel's eyes. It sort of shocked Quinn to see the pain in them. She'd never taken the time to really look at Rachel, to see past the verbosity and the abrasive overconfidence. Quinn started to almost feel guilty. Almost. The worst, though, was the look on Rachel's face when she returned the freshly laundered towel. Quinn couldn't help but notice the flicker of hope in them, hope that things might be getting better for her.

Two or three times during the week Quinn approached Santana with the intent of making the slushies stop, only to back out at the last minute and pretend to need to talk about warm up techniques or hair care tips.

Every time Rachel returned a towel, Quinn had to see that hope and gratitude, and it made her stomach twist in an unpleasant way. She didn't want Rachel to be grateful. She wished she'd never decided to do anything, because it was making her life more complicated than she wanted it to be. She never set out to be someone's perceived savior. She was the head cheerleader, the top of the pyramid, the leader of the pack. She had no desire to be the champion of the downtrodden.

But by Friday when the slushy hit Rachel's face, and Quinn threw the towel, she didn't just watch Rachel walk away to her locker and then into the bathroom. She followed her.

She didn't say anything, just stood there as Rachel took off her sweater and placed beside the sink, turning on the taps and leaning down to run her hair under the water. She hadn't noticed Quinn standing there watching her, just went through her clean up routine.

Rachel's eyes were closed and there was a dampness on her face that hadn't come from the tap. Eyes still closed, she reached the her towel – Quinn's towel - and patted her face down. A barely audible sob, muffled by the towel, escaped Rachel's throat.

Heaving a silent sigh, Quinn crossed the floor and took the towel from Rachel's hands, ignoring Rachel's start of alarm, and beginning to dry the brunette's hair.

Neither spoke.

Part Four
Of course, the first time Quinn dried Rachel's hair for her, Rachel didn't know what to think. Unfortunately, her years of persecution had pretty much taught her to be suspicious of anything, despite her outward bravado. So the first time Quinn dried Rachel's hair for her, she sat stiff and silent, stuck somewhere between terrified and grateful.

Saturday and Sunday did nothing to help her figure out what exactly was going on. And Saturday and Sunday were, as always, a blessing and a curse. It was a relief to have time outside of her personal Hell. It was also hard to enjoy that time with the knowledge that she would have to go back on Monday, hanging over her head like a guillotine poised to fall.

But Monday was much like Friday. Slushy, towel, Quinn in the bathroom with her silently drying her hair. Rachel still didn't trust it, but it was happening anyway, and there seemed to be no ill will behind this particular action. As the week went by, Rachel relaxed more and more into Quinn's touch. The blonde had no small amount of skill at this task, her hands gentle but firm, efficient but somehow kind.

By Thursday Rachel was almost welcoming the slushy attack, knowing what would follow. Letting her eyes slip closed, she sighed softly. Rachel had a very sensitive scalp, and loved having her hair played with in any way, shape or form, not that anyone had ever bothered to find that out. And Quinn certainly had no way of knowing it.

By far the most astounding thing in all this for Quinn, was that Rachel hadn't said a single word throughout any of their little clean up sessions. For someone who seemed to enjoy the sound of their own voice the way Rachel did, that must have been no small effort. But it made it easier for Quinn to do kind things for her when she wasn't making it so obvious that it was her.

On Friday, the towel slipped to the floor, but Quinn didn't stop, running her fingers through Rachel's dark hair, unconsciously smoothing out the tangles with her bare hands. She had drifted off into her own thoughts of inadequacy, fear and confusion, and hadn't noticed the towel slipping from her grip. So when Rachel accidentally let out a contented purr Quinn froze.

"Did... did you just purr?" she asked, breaking their week long silence with her horrified tone. Rachel froze, face red, and frantically tried to think of a way to explain her way out of it. There was none.

"No, I... it feels nice... I'm sorry!" She felt Quinn's fingers jerk out of her hair. "Please don't stop," she said quietly, wondering why it was exactly that she felt the need to apologize, when it was Quinn who had been the bitch for so long.

Quinn's brain told her to sneer, to snap a retort, turn on her heel and stalk out. Quinn's fingers acted without her brain's permission, threading back through Rachel's hair. "We're not friends, Man Hands," she reminded Rachel roughly, but her usual bite was lacking in her tone.

"I know."

Quinn would never admit this to anyone, but Rachel has really nice hair. It's long, dark, impossibly glossy even after countless dousing in slushy (or perhaps because of them. It gets washed, like, twice a day). And it's so soft, it feels good to have her fingers in it. What doesn't feel good is the idea that Rachel likes what she's doing, and that wasn't ever part of Quinn's plan. Not that she had a plan to begin with.

When they leave the bathroom, Quinn approaches Santana. On Monday, there's no slushy attack. Nor is there one on Tuesday, or Wednesday, or any day after that.

Part Five
With no slushy attacks in the morning, Rachel didn't quite know what to do with herself.

She still brought a change of clothing and all her toiletries to school with her every day. She didn't think enough of the student body that they would stop all together. She suspected this to be something of a slushy hiatus, and she was half waiting for the new "season" of slushy attacks to begin. They never did, though.

And with no slushy attacks in the morning, there was no towel tossed at her. No washing her hair and Quinn drying it with those magic hands of hers. In fact, Quinn hadn't been anywhere near her in days. It was like she was actively avoiding her, and normally Rachel would have been fine with that. The problem was the last towel.

She'd been trying to give it back ever since the purring incident - she'd taken it home, inhaled the fragrance of fabric softener for what she didn't know would be the last time, and washed it - but with Quinn avoiding her, she hadn't had a chance. Something in her wouldn't let her just leave it with one of the other Cheerios. Some urge that flew directly in the face of rational self preservation was telling her to give it back in person.

Her chance came almost an entire week after their last encounter. Leaving Glee rehearsal, Rachel spotted Quinn walking past the room by herself. Obviously the blond hadn't know Rachel would be there, or she would have planned her route more carefully... whatever. This was Rachel's chance, and she took it.

"Quinn," she said softly, stepping forward. "I, um..." she trailed off and held the towel out, in a way that was sort of halfway between a peace offering and a shield. "I wanted to thank you, for... you know. It was nice, the way you helped me. And I know it was you who made them stop. I just... Why?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes and took the towel, choosing her words carefully. "I don't like you, Rachel. You're loud and obnoxious and you make people want to shove a sock down your throat every time you open your mouth. But... you didn't deserve that." And I didn't like the person you made me think I had to be, she thought but didn't say.

"Well, thank you," Rachel repeated, looking Quinn dead in the eye in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable. The two of them stood, staring each other down, completely alone in the hallway.

Inwardly, Rachel laughed to herself. She couldn't help but think that if this had been one of those hackneyed romantic comedies, that she and Quinn would have probably done something dramatic like grab each other and kiss each other senseless. Rachel wasn't that stupid - Quinn was barely tolerating breathing the same air as her, and she knew it, and there was no way that any kissing between them was going to happen.

Not that she hadn't thought about it. She'd known she was developing a crush on Quinn since the second towel day, and she'd sort of made her peace with the situation. She and her fathers had always had a frank and open relationship, and from a young age she'd been taught to think of love as something that was between two people - not a man and a woman or two men or two women, two people. They'd discussed the persecution Rachel was likely to face for having two dads, and they'd made sure to tell Rachel that if she felt attracted to someone, be they man, woman, or other, it would be okay, because love is always acceptable. So Rachel was fine with the idea of liking a girl. It was the idea of liking Quinn Fabray that didn't sit easily with her.

Now that the silence between them had been broken once, Rachel was loathe to let it settle in again. She opened her mouth to speak, but what came out shocked her a little.

"Do you want to have dinner at my house tonight?"

Quinn was all set to snort and decline, so what came out of her mouth shocked both of them.

"Fine."

Part Six
When Hiram and Leroy Berry had brought Rachel home for the first time, they imagined a lot of things for their daughter. Fame, fortune, wealth - what parents don't want those things for their child? And of course they wished her happiness and love, and success in any and all of her endeavors.

Throughout the years they worked hard to make those dreams a reality for Rachel. Both men worked full time but both made a huge effort to be around. Rachel never wanted for someone to talk to or someone to play with, because either her Dad or her Daddy were around all the time. She was never lonely as long as she was at home, in the loving arms of her family.

One of the most important things Rachel's fathers impressed upon her during her formative years, was part of the Declaration of Independence - "that all men are created equal". That no one was better than any other person for any reason, that no one deserved to be persecuted for something they believed, or someone they loved. Perhaps it was this grounding in the theory of equality that made it so difficult for Rachel to comprehend the politics of high school. For someone who knew nothing other than the idea of all men being created equal, high school's hierarchy was a bewildering and altogether foreign concept.

And throughout the years of Rachel's schooling Hiram and Leroy had had to deal with Rachel coming home in tears, sobbing into their shoulders about football players and cheerleaders and slushies (and they hadn't even known what a slushy was until the first day their daughter had come home covered in one). It broke their hearts to see their dreams of happiness for Rachel seemingly falling apart, and they weren't ashamed to admit that they sometimes cried for their daughter's torment.

When Rachel came home from school with a pretty blond cheerleader, Hiram and Leroy were instantly wary. Was this not the very person Rachel had come crying about only a couple of weeks ago? And more than wary, they were a little sad for Rachel, sad that their constant teachings on equality and forgiveness had led Rachel to bring this girl here, in a move that was more than likely going to end badly for the brunette and probably lead to even more tears.

To their credit, though, Hiram and Leroy were nothing but polite and warm to Quinn as she stood hesitantly on the threshold.

Rachel hadn't been naive enough to think that her fathers wouldn't question Quinn's presence for dinner, but she trusted enough in them that they wouldn't make a scene until after Quinn was gone. With that peace of mind, she was free to focus on Quinn and her reactions to the Berry household, and the impeccable Berry hospitality.

Quinn, for her part, was telling herself she'd only agreed to come to dinner to check out where the enemy lived, to gather information for the next assault on Rachel's psyche. A reconnaissance mission, as it were. Five minutes in Rachel's house were enough to change her mind. She spent those minutes wide eyed, fussed over by Rachel's fathers taking her coat and bag and setting them on the hall stand, inviting her to sit down, offering her a drink. She accepted a glass of soda, and it was rushed out to her, ice clinking invitingly in the glass and a straw and little umbrella sitting in the top (Rachel obviously got her over the top nature right here at home).

The house was immaculate, but warm, tidy, but obviously lived in. The very walls spoke volumes on love and acceptance, covered as they were in photos of the three Berrys in various settings and poses. Quinn looked for a long time at what was clearly a professional shot, of the two Berry men with a younger Rachel between them - she looked maybe thirteen, fourteen? Her eyes shone with laughter and good humor as she looked up at her dads, their arms around her, and Quinn realized she'd never seen Rachel so happy.

With a twist in her stomach, she thought she might like to see it again.

Realistically, dinner was awkward. None of the four had expected otherwise. Rachel sat quietly, and Quinn would have done the same if Hiram and Leroy had given her the chance. They were overly enthusiastically engaging her in conversation, and though it was forced on their part to begin with, they managed to get a genuine smile from Quinn as the main course was finishing up.

Rachel herself brought out dessert. It was just simple root beer floats, but Quinn's eyes lit up despite herself. She hadn't had a root beer float since she became a Cheerio. Coach Sylvester wouldn't allow it.

Though many would have considered the dinner to be the main event of the evening, the real main event was when Rachel said goodnight to Quinn, her fathers lingering protectively just out of sight. "Thank you for coming," she said quietly.

Quinn regarded her curiously. "Why did you invite me? I've been so..."

Rachel shrugged her shoulders. "You stopped."

"I had a nice time."

After a long period of silence, Quinn took a step forward. Rachel flinched back involuntarily, and Quinn winced. It was her own fault that she invoked that reaction in the brunette. Her memory flashed back to the photograph of the happy, laughing Rachel, and she steeled her nerve. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out a hand to shake. Rachel took it, and they shook hands awkwardly. Then, with a sigh, Rachel tightened her grip on Quinn's hand.

Pulled her in.

They hugged.