fic: we are led (to those who help us most to grow) - 1/2 - glee, rachel/quinn, r
Trust me when I say this: I have no idea how/why this happened. I'm a nice little het canon shipper that somehow fell in love with Rachel/Quinn. I started writing this before Journey aired, as a sort of continuation to Funk, and it got... a little out of hand. Don't get me wrong; I loved Journey to bits and pieces. But this? This happened.
Title: We Are Led (To Those Who Help Us Most To Grow) - 1/2
Author: zerodetorres
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R
Length: 7,150/15,090
Timeline: Post-Funk; R/Q re-write of Journey
Summary: Some things in life, Quinn learns, are pretty cruel. Like Coach Sylvester's armpit-smelling punishments, or the president of the celibacy club having a baby out of wedlock at sixteen. But life is about the lemonade, not the lemons, or whatever.
Notes: A big thank you to bradyyface for introducing me to this pairing and being more supportive of my writing than I probably deserve; to eliselxx for being Australian and awake when everyone within 3 timezones of me is fast asleep; and to cardiogod for letting me borrow her parents' names, and then getting herself hooked on Glee. Also, title from Wicked's For Good.
Notes, pt. 2: I guess I should also preempt this fic by expressing that I have never given birth, nor been on either end of an adoption, especially not in Ohio. So I don't know. I really did try, but if it comes down to it, suspend reality or something.
Some things in life, Quinn learns, are pretty cruel. Like Coach Sylvester's armpit-smelling punishments, or the president of the celibacy club having a baby out of wedlock at sixteen.
But life is about the lemonade, not the lemons, or whatever.
The having a baby thing? That's a pretty damn big and sour lemon.
--
If Quinn has learned nothing else in the past few months, she knows this with absolute certainty: moving in with Mercedes is a new beginning she desperately needs.
It's not that living with either Finn or Puck was strictly awful, because it wasn't, but both their mothers tended to take every opportunity to turn Quinn's presence into either a lesson or a spectacle.
Exhibit A: "Oh, Quinn, sweetie, those books look heavy. You shouldn't be carrying heavy things when you're, you know." Mrs. Hudson looks pointedly at her son. Finn stands there dumbly for a full ten seconds before he fumbles Quinn's textbooks out of her arms.
Exhibit B: "Noah, will you stop being a delinquent for one minute and help Quinn with those groceries? Canned beef stew goes on the top shelf and I don't want Quinn stretching that high. It's not good for the baby." Mrs. Puckerman lowers her voice. "Are you sure she's not Jewish? She kind of looks like she could be Jewish."
It had become exhausting. Yeah, Quinn gets that they had been doing her a favor by housing her, but she isn't an invalid or anything, and doesn't appreciate being treated like one. So as much as she doesn't know exactly what to expect from the Joneses, she knows from the first introductions that she won't be made to feel like a leper under their roof, and for that, she is infinitely grateful.
Mercedes leads Quinn upstairs to her new room, and Quinn peers inside. Mercedes enters, motioning for Quinn to follow her. Quinn steps inside self-consciously, wheeling her suitcase behind her.
The room is painted a drab dark gray and a few cardboard boxes are still stacked in the corner, but a full set of furniture lines the walls and new sheets are pulled across the mattress. Already, that's more than Quinn's had in the past few months.
Mercedes is smiling at her from the bedside table. "Well, what d'you think?"
"It's wonderful," Quinn breathes.
Mercedes looks around at the empty walls. "We can get this place repainted, get you some decor. My dad's already tossed in a fifty, and I got some leftover birthday money…"
"Oh, Mercedes," Quinn interrupts. "I can't accept that. You've already done more than enough by letting me stay here."
Mercedes's hands find her hips. "Girl, this place looks like a dungeon." She scrunches up her face. "Smells a little like one, too. Besides, Kurt's already started picking out swatches."
Quinn observes the room for a moment. "Won't your brother mind?"
"Nah, already asked him. He's cool. He goes to school out of state, only visits on Christmas, so he won't be using this place." Mercedes steps toward Quinn and tilts her head to study her. "Anyway," she adds gently, "it's important to us that this feels like a home."
Quinn holds back the tears straining at the corners of her eyes and looks down. "Thanks, Mercedes," she manages to murmur.
Mercedes only smiles. "We got your back."
Mr. Jones appears in the doorway behind Quinn. "How's everything going up here, ladies?"
Quinn turns around; Mercedes replies, "Great. We were just talking about scrubbing all the man out of this room."
Mercedes's father, a tall, bespectacled man with dark skin and blindingly white teeth - he is a dentist, after all - laughs skeptically. "Good luck with that."
And Quinn, in all her perpetual helplessness, genuinely laughs along.
--
Living with Mercedes is good. Great, even. The Joneses are kind and generous, and despite her baby bump preventing her from finding a comfortable position, Quinn begins sleeping through the night.
The downside of living with Mercedes? Quinn sees a lot more of the Glee kids outside of school than she'd ideally like to. Sure, she's gotten over her superiority complex, and she considers them friends, but when she finds herself on the floor of her room surrounded by color samples and listening to Kurt and Rachel arguing over whether flamingo or cerise trimming goes best with 'tea rose' wall paint, it feels a little surreal.
"Who even invited you?" Kurt asks indignantly. "If I were you, I would invest in a colorblindness exam."
"For your information," Rachel huffs, "my color vision has been tested to be in the 99th percentile. And I was just dropping by to give Mercedes some sheet music. We're working on a duet for Glee Club."
Kurt glares dramatically at Mercedes as though horribly betrayed. "Mercedes?"
Mercedes, seated on Quinn's bed, doesn't look up from the magazine she's flipping through. Her shoulders rise and fall. "Girl can sing," she offers as an explanation.
Kurt turns back to Rachel. "I will not have my stylish selections be undermined by someone who dresses like a circus chimpanzee in heat."
Rachel stands her ground. "Insult me all you want, but it's obvious that flamingo compliments tea rose much better than cerise."
"Cerise," Kurt shoots back, rolling the word over his tongue, "is an elegant color befitting of this room."
Mercedes rises from the bed and steps between Rachel and Kurt. "Enough, you guys. It's Quinn's room; she has the last say."
Kurt and Rachel both spin to look expectantly at Quinn.
"I… don't know," she replies with disinterest. "Does it even matter?"
Kurt gasps, and Rachel says sternly, "Quinn. This could be the most important decision you make before you go into labor."
Though mildly offended, Quinn decides to pick one at random. "Okay, flamingo," she says, because Kurt had pronounced the other one with a French accent and she was not about to attempt to mimic it.
"Yes!" Rachel claps her hands together and begins jumping up and down in excitement.
Kurt looks about ready to clock both of them. "This is ridiculous. I'll come back when Rachel isn't here." He narrows his eyes. "Don't any of you dare put flamingo on the walls before then."
Kurt storms out of the room; Mercedes runs after him.
Rachel smiles brightly at Quinn. "Thank you."
"I didn't do it for you," she says before she can stop herself. Old habits die hard. Besides, it's not like she's lying. She hadn't even meant to pick Rachel's; she'd just wanted to shut them both up before the sounds of their shrieking induced labor.
"Well, either way, you made the right choice," Rachel continues, holding up two color samples and overlapping them. "See? Isn't that much better than cerise?"
Quinn doesn't answer her, and Rachel takes it as an invitation to sit down beside her on the floor.
"Figured out what you're going to do yet?" she asks, her eyes tracing the deep curve of Quinn's belly.
Quinn scowls. "Do you have no sense of discretion?"
Rachel startles. "I just thought, since we were friends now…" She trails off. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Quinn watches Rachel's retreating form for a moment before pressing a hand against her forearm to stop her. "I… don't know what I'm going to do," she admits.
"You'll know."
"Yeah," Quinn says dismissively.
"I'm serious, Quinn. You are smart, and-"
"Not smart enough to keep my legs closed, apparently," she counters self-deprecatingly.
"Will you stop beating yourself over this? Hey."
Quinn looks up.
"Nobody who's anybody gets to where they are without adversity," Rachel says firmly. "I would know."
Quinn peers at her skeptically. "That's somehow not comforting in the least."
"You're going to be somebody, Quinn," Rachel insists with an optimistic smile. "Whatever you want to be." When Quinn says nothing, Rachel adds, "You shouldn't have to feel so alone."
"I am alone." Quinn tries to say it bitterly, hardening the words, but it comes out sounding kind of sad and pathetic.
Rachel is quiet for a moment. "We're here for you, you know, to help out however we can. I didn't come around much before because I didn't want Finn and Noah's mothers to get the wrong idea, but Quinn, I care."
Quinn recalls Rachel's words from what seems like forever ago: In a couple of months, that cheerleading uniform isn't going to fit, and we're going to be all you have left.
Quinn remembers the denial that'd flared up within her. She remembers thinking that nothing would change, because she was special. She remembers resenting Rachel for assuming. And now, after her world had crumbled all around her, in a cruel twist of irony, she finds herself drawing comfort from the one person she does not deserve to take anything from. Rachel was right. She's been right all along. Quinn's friends had disappeared faster than her popularity.
Quinn hates Rachel a little bit for saying these things, despite everything.
"Rachel," she says, and the words slip from her lips before she has a chance to consider them, "what's it like to know your mother gave you up?" Her hand subconsciously slides to her belly.
"Now who's the one without any discretion?" Rachel replies good-naturedly, and a smile tugs at the corners of Quinn's lips. "I don't know," Rachel continues. "It's hard sometimes, but after having met Shelby, I realize how fortunate I am to have two dads who love me."
Quinn considers this for a moment. "I don't want my baby to go through what you had to."
"I've made peace with Shelby's choices," Rachel reassures her. "She was driven by ambition, and given my own determination to succeed at all costs, I can't fault her for wanting that."
"Not that." Quinn looks away, her words laced with a quiet guilt she cannot shake. "I was horrible to you, Rachel. We all were, but especially me. I want to be able to protect my baby from people like that, like me."
Rachel's features soften. "Quinn, I've forgiven you. You need to forgive yourself."
Quinn doesn't move her hand from Rachel's forearm until Mercedes returns ten minutes later, sans Kurt.
They end up going with cerise over flamingo. It's the only way Kurt is willing to enter Quinn's room ever again, and Rachel agrees to the compromise because Quinn asks nicely.
--
Rachel begins dropping by more often, and eventually even abandons the pretense that she's there to practice her duet with Mercedes.
The truth is, the Joneses are prominent members of Lima's small black community, often organizing cultural and religious activities, and though Quinn's faith had always been a significant portion of her life pre-pregnancy, she always politely declines when Mercedes invites her to tag along on Sunday mornings.
It becomes Rachel's favorite time to visit. And Quinn… well, to her surprise, she doesn't hate it. She kind of looks forward to it, actually, not that she'd admit it to anyone.
One morning, Quinn answers the door with a series of cables clutched in her hands.
Rachel walks in with a smile. "What're those for?"
"Mercedes's dad dragged the old TV from the basement up to my room," Quinn replies, leading Rachel up the stairs. "I'm trying to hook it up to their cable."
"Any success?"
Quinn wags the cables at Rachel. "Apparently the slot for the cable is jammed, and I have to use an old VCR they have lying around to reroute? I don't even know what that means. Rachel, there are so many holes."
Rachel laughs and grabs the cables from Quinn. "This may come as a surprise, but I am quite proficient with home electronics," Rachel states seriously.
Quinn shakes her head as she enters her room in front of Rachel. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Sew," Rachel replies with a crooked smile.
A battered television set sits on top of a small wooden table at the foot of Quinn's bed. Beside it on the floor, a bulky VCR lies dormant.
"I didn't know these things still existed," Rachel murmurs to herself as she crouches down behind the set and begins to study the back, twisting the cable absentmindedly between her fingers. She chews at her bottom lip, looking back and forth between the ends of the cables and the apertures on the back of the television and VCR.
There's something strangely intriguing about watching Rachel work, and Quinn finds a comfortable spot on the bed to sit and observe.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Shh, the master demands silence."
A few minutes later, Rachel actually does manage to plug everything in correctly, and Quinn presses the power button on the TV set.
One of those trash talk shows flickers on, and against her better judgment, Quinn doesn't change the channel. On screen, crying women explain how they'd bound their own children and locked them in closets to keep them quiet. How they hurt their babies because they themselves were hurting, because their toddlers looked just like their deadbeat fathers. It makes Quinn sick because the women are despicable monsters, but on some level, the nausea she feels goes deeper.
Rachel squeezes herself onto the bed between Quinn and the television, reaching out to turn it off. "Quinn."
"Do you think I'll be like one of them?" Quinn asks quietly, her eyes glassy.
"No, never," Rachel replies immediately.
"The terrifying thing," Quinn admits, more to herself than to Rachel, "is that in some sick, awful way, I understand what these women are going through."
"You would never abuse your child, Quinn," Rachel says matter-of-factly. "Never."
Fat teardrops form at the corners of Quinn's eyes, but she holds them back. "All those things I did to you… it's in me, Rachel."
Rachel stands up so fast it nearly makes Quinn dizzy. Rachel's hands find her hips, and there's a quiet fury in her eyes. "Stop it. Those women are batshit insane. You have a heart, Quinn." Rachel drops her arms to the sides of her body. "Come here."
From her seat on the bed, Quinn hesitates. "What?"
"Stand up and come over here," Rachel clarifies.
Quinn pushes herself off the bed and steps up to Rachel. She tosses her a questioning look. "Okay, now what?"
"Hit me."
"Excuse me?"
Rachel's hand wraps around Quinn's wrist, and she pulls it up to eye-level. "Go ahead. Hit me."
Quinn flinches. "I'm not going to hit you, Rachel."
Rachel holds her head up high, unrelenting. "Why not?"
"I-" Quinn laughs nervously and shrugs out of Rachel's grasp, feeling foolish. "For a thousand reasons."
Rachel smiles faintly. "Those are the same reasons you aren't going to hurt your baby."
A few stray tears roll down Quinn's cheek at the harsh realization, and she brushes them away with the back of her hand. There is nothing adequate or sufficient in her words, but she tries. "Thanks, Rachel," she says, instead of I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry.
--
New Directions comes in last at regionals.
It's over. It's all over. Glee Club. The singing, the dancing; the laughter, the heartache. Their journey comes to an end and it hurts worse than anything else any of them has ever experienced.
The bus ride home is suffocating.
Usually a bottomless fountain of encouragement, an inconsolable Mr. Schuester sits at the front of the bus with Artie and his wheelchair. Tina sniffs occasionally into Artie's shoulder, their hands clasped together on his lap. Behind them, Mercedes and Kurt set hard eyes and tight jaws, only ever moving to wipe uselessly at their damp cheeks. Further back, Mike and Matt stare down at their shoes, motionless. Even Santana cries silently into Brittany's Cheerios uniform as she holds her.
Rachel and Finn are seated together across the aisle from Quinn. They are as quiet as the rest, but Finn's right hand is firmly wrapped around Rachel's left, and Quinn's chest suddenly feels tight.
Quinn looks to Puck, seated next to her. He is turned away, his attention out the window. Quinn lowers her eyes, spanning her fingertips across her stomach. Through the dreadful silence, she focuses on her breathing. If there's one thing she's learned from Mr. Schue's manipulative ex-wife, it'd be prenatal breathing exercises.
And then. The baby. Kicks.
Hard.
It's not the first time it's happened, but it's by far the most powerful one she's ever felt. Adrenaline pumping, Quinn reaches across the aisle without thinking and pulls Rachel's free hand toward her belly and presses it urgently against the bump.
"Quinn, what-oh. Oh, Quinn." And Rachel's face glows with pride, dimples full force.
The rest of the bus turns toward the commotion. Puck's arm slides behind Quinn's neck, his other hand gliding to her stomach, but he only catches the end of the last kick. The grin on his face tells her that he finds it miraculous anyway.
Santana and Brittany are hovering over the back of Quinn's seat in an attempt to get a better view.
Santana, remnants of dried tears still staining her cheeks, cranes her neck around Quinn's head. "What's going on? Is your baby coming or something?"
Brittany's long blond hair falls around Quinn's face. "Maybe if you squeeze your thighs together really tight…" Brittany offers.
"She's not due for another month," Quinn replies with a short, almost teary laugh. "She's kicking."
At that, a flurry of hands reaches for Quinn's extended belly. And Quinn would have lectured about boundaries and personal space, except everyone seems genuinely elated about the news, a welcome change from the doom and gloom that'd been sketched across their faces moments earlier, so she lets palms and fingertips skirt her stomach. But the baby, seemingly shying away from the attention, doesn't kick again, and eventually, interest wanes.
Quinn doesn't stop looking at Rachel, who is mirroring her modest smile with an incredibly vibrant one.
"You're having a baby," Rachel says with reverent wonder.
And though she's known for over seven months, nothing makes her feel as alive as the way Rachel says it, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. Quinn breaks out into a huge grin.
Rachel holds Quinn's hand across the aisle for the rest of the ride.
--
"I can't believe it," Rachel squeals. "We have another year!"
And she's laughing; a wild, uninhibited laugh that seems to span to the next galaxy.
Quinn knows that while Glee Club is the greatest thing about all their pathetic high school existences, it's most important to Rachel, who works the hardest and smiles the widest and sings her damn heart out with the most beautiful, mature voice.
When Rachel laughs, Quinn takes in the sight of her and the corners of her lips twitch, and she's really kind of pretty when she's laughing. Quinn stops just short of telling her so, because Santana and Brittany are within earshot, and while Brittany would let her off with a shrug and an absentminded, "Not really," Santana would never let her live it down. At the back of her mind, Quinn still cares about things like that, so she settles for observing and what feels something like biding time.
Rachel is talking a mile a minute, about song choices and dance routines for next year, and only Tina is really listening to her. Other than Quinn, that is, but even she gets lost in the rapid-fire words shooting out of Rachel's mouth.
As soon as the meeting comes to an end, Quinn overcompensates for staring at Rachel the whole time by jumping out of her seat and nearly running out the choir room. The being inconspicuous thing, Quinn decides she has to work on, but she figures it looks enough like she's getting the hell out of there, so she figures she's safe.
But she'd gotten a ride with Mercedes, so she ends up having to hang around anyway. And when Rachel appears in the hallway before any hint of Mercedes, Quinn calls out to her.
There's a skip in Rachel's step as she approaches. "Hello, Quinn."
"I just-" Quinn bites the inside of her cheek, hesitant. Screw this. "You're kind of pretty when you laugh." She sees a flash of Cheerios uniform out of the corner of her eye and straightens up. "I'm only telling you because you should probably scowl a little less. It's kind of a shame when you aren't, um, you know."
And despite all of Rachel's self-assurance, she blushes at the compliment. "Thanks, Quinn."
"Yeah," is all Quinn says.
After Rachel leaves, Santana and Brittany, who had been hovering near the lockers across the hall, saunter over.
Quinn braces for the worst, but Santana only leans real close to her and laughs in her ear. "You are so whipped."
Brittany leans her head on Santana's shoulder and smiles sweetly at Quinn. "Yeah, Santana would know."
Santana grimaces at Brittany, and Quinn laughs quietly, because this treating Rachel like an actual human being thing? Is much easier than she thought it'd be, and she kind of wishes she'd figured that out earlier.
--
Since being kicked out of her own home, Quinn has grown up a lot in a short amount of time. It kind of comes with the territory: get kicked out; grow up quickly. Like an unwritten rule.
Quinn begins to appreciate the little things: bacon for breakfast, and comfortable shoes, and a warm bed to sleep in at night. Also, the big things: Mercedes's friendship, and dancing with Glee Club, and Rachel.
Everything about Rachel. Because Rachel cares, and Rachel loves, and Rachel walks into Quinn's life with a bright smile and an unrelenting enthusiasm and shows her that there is a future beyond this town and this baby. Rachel, Quinn learns, isn't really all that overbearing when she's alone with her.
Rachel makes Quinn want to be a better person, which makes old-Quinn a little nauseous to even admit, but new-Quinn? Well, new-Quinn can deal with that.
What new-Quinn cannot deal with is that she hasn't spoken to her own mother for six months and counting.
"I miss my mom," Quinn admits to Rachel one day.
Rachel looks up from the notebook she'd been scribbling in. "Oh, Quinn…"
"I miss my dad," Quinn continues, "and my sister, and my grams. I miss having a family. Don't get me wrong; the Joneses are great. They treat me better than I deserve, but it's not the same."
"Let's go see your parents," Rachel suggests.
Quinn's eyes widen. "No. No way. They made it very clear that they do not want anything to do with me."
"I'll come with you," Rachel insists. "I am very persuasive."
Quinn laughs softly. "I know you are."
"Quinn, I lost my chance with my mother because of time and distance."Rachel touches Quinn's hand lightly. "I don't want that to happen to you."
So Quinn lets Rachel drive her to the Fabray home, and she knows that it's a bad idea as soon as they begin pulling into the driveway. A slow dread creeps over Quinn, because she knows, even before they walk up to the front entrance and Rachel rings the doorbell, that nothing has changed. The Fabrays's perfect house with the perfect garden and the imperfect daughter. Standing in front of the door, everything Quinn had felt the night she'd told her parents the truth for maybe the first time in her existence rushes back, and she flinches.
Rachel is immediately concerned. "Quinn, are you okay?"
"This is a bad idea," Quinn murmurs.
Before Rachel has a chance to respond, the front door opens, and Quinn's mother stumbles at the sight of her visitors.
"Quinn," Mrs. Fabray breathes, her eyes dropping momentarily to Quinn's extended stomach.
Instinctively, Quinn steps forward. "Mom…"
"I shouldn't be-" Quinn's mother looks away and distances herself. "Your father's going to be home soon…"
"Mom," Quinn tries again, "can we-can we talk?"
"No, I'm sorry-" Mrs. Fabray's hand clutches the door. "I think it's best if you leave, sweetie."
Rachel speaks up. "Mrs. Fabray, you're being unfair."
"Excuse me? Who are you?"
Rachel ignores her question. "Quinn would really like to have a relationship with you, and you're rejecting her because she made one bad decision?"
Mrs. Fabray scoffs. "Would your mother react kindly to you getting pregnant at sixteen?"
"I have two gay dads," Rachel replies without thinking.
Quinn cringes. Mrs. Fabray gasps audibly and slams the door shut. Rachel lifts her fist, prepared to knock angrily, when Quinn stops her.
"No, Rachel," Quinn says gently. "I know you have good intentions, but I know my mother. She hasn't changed."
"But-"
"Rachel." Quinn smiles sadly. "You of all people should know that there are people in this place that just don't get it, and will never get it."
Rachel deflates. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you."
Quinn reaches for Rachel's hand. "Come on," she says, leading her back to the car. "Let's get out of here."
They are both quiet as Rachel pulls out of the Fabray driveway. Halfway to Mercedes's, Rachel breaks the silence.
"Are you upset with me?" she asks, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
"No." Quinn pauses thoughtfully. "I'm happy, Rachel, for maybe the first time in my life. Do I wish my mother was different? Of course. But I remember what it felt like to live with her, and with my dad." She fiddles with the hem of her dress. "I needed this visit, if only to remind myself how miserable I was living under their roof." She looks to Rachel and smiles sadly, chest tight. "I'm still going to miss her, but I'd rather have what I have now. Who I have now."
Rachel turns briefly to Quinn and smiles. "That's a very mature way of looking at it. I'm sorry it didn't work out, Quinn."
Quinn exhales. "Yeah, me too."
Rachel puts on some music and begins to sing along. Quinn pretends not to know the words, but mostly, she just wants to hear Rachel's voice, untouched and beautiful. Quinn heart aches a little less.
In the middle of Mercedes's driveway, after Rachel had parked and they'd both exited the vehicle, Quinn pulls Rachel into a tight hug, burying her face into Rachel's hair and breathing in her scent.
"Thanks, Rachel," Quinn murmurs.
Rachel's arms slide around Quinn's midsection. "For what?"
"Just… thank you."
--
The school year comes to an end, Quinn is fast approaching her due date, and Mercedes's mom starts asking if they should set up a crib in Quinn's room. And even though Puck has been tossing sad puppy eyes her way since regionals, Quinn says no, because she is not raising this baby. Not with Puck, and not with anyone else.
Sunday mornings remain Rachel and Quinn's thing, whatever the thing really is. It's fun though, and Rachel makes Quinn feels good about herself, and it's not exactly like Quinn has people knocking down her door to be friends with her.
But that makes Quinn sound reluctant or ungrateful, and that cannot be further from the truth. Quinn doesn't remember ever having a friend quite like Rachel: unflinchingly honest, fiercely loyal, and unafraid of judgment, everything Quinn wants so much to be. Rachel is also sometimes overbearing and occasionally selfish, but strangely, Quinn finds herself attracted even to Rachel's flaws - the same ones for which Quinn had so mercilessly tormented her all those months ago.
It becomes more than just Sunday mornings, though. It's Friday nights, Rachel's voice carrying a beautiful tune because hearing perfect pitch develops a baby's musicality, Quinn. It's Wednesday afternoons, Rachel helping Quinn perfect prenatal yoga poses. It's good for circulation and improves flexibility, which should help reduce pain during a natural birth, Rachel explains, stretching into a cat-cow pose even though she is not at all pregnant.
Quinn's friends - these days, that means everyone in Glee - are initially a little confused by the whole prospect of Rachel and Quinn being inseparable, but Quinn is less bitchy and Rachel is less bossy and everyone wins when that happens, so nobody really asks about it.
What the other Glee kids don't realize is that when they are alone, Quinn says things like:
"The only time I feel comfortable with my body is when I'm dancing."
Quinn is stretched out across her bed, lying in a mildly uncomfortable position. She looks over her protruding belly at Rachel, cross-legged at the other end of the bed.
Rachel grins, ever-encouraging. "You know, I've always been envious of your looks."
Quinn closes her eyes and sighs. The compliment stings. "Even when I was horrible to you?"
Rachel is quiet for a moment. She shuffles to Quinn's side. "I hated that I was, but yes."
"I don't look like that anymore," Quinn breathes. She squeezes her eyes tighter.
"No, you don't," Rachel agrees, reaching out to rest her palm against Quinn's right hip.
The brush of skin is surprisingly intimate. Alarmed, Quinn's eyes snap open. She scrambles to sit up. "Rachel, what are you doing?"
"Turn to your left side," Rachel instructs, gently nudging her hip.
Quinn stares disbelievingly at Rachel, but she does as she is told. Over her shoulder, she catches Rachel's eye. "What was that all about?"
"Your ankles are swollen," Rachel explains. "This should help relieve a bit of the pressure off your inferior vena cava."
Quinn lets out an incredulous laugh. "How do you even know that?"
"I like to be prepared."
"Don't tell me you've even read up on how to deliver this baby."
Rachel bites back a smile and averts her eyes. Quinn chuckles and rolls her eyes playfully, then rests her cheek against her pillow. Rachel reclines behind Quinn. It's a tight fit, especially with Quinn's stomach taking up so much room, but Quinn presses her back against Rachel's side, and they manage.
Rachel hums a tune that's vaguely familiar, and Quinn, swollen ankles and all, begins to nod off.
"Quinn."
"Hmm?"
"I think," Rachel says with a quiet sincerity, "that you've never been more beautiful."
Quinn shifts against the bed, and, against Rachel's protests, she returns to her back. Shoulder to shoulder, blond hair weaving between dark brown on the pillow, Quinn rolls her hand down the length of her belly.
"You have this life growing inside you," Rachel continues. "Who cares what other people think?"
"I do. I've never known any other way." Quinn turns her head to face Rachel. "Sometimes I admire you. Your courage."
"It's not courage," Rachel responds quickly, and it's all she says. Her hand finds Quinn's hip again. "Left side, please. Your back and ankles will thank me."
Quinn turns to her side again, facing away. "Rachel, could you, uh-" Quinn motions awkwardly at the space in front of her, and her cheeks flush.
Without another word, Rachel rises from the bed and rounds the foot to reach the other side. Quinn squirms backwards to make room, and Rachel slides in beside her. Her hip presses lightly against Quinn's belly.
Quinn falls asleep with her forehead against Rachel's shoulder. Rachel, however, remains awake and observant, and when Quinn shifts in her sleep, bordering precariously close to the edge of the bed, Rachel rolls to her side and holds Quinn's body in place.
Soon, too soon, the sound of the garage door opening awakens her, and Quinn is confused and more than a little embarrassed to find her limbs tangled in Rachel's.
Rachel only smiles sleepily at her. "Looks like Mercedes is home."
Quinn makes a tiny whimpering noise at the back of her throat. "How long have I been asleep?" she mumbles, eyes falling shut again. "I swear the one thing I'm going to enjoy most when this baby finally comes is not falling asleep at all hours of the day."
Rachel shifts on the bed, craning her neck to check Quinn's bedside clock. "Not long," she replies softly. "It's barely noon." There is a drawn out pause, and a hint of amusement flutters into Rachel's voice. "Hey, Quinn. What's this?"
"Hmm?" Quinn forces an eye open, blinking to focus on the blob Rachel's holding in her hand. As sleep clears from Quinn's eyes, she makes out the shape of a small stuffed lamb. Immediately, both eyes snap open. "Where-what are you doing with that?"
"It was under your pillow." Rachel grins, turning the lamb to face her. "It's cute."
Quinn only groans.
Rachel presses on. "Does he have a name?"
"She," Quinn corrects, eyes fluttering shut. "It's a she."
"Oh," Rachel laughs, "well, excuse me."
"Mr. Snuffles," Quinn mumbles, and she feels the tips of her ears going bright red.
It's all worth it when Rachel laughs again. "I thought it was a she?"
"It's a new-age feminist statement," Quinn jokes, still hazy from sleep. "Or something. Go with it."
There's a knock at Quinn's door, and Mercedes's voice drifts through. "Hey, you guys. Kurt got his hands on an empty dance studio. We're gonna round up some Glee kids, blast some music. Gotta make sure we don't get rusty over summer. You interested?"
Rachel smiles coyly; Quinn laughs into the air between their faces. "Be right there, Mercedes!"
Quinn rises from the bed first, untangling herself from Rachel's grip. "Come on, Sleepyhead."
Rachel's smile never fades. She twirls Mr. Snuffles in her hand. The stuffed lamb's limbs fly like helicopter propellers. "We can dance every day, if you'd like," Rachel offers, looking a little like Brittany when she's hanging off Santana's arm, and ew. Except not at all ew, because Rachel's kind of adorable when she's being sweet, and Quinn's heart grows a little at the sentiment.
Quinn's hand slides easily into Rachel's, and she pulls her up. She wants to say something sickly saccharine like you make me feel like I'm dancing, but she settles for brushing the lightest of kisses across Rachel's cheek.
--
Quinn used to never have to worry about anything other than a number on the scale and her ability to safely land a back flip. These days, she worries mostly about vitamins and stretch marks. The Joneses treat her like their own, and that takes a lot of pressure off Quinn. Mrs. Jones even sits Quinn down and explains to her that she has a place in their home until she can reasonably arrange to live on her own. So for the first time in a long time, Quinn has stability in her life.
A movie is playing on Quinn's battered TV, but only Rachel is really paying attention.
"My dads want a second child," Rachel says, chewing ferociously on a piece of popcorn.
Quinn tosses her own piece into the air and catches it with her mouth. "Always imagined it'd take them longer than that to recover from having you," Quinn laughs. She remembers a time when those words would have been laced with malice, but now, they are affectionate. "Popcorn tastes like cardboard without butter, by the way," she adds with a wince as she reaches for another handful.
"Do you know how horribly dairy cows are treated? Forcibly bred to maintain high milk production, and slaughtered in their infancy for beef. If you want that on your conscious, go ahead and butter your popcorn." Rachel pops another piece into her mouth and chews slowly. "Anyway, I think a baby brother or sister would be good for me. It would certainly teach me how to manage my sleeping schedule better, which is an important attribute for a soon-to-be star like me."
Quinn chuckles. Sometimes, Rachel is still Rachel. "Are they going to do it the same way?"
Rachel tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Actually," she says, looking up, "what they really want to do is adopt."
Quinn goes completely still mid-chew, and her insides turn to ice. "Is this why you've been trying to be my friend this whole time?"
Rachel appears confused. "No, I-"
Quinn's head rings with anger as the pieces fall into place in her mind. "So you could be a spy for your gay dads? Report back to them about the progress of my pregnancy?"
"Quinn…"
But Quinn is blinded by her rage, and she charges on. "No wonder you knew so much about everything from swollen ankles to breech positions. And-and all that singing to the baby and the yoga?"
Rachel rockets off the bed and spins to glare at Quinn. "Will you shut up for one minute and let me speak?" she grinds through her teeth. "I looked those things up on the internet because I actually cared about you and the baby, and frankly, I resent your implication that I have been somehow manipulating you. I thought we were better friends than that, but apparently not. I did not sell you or your baby out to my dads. They barely know who you are, never mind that you're with child. In fact, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind; do you know why?" She doesn't wait for Quinn's reply. "Do you know how difficult same-sex adoption is in Ohio, especially in this cow town? That my two dads can't even register to be adoptive parents together because their marriage is not recognized here? So Daddy had to register as a single parent. Tell me how that's fair, Quinn. And that was years ago. The adoption agency checks back every six months, but we know we're dead last on their list. Do you know how that feels? That two emotionally, physically, and financially capable parents have a much smaller chance at a baby who would be lucky to call them daddy and papa than nearly any heterosexual couple who can make it through the interview without soiling their own pants?"
Quinn's heart drops, and she feels stupid for having brought it up. "Rachel, I had no idea."
"Of course not," Rachel shoots back, temper only growing. "So you assume that I only have eyes for the baby growing inside you. We don't want a new family member badly enough to resort to manipulation, and as much as you must believe otherwise, I don't need friends that desperately, Quinn."
"I'm sorry," Quinn says uselessly, cheeks hot. "I didn't know."
"I don't even want my dads to adopt your baby, because then you'd be part of my family for all the wrong reasons."
"The wrong reasons," Quinn echoes dumbly. "I don't understand…"
"I don't want you to be my sister's mother. I want you to be my girlfriend," Rachel blurts out, and the surprise in her eyes is mirrored in Quinn's features. But Rachel settles quickly into her words, and her eyes lower. "Do you get it now, Quinn?" she asks quietly before she retreats from the room. Moments later, the front door opens and closes, and the distant sound of a car engine floats through Quinn's window.
Quinn remains motionless on her bed, a bucket of homemade popcorn resting by her hip. Her eyes blur, and she can't even remember what movie they'd been watching - something old, no doubt, since they'd been using the VCR that Rachel had set up when Quinn had first moved in with Mercedes.
Quinn's mouth tastes like cardboard, and it is most definitely not because of Rachel's damn vegan popcorn.
--
The sky is dark by the time Quinn pulls into the Berry driveway. She walks up to the porch with a brown paper bag clutched in her hands.
One of Rachel's dads answers the front door, and Quinn's palms immediately begin to sweat. She quickly realizes that she's never actually met Rachel's dads, only seen them in photos and heard about them from Rachel's stories. Quinn is suddenly equal parts intrigued by the family dynamic and intimidated by the prospect of Rachel's dads knowing things.
Not that they're doing anything that should concern her dads, Quinn insists to herself.
"Is, uh, is Rachel home?"
Rachel's dad stands his ground, stoic in the doorway. "Yes, but I don't think she wants to be disturbed."
Quinn's heart does a little flip, and she has to re-center her weight across her ankles. "Please, I really need to speak to her."
"I'm sorry. You'll have to catch her at another time."
"Mr. Berry-"
"Quinn," the man says, and the sound of her name surprises her. "My daughter is upset and doesn't want any visitors. I don't know whether you were involved, or how, but I can tell you're equally upset." At this, he pulls out a pack of tissues from his breast pocket and offers one to Quinn. Only then does she realize she's been crying the whole time, and a flush travels up her neck to her cheeks. She takes a tissue from him and wipes self-consciously at her eyes. After a short pause, Rachel's dad continues, "Come back tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay." Quinn holds out the paper bag. She'd clutched the opening so hard that it's scrunched up and almost torn. "Could you just give her this?"
Rachel's dad takes the bag from her. "Sure, Quinn. Nice meeting you."
Quinn stumbles back to her car and sits in the Berry driveway for another ten minutes to try to recollect herself. The best thing that's ever happened to her, and she has to go and fuck it up with her dumbass assumptions.
She'd slipped momentarily back to an old behavior, seeing the worst in people, even when Rachel has done nothing to deserve it.
Quinn drives home - to Mercedes's, anyway, but she calls it home now - and by the time she crawls into bed, she's too exhausted to even think. Quinn falls asleep without changing, in a position that Rachel would lecture her about if she were around.
Quinn doesn't make it through the night. At a quarter to three, she stumbles to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Her reflection in the mirror is unkind; her eyes are red and puffy, and her hair sticks up awkwardly from her head.
Back in her room, Quinn logs onto her Myspace for the first time in months and goes through every single comment she's ever left on any of Rachel's videos or photos. She doesn't even remember most of them, but the words are sharp and acrid and intended to hurt. She cringes at them, bristling at the thought that Rachel's had to read them all. With a heavy heart, she deletes them one at a time, murmuring a quiet apology at her computer screen for each one.
It's nearly dawn when Quinn finally removes the last comment. Before she logs off, Quinn watches Rachel belt out 'For Good' from Wicked, and when Quinn begins to cry, she knows it's not from the baby hormones.
Her fingertips slide to the keyboard, and she taps out a quick comment, the letters blurring behind the tears she cannot blink away.
It says simply: 'Because I knew you.'
Part 2
Title: We Are Led (To Those Who Help Us Most To Grow) - 1/2
Author: zerodetorres
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R
Length: 7,150/15,090
Timeline: Post-Funk; R/Q re-write of Journey
Summary: Some things in life, Quinn learns, are pretty cruel. Like Coach Sylvester's armpit-smelling punishments, or the president of the celibacy club having a baby out of wedlock at sixteen. But life is about the lemonade, not the lemons, or whatever.
Notes: A big thank you to bradyyface for introducing me to this pairing and being more supportive of my writing than I probably deserve; to eliselxx for being Australian and awake when everyone within 3 timezones of me is fast asleep; and to cardiogod for letting me borrow her parents' names, and then getting herself hooked on Glee. Also, title from Wicked's For Good.
Notes, pt. 2: I guess I should also preempt this fic by expressing that I have never given birth, nor been on either end of an adoption, especially not in Ohio. So I don't know. I really did try, but if it comes down to it, suspend reality or something.
Some things in life, Quinn learns, are pretty cruel. Like Coach Sylvester's armpit-smelling punishments, or the president of the celibacy club having a baby out of wedlock at sixteen.
But life is about the lemonade, not the lemons, or whatever.
The having a baby thing? That's a pretty damn big and sour lemon.
--
If Quinn has learned nothing else in the past few months, she knows this with absolute certainty: moving in with Mercedes is a new beginning she desperately needs.
It's not that living with either Finn or Puck was strictly awful, because it wasn't, but both their mothers tended to take every opportunity to turn Quinn's presence into either a lesson or a spectacle.
Exhibit A: "Oh, Quinn, sweetie, those books look heavy. You shouldn't be carrying heavy things when you're, you know." Mrs. Hudson looks pointedly at her son. Finn stands there dumbly for a full ten seconds before he fumbles Quinn's textbooks out of her arms.
Exhibit B: "Noah, will you stop being a delinquent for one minute and help Quinn with those groceries? Canned beef stew goes on the top shelf and I don't want Quinn stretching that high. It's not good for the baby." Mrs. Puckerman lowers her voice. "Are you sure she's not Jewish? She kind of looks like she could be Jewish."
It had become exhausting. Yeah, Quinn gets that they had been doing her a favor by housing her, but she isn't an invalid or anything, and doesn't appreciate being treated like one. So as much as she doesn't know exactly what to expect from the Joneses, she knows from the first introductions that she won't be made to feel like a leper under their roof, and for that, she is infinitely grateful.
Mercedes leads Quinn upstairs to her new room, and Quinn peers inside. Mercedes enters, motioning for Quinn to follow her. Quinn steps inside self-consciously, wheeling her suitcase behind her.
The room is painted a drab dark gray and a few cardboard boxes are still stacked in the corner, but a full set of furniture lines the walls and new sheets are pulled across the mattress. Already, that's more than Quinn's had in the past few months.
Mercedes is smiling at her from the bedside table. "Well, what d'you think?"
"It's wonderful," Quinn breathes.
Mercedes looks around at the empty walls. "We can get this place repainted, get you some decor. My dad's already tossed in a fifty, and I got some leftover birthday money…"
"Oh, Mercedes," Quinn interrupts. "I can't accept that. You've already done more than enough by letting me stay here."
Mercedes's hands find her hips. "Girl, this place looks like a dungeon." She scrunches up her face. "Smells a little like one, too. Besides, Kurt's already started picking out swatches."
Quinn observes the room for a moment. "Won't your brother mind?"
"Nah, already asked him. He's cool. He goes to school out of state, only visits on Christmas, so he won't be using this place." Mercedes steps toward Quinn and tilts her head to study her. "Anyway," she adds gently, "it's important to us that this feels like a home."
Quinn holds back the tears straining at the corners of her eyes and looks down. "Thanks, Mercedes," she manages to murmur.
Mercedes only smiles. "We got your back."
Mr. Jones appears in the doorway behind Quinn. "How's everything going up here, ladies?"
Quinn turns around; Mercedes replies, "Great. We were just talking about scrubbing all the man out of this room."
Mercedes's father, a tall, bespectacled man with dark skin and blindingly white teeth - he is a dentist, after all - laughs skeptically. "Good luck with that."
And Quinn, in all her perpetual helplessness, genuinely laughs along.
--
Living with Mercedes is good. Great, even. The Joneses are kind and generous, and despite her baby bump preventing her from finding a comfortable position, Quinn begins sleeping through the night.
The downside of living with Mercedes? Quinn sees a lot more of the Glee kids outside of school than she'd ideally like to. Sure, she's gotten over her superiority complex, and she considers them friends, but when she finds herself on the floor of her room surrounded by color samples and listening to Kurt and Rachel arguing over whether flamingo or cerise trimming goes best with 'tea rose' wall paint, it feels a little surreal.
"Who even invited you?" Kurt asks indignantly. "If I were you, I would invest in a colorblindness exam."
"For your information," Rachel huffs, "my color vision has been tested to be in the 99th percentile. And I was just dropping by to give Mercedes some sheet music. We're working on a duet for Glee Club."
Kurt glares dramatically at Mercedes as though horribly betrayed. "Mercedes?"
Mercedes, seated on Quinn's bed, doesn't look up from the magazine she's flipping through. Her shoulders rise and fall. "Girl can sing," she offers as an explanation.
Kurt turns back to Rachel. "I will not have my stylish selections be undermined by someone who dresses like a circus chimpanzee in heat."
Rachel stands her ground. "Insult me all you want, but it's obvious that flamingo compliments tea rose much better than cerise."
"Cerise," Kurt shoots back, rolling the word over his tongue, "is an elegant color befitting of this room."
Mercedes rises from the bed and steps between Rachel and Kurt. "Enough, you guys. It's Quinn's room; she has the last say."
Kurt and Rachel both spin to look expectantly at Quinn.
"I… don't know," she replies with disinterest. "Does it even matter?"
Kurt gasps, and Rachel says sternly, "Quinn. This could be the most important decision you make before you go into labor."
Though mildly offended, Quinn decides to pick one at random. "Okay, flamingo," she says, because Kurt had pronounced the other one with a French accent and she was not about to attempt to mimic it.
"Yes!" Rachel claps her hands together and begins jumping up and down in excitement.
Kurt looks about ready to clock both of them. "This is ridiculous. I'll come back when Rachel isn't here." He narrows his eyes. "Don't any of you dare put flamingo on the walls before then."
Kurt storms out of the room; Mercedes runs after him.
Rachel smiles brightly at Quinn. "Thank you."
"I didn't do it for you," she says before she can stop herself. Old habits die hard. Besides, it's not like she's lying. She hadn't even meant to pick Rachel's; she'd just wanted to shut them both up before the sounds of their shrieking induced labor.
"Well, either way, you made the right choice," Rachel continues, holding up two color samples and overlapping them. "See? Isn't that much better than cerise?"
Quinn doesn't answer her, and Rachel takes it as an invitation to sit down beside her on the floor.
"Figured out what you're going to do yet?" she asks, her eyes tracing the deep curve of Quinn's belly.
Quinn scowls. "Do you have no sense of discretion?"
Rachel startles. "I just thought, since we were friends now…" She trails off. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Quinn watches Rachel's retreating form for a moment before pressing a hand against her forearm to stop her. "I… don't know what I'm going to do," she admits.
"You'll know."
"Yeah," Quinn says dismissively.
"I'm serious, Quinn. You are smart, and-"
"Not smart enough to keep my legs closed, apparently," she counters self-deprecatingly.
"Will you stop beating yourself over this? Hey."
Quinn looks up.
"Nobody who's anybody gets to where they are without adversity," Rachel says firmly. "I would know."
Quinn peers at her skeptically. "That's somehow not comforting in the least."
"You're going to be somebody, Quinn," Rachel insists with an optimistic smile. "Whatever you want to be." When Quinn says nothing, Rachel adds, "You shouldn't have to feel so alone."
"I am alone." Quinn tries to say it bitterly, hardening the words, but it comes out sounding kind of sad and pathetic.
Rachel is quiet for a moment. "We're here for you, you know, to help out however we can. I didn't come around much before because I didn't want Finn and Noah's mothers to get the wrong idea, but Quinn, I care."
Quinn recalls Rachel's words from what seems like forever ago: In a couple of months, that cheerleading uniform isn't going to fit, and we're going to be all you have left.
Quinn remembers the denial that'd flared up within her. She remembers thinking that nothing would change, because she was special. She remembers resenting Rachel for assuming. And now, after her world had crumbled all around her, in a cruel twist of irony, she finds herself drawing comfort from the one person she does not deserve to take anything from. Rachel was right. She's been right all along. Quinn's friends had disappeared faster than her popularity.
Quinn hates Rachel a little bit for saying these things, despite everything.
"Rachel," she says, and the words slip from her lips before she has a chance to consider them, "what's it like to know your mother gave you up?" Her hand subconsciously slides to her belly.
"Now who's the one without any discretion?" Rachel replies good-naturedly, and a smile tugs at the corners of Quinn's lips. "I don't know," Rachel continues. "It's hard sometimes, but after having met Shelby, I realize how fortunate I am to have two dads who love me."
Quinn considers this for a moment. "I don't want my baby to go through what you had to."
"I've made peace with Shelby's choices," Rachel reassures her. "She was driven by ambition, and given my own determination to succeed at all costs, I can't fault her for wanting that."
"Not that." Quinn looks away, her words laced with a quiet guilt she cannot shake. "I was horrible to you, Rachel. We all were, but especially me. I want to be able to protect my baby from people like that, like me."
Rachel's features soften. "Quinn, I've forgiven you. You need to forgive yourself."
Quinn doesn't move her hand from Rachel's forearm until Mercedes returns ten minutes later, sans Kurt.
They end up going with cerise over flamingo. It's the only way Kurt is willing to enter Quinn's room ever again, and Rachel agrees to the compromise because Quinn asks nicely.
--
Rachel begins dropping by more often, and eventually even abandons the pretense that she's there to practice her duet with Mercedes.
The truth is, the Joneses are prominent members of Lima's small black community, often organizing cultural and religious activities, and though Quinn's faith had always been a significant portion of her life pre-pregnancy, she always politely declines when Mercedes invites her to tag along on Sunday mornings.
It becomes Rachel's favorite time to visit. And Quinn… well, to her surprise, she doesn't hate it. She kind of looks forward to it, actually, not that she'd admit it to anyone.
One morning, Quinn answers the door with a series of cables clutched in her hands.
Rachel walks in with a smile. "What're those for?"
"Mercedes's dad dragged the old TV from the basement up to my room," Quinn replies, leading Rachel up the stairs. "I'm trying to hook it up to their cable."
"Any success?"
Quinn wags the cables at Rachel. "Apparently the slot for the cable is jammed, and I have to use an old VCR they have lying around to reroute? I don't even know what that means. Rachel, there are so many holes."
Rachel laughs and grabs the cables from Quinn. "This may come as a surprise, but I am quite proficient with home electronics," Rachel states seriously.
Quinn shakes her head as she enters her room in front of Rachel. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Sew," Rachel replies with a crooked smile.
A battered television set sits on top of a small wooden table at the foot of Quinn's bed. Beside it on the floor, a bulky VCR lies dormant.
"I didn't know these things still existed," Rachel murmurs to herself as she crouches down behind the set and begins to study the back, twisting the cable absentmindedly between her fingers. She chews at her bottom lip, looking back and forth between the ends of the cables and the apertures on the back of the television and VCR.
There's something strangely intriguing about watching Rachel work, and Quinn finds a comfortable spot on the bed to sit and observe.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Shh, the master demands silence."
A few minutes later, Rachel actually does manage to plug everything in correctly, and Quinn presses the power button on the TV set.
One of those trash talk shows flickers on, and against her better judgment, Quinn doesn't change the channel. On screen, crying women explain how they'd bound their own children and locked them in closets to keep them quiet. How they hurt their babies because they themselves were hurting, because their toddlers looked just like their deadbeat fathers. It makes Quinn sick because the women are despicable monsters, but on some level, the nausea she feels goes deeper.
Rachel squeezes herself onto the bed between Quinn and the television, reaching out to turn it off. "Quinn."
"Do you think I'll be like one of them?" Quinn asks quietly, her eyes glassy.
"No, never," Rachel replies immediately.
"The terrifying thing," Quinn admits, more to herself than to Rachel, "is that in some sick, awful way, I understand what these women are going through."
"You would never abuse your child, Quinn," Rachel says matter-of-factly. "Never."
Fat teardrops form at the corners of Quinn's eyes, but she holds them back. "All those things I did to you… it's in me, Rachel."
Rachel stands up so fast it nearly makes Quinn dizzy. Rachel's hands find her hips, and there's a quiet fury in her eyes. "Stop it. Those women are batshit insane. You have a heart, Quinn." Rachel drops her arms to the sides of her body. "Come here."
From her seat on the bed, Quinn hesitates. "What?"
"Stand up and come over here," Rachel clarifies.
Quinn pushes herself off the bed and steps up to Rachel. She tosses her a questioning look. "Okay, now what?"
"Hit me."
"Excuse me?"
Rachel's hand wraps around Quinn's wrist, and she pulls it up to eye-level. "Go ahead. Hit me."
Quinn flinches. "I'm not going to hit you, Rachel."
Rachel holds her head up high, unrelenting. "Why not?"
"I-" Quinn laughs nervously and shrugs out of Rachel's grasp, feeling foolish. "For a thousand reasons."
Rachel smiles faintly. "Those are the same reasons you aren't going to hurt your baby."
A few stray tears roll down Quinn's cheek at the harsh realization, and she brushes them away with the back of her hand. There is nothing adequate or sufficient in her words, but she tries. "Thanks, Rachel," she says, instead of I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry.
--
New Directions comes in last at regionals.
It's over. It's all over. Glee Club. The singing, the dancing; the laughter, the heartache. Their journey comes to an end and it hurts worse than anything else any of them has ever experienced.
The bus ride home is suffocating.
Usually a bottomless fountain of encouragement, an inconsolable Mr. Schuester sits at the front of the bus with Artie and his wheelchair. Tina sniffs occasionally into Artie's shoulder, their hands clasped together on his lap. Behind them, Mercedes and Kurt set hard eyes and tight jaws, only ever moving to wipe uselessly at their damp cheeks. Further back, Mike and Matt stare down at their shoes, motionless. Even Santana cries silently into Brittany's Cheerios uniform as she holds her.
Rachel and Finn are seated together across the aisle from Quinn. They are as quiet as the rest, but Finn's right hand is firmly wrapped around Rachel's left, and Quinn's chest suddenly feels tight.
Quinn looks to Puck, seated next to her. He is turned away, his attention out the window. Quinn lowers her eyes, spanning her fingertips across her stomach. Through the dreadful silence, she focuses on her breathing. If there's one thing she's learned from Mr. Schue's manipulative ex-wife, it'd be prenatal breathing exercises.
And then. The baby. Kicks.
Hard.
It's not the first time it's happened, but it's by far the most powerful one she's ever felt. Adrenaline pumping, Quinn reaches across the aisle without thinking and pulls Rachel's free hand toward her belly and presses it urgently against the bump.
"Quinn, what-oh. Oh, Quinn." And Rachel's face glows with pride, dimples full force.
The rest of the bus turns toward the commotion. Puck's arm slides behind Quinn's neck, his other hand gliding to her stomach, but he only catches the end of the last kick. The grin on his face tells her that he finds it miraculous anyway.
Santana and Brittany are hovering over the back of Quinn's seat in an attempt to get a better view.
Santana, remnants of dried tears still staining her cheeks, cranes her neck around Quinn's head. "What's going on? Is your baby coming or something?"
Brittany's long blond hair falls around Quinn's face. "Maybe if you squeeze your thighs together really tight…" Brittany offers.
"She's not due for another month," Quinn replies with a short, almost teary laugh. "She's kicking."
At that, a flurry of hands reaches for Quinn's extended belly. And Quinn would have lectured about boundaries and personal space, except everyone seems genuinely elated about the news, a welcome change from the doom and gloom that'd been sketched across their faces moments earlier, so she lets palms and fingertips skirt her stomach. But the baby, seemingly shying away from the attention, doesn't kick again, and eventually, interest wanes.
Quinn doesn't stop looking at Rachel, who is mirroring her modest smile with an incredibly vibrant one.
"You're having a baby," Rachel says with reverent wonder.
And though she's known for over seven months, nothing makes her feel as alive as the way Rachel says it, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. Quinn breaks out into a huge grin.
Rachel holds Quinn's hand across the aisle for the rest of the ride.
--
"I can't believe it," Rachel squeals. "We have another year!"
And she's laughing; a wild, uninhibited laugh that seems to span to the next galaxy.
Quinn knows that while Glee Club is the greatest thing about all their pathetic high school existences, it's most important to Rachel, who works the hardest and smiles the widest and sings her damn heart out with the most beautiful, mature voice.
When Rachel laughs, Quinn takes in the sight of her and the corners of her lips twitch, and she's really kind of pretty when she's laughing. Quinn stops just short of telling her so, because Santana and Brittany are within earshot, and while Brittany would let her off with a shrug and an absentminded, "Not really," Santana would never let her live it down. At the back of her mind, Quinn still cares about things like that, so she settles for observing and what feels something like biding time.
Rachel is talking a mile a minute, about song choices and dance routines for next year, and only Tina is really listening to her. Other than Quinn, that is, but even she gets lost in the rapid-fire words shooting out of Rachel's mouth.
As soon as the meeting comes to an end, Quinn overcompensates for staring at Rachel the whole time by jumping out of her seat and nearly running out the choir room. The being inconspicuous thing, Quinn decides she has to work on, but she figures it looks enough like she's getting the hell out of there, so she figures she's safe.
But she'd gotten a ride with Mercedes, so she ends up having to hang around anyway. And when Rachel appears in the hallway before any hint of Mercedes, Quinn calls out to her.
There's a skip in Rachel's step as she approaches. "Hello, Quinn."
"I just-" Quinn bites the inside of her cheek, hesitant. Screw this. "You're kind of pretty when you laugh." She sees a flash of Cheerios uniform out of the corner of her eye and straightens up. "I'm only telling you because you should probably scowl a little less. It's kind of a shame when you aren't, um, you know."
And despite all of Rachel's self-assurance, she blushes at the compliment. "Thanks, Quinn."
"Yeah," is all Quinn says.
After Rachel leaves, Santana and Brittany, who had been hovering near the lockers across the hall, saunter over.
Quinn braces for the worst, but Santana only leans real close to her and laughs in her ear. "You are so whipped."
Brittany leans her head on Santana's shoulder and smiles sweetly at Quinn. "Yeah, Santana would know."
Santana grimaces at Brittany, and Quinn laughs quietly, because this treating Rachel like an actual human being thing? Is much easier than she thought it'd be, and she kind of wishes she'd figured that out earlier.
--
Since being kicked out of her own home, Quinn has grown up a lot in a short amount of time. It kind of comes with the territory: get kicked out; grow up quickly. Like an unwritten rule.
Quinn begins to appreciate the little things: bacon for breakfast, and comfortable shoes, and a warm bed to sleep in at night. Also, the big things: Mercedes's friendship, and dancing with Glee Club, and Rachel.
Everything about Rachel. Because Rachel cares, and Rachel loves, and Rachel walks into Quinn's life with a bright smile and an unrelenting enthusiasm and shows her that there is a future beyond this town and this baby. Rachel, Quinn learns, isn't really all that overbearing when she's alone with her.
Rachel makes Quinn want to be a better person, which makes old-Quinn a little nauseous to even admit, but new-Quinn? Well, new-Quinn can deal with that.
What new-Quinn cannot deal with is that she hasn't spoken to her own mother for six months and counting.
"I miss my mom," Quinn admits to Rachel one day.
Rachel looks up from the notebook she'd been scribbling in. "Oh, Quinn…"
"I miss my dad," Quinn continues, "and my sister, and my grams. I miss having a family. Don't get me wrong; the Joneses are great. They treat me better than I deserve, but it's not the same."
"Let's go see your parents," Rachel suggests.
Quinn's eyes widen. "No. No way. They made it very clear that they do not want anything to do with me."
"I'll come with you," Rachel insists. "I am very persuasive."
Quinn laughs softly. "I know you are."
"Quinn, I lost my chance with my mother because of time and distance."Rachel touches Quinn's hand lightly. "I don't want that to happen to you."
So Quinn lets Rachel drive her to the Fabray home, and she knows that it's a bad idea as soon as they begin pulling into the driveway. A slow dread creeps over Quinn, because she knows, even before they walk up to the front entrance and Rachel rings the doorbell, that nothing has changed. The Fabrays's perfect house with the perfect garden and the imperfect daughter. Standing in front of the door, everything Quinn had felt the night she'd told her parents the truth for maybe the first time in her existence rushes back, and she flinches.
Rachel is immediately concerned. "Quinn, are you okay?"
"This is a bad idea," Quinn murmurs.
Before Rachel has a chance to respond, the front door opens, and Quinn's mother stumbles at the sight of her visitors.
"Quinn," Mrs. Fabray breathes, her eyes dropping momentarily to Quinn's extended stomach.
Instinctively, Quinn steps forward. "Mom…"
"I shouldn't be-" Quinn's mother looks away and distances herself. "Your father's going to be home soon…"
"Mom," Quinn tries again, "can we-can we talk?"
"No, I'm sorry-" Mrs. Fabray's hand clutches the door. "I think it's best if you leave, sweetie."
Rachel speaks up. "Mrs. Fabray, you're being unfair."
"Excuse me? Who are you?"
Rachel ignores her question. "Quinn would really like to have a relationship with you, and you're rejecting her because she made one bad decision?"
Mrs. Fabray scoffs. "Would your mother react kindly to you getting pregnant at sixteen?"
"I have two gay dads," Rachel replies without thinking.
Quinn cringes. Mrs. Fabray gasps audibly and slams the door shut. Rachel lifts her fist, prepared to knock angrily, when Quinn stops her.
"No, Rachel," Quinn says gently. "I know you have good intentions, but I know my mother. She hasn't changed."
"But-"
"Rachel." Quinn smiles sadly. "You of all people should know that there are people in this place that just don't get it, and will never get it."
Rachel deflates. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you."
Quinn reaches for Rachel's hand. "Come on," she says, leading her back to the car. "Let's get out of here."
They are both quiet as Rachel pulls out of the Fabray driveway. Halfway to Mercedes's, Rachel breaks the silence.
"Are you upset with me?" she asks, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
"No." Quinn pauses thoughtfully. "I'm happy, Rachel, for maybe the first time in my life. Do I wish my mother was different? Of course. But I remember what it felt like to live with her, and with my dad." She fiddles with the hem of her dress. "I needed this visit, if only to remind myself how miserable I was living under their roof." She looks to Rachel and smiles sadly, chest tight. "I'm still going to miss her, but I'd rather have what I have now. Who I have now."
Rachel turns briefly to Quinn and smiles. "That's a very mature way of looking at it. I'm sorry it didn't work out, Quinn."
Quinn exhales. "Yeah, me too."
Rachel puts on some music and begins to sing along. Quinn pretends not to know the words, but mostly, she just wants to hear Rachel's voice, untouched and beautiful. Quinn heart aches a little less.
In the middle of Mercedes's driveway, after Rachel had parked and they'd both exited the vehicle, Quinn pulls Rachel into a tight hug, burying her face into Rachel's hair and breathing in her scent.
"Thanks, Rachel," Quinn murmurs.
Rachel's arms slide around Quinn's midsection. "For what?"
"Just… thank you."
--
The school year comes to an end, Quinn is fast approaching her due date, and Mercedes's mom starts asking if they should set up a crib in Quinn's room. And even though Puck has been tossing sad puppy eyes her way since regionals, Quinn says no, because she is not raising this baby. Not with Puck, and not with anyone else.
Sunday mornings remain Rachel and Quinn's thing, whatever the thing really is. It's fun though, and Rachel makes Quinn feels good about herself, and it's not exactly like Quinn has people knocking down her door to be friends with her.
But that makes Quinn sound reluctant or ungrateful, and that cannot be further from the truth. Quinn doesn't remember ever having a friend quite like Rachel: unflinchingly honest, fiercely loyal, and unafraid of judgment, everything Quinn wants so much to be. Rachel is also sometimes overbearing and occasionally selfish, but strangely, Quinn finds herself attracted even to Rachel's flaws - the same ones for which Quinn had so mercilessly tormented her all those months ago.
It becomes more than just Sunday mornings, though. It's Friday nights, Rachel's voice carrying a beautiful tune because hearing perfect pitch develops a baby's musicality, Quinn. It's Wednesday afternoons, Rachel helping Quinn perfect prenatal yoga poses. It's good for circulation and improves flexibility, which should help reduce pain during a natural birth, Rachel explains, stretching into a cat-cow pose even though she is not at all pregnant.
Quinn's friends - these days, that means everyone in Glee - are initially a little confused by the whole prospect of Rachel and Quinn being inseparable, but Quinn is less bitchy and Rachel is less bossy and everyone wins when that happens, so nobody really asks about it.
What the other Glee kids don't realize is that when they are alone, Quinn says things like:
"The only time I feel comfortable with my body is when I'm dancing."
Quinn is stretched out across her bed, lying in a mildly uncomfortable position. She looks over her protruding belly at Rachel, cross-legged at the other end of the bed.
Rachel grins, ever-encouraging. "You know, I've always been envious of your looks."
Quinn closes her eyes and sighs. The compliment stings. "Even when I was horrible to you?"
Rachel is quiet for a moment. She shuffles to Quinn's side. "I hated that I was, but yes."
"I don't look like that anymore," Quinn breathes. She squeezes her eyes tighter.
"No, you don't," Rachel agrees, reaching out to rest her palm against Quinn's right hip.
The brush of skin is surprisingly intimate. Alarmed, Quinn's eyes snap open. She scrambles to sit up. "Rachel, what are you doing?"
"Turn to your left side," Rachel instructs, gently nudging her hip.
Quinn stares disbelievingly at Rachel, but she does as she is told. Over her shoulder, she catches Rachel's eye. "What was that all about?"
"Your ankles are swollen," Rachel explains. "This should help relieve a bit of the pressure off your inferior vena cava."
Quinn lets out an incredulous laugh. "How do you even know that?"
"I like to be prepared."
"Don't tell me you've even read up on how to deliver this baby."
Rachel bites back a smile and averts her eyes. Quinn chuckles and rolls her eyes playfully, then rests her cheek against her pillow. Rachel reclines behind Quinn. It's a tight fit, especially with Quinn's stomach taking up so much room, but Quinn presses her back against Rachel's side, and they manage.
Rachel hums a tune that's vaguely familiar, and Quinn, swollen ankles and all, begins to nod off.
"Quinn."
"Hmm?"
"I think," Rachel says with a quiet sincerity, "that you've never been more beautiful."
Quinn shifts against the bed, and, against Rachel's protests, she returns to her back. Shoulder to shoulder, blond hair weaving between dark brown on the pillow, Quinn rolls her hand down the length of her belly.
"You have this life growing inside you," Rachel continues. "Who cares what other people think?"
"I do. I've never known any other way." Quinn turns her head to face Rachel. "Sometimes I admire you. Your courage."
"It's not courage," Rachel responds quickly, and it's all she says. Her hand finds Quinn's hip again. "Left side, please. Your back and ankles will thank me."
Quinn turns to her side again, facing away. "Rachel, could you, uh-" Quinn motions awkwardly at the space in front of her, and her cheeks flush.
Without another word, Rachel rises from the bed and rounds the foot to reach the other side. Quinn squirms backwards to make room, and Rachel slides in beside her. Her hip presses lightly against Quinn's belly.
Quinn falls asleep with her forehead against Rachel's shoulder. Rachel, however, remains awake and observant, and when Quinn shifts in her sleep, bordering precariously close to the edge of the bed, Rachel rolls to her side and holds Quinn's body in place.
Soon, too soon, the sound of the garage door opening awakens her, and Quinn is confused and more than a little embarrassed to find her limbs tangled in Rachel's.
Rachel only smiles sleepily at her. "Looks like Mercedes is home."
Quinn makes a tiny whimpering noise at the back of her throat. "How long have I been asleep?" she mumbles, eyes falling shut again. "I swear the one thing I'm going to enjoy most when this baby finally comes is not falling asleep at all hours of the day."
Rachel shifts on the bed, craning her neck to check Quinn's bedside clock. "Not long," she replies softly. "It's barely noon." There is a drawn out pause, and a hint of amusement flutters into Rachel's voice. "Hey, Quinn. What's this?"
"Hmm?" Quinn forces an eye open, blinking to focus on the blob Rachel's holding in her hand. As sleep clears from Quinn's eyes, she makes out the shape of a small stuffed lamb. Immediately, both eyes snap open. "Where-what are you doing with that?"
"It was under your pillow." Rachel grins, turning the lamb to face her. "It's cute."
Quinn only groans.
Rachel presses on. "Does he have a name?"
"She," Quinn corrects, eyes fluttering shut. "It's a she."
"Oh," Rachel laughs, "well, excuse me."
"Mr. Snuffles," Quinn mumbles, and she feels the tips of her ears going bright red.
It's all worth it when Rachel laughs again. "I thought it was a she?"
"It's a new-age feminist statement," Quinn jokes, still hazy from sleep. "Or something. Go with it."
There's a knock at Quinn's door, and Mercedes's voice drifts through. "Hey, you guys. Kurt got his hands on an empty dance studio. We're gonna round up some Glee kids, blast some music. Gotta make sure we don't get rusty over summer. You interested?"
Rachel smiles coyly; Quinn laughs into the air between their faces. "Be right there, Mercedes!"
Quinn rises from the bed first, untangling herself from Rachel's grip. "Come on, Sleepyhead."
Rachel's smile never fades. She twirls Mr. Snuffles in her hand. The stuffed lamb's limbs fly like helicopter propellers. "We can dance every day, if you'd like," Rachel offers, looking a little like Brittany when she's hanging off Santana's arm, and ew. Except not at all ew, because Rachel's kind of adorable when she's being sweet, and Quinn's heart grows a little at the sentiment.
Quinn's hand slides easily into Rachel's, and she pulls her up. She wants to say something sickly saccharine like you make me feel like I'm dancing, but she settles for brushing the lightest of kisses across Rachel's cheek.
--
Quinn used to never have to worry about anything other than a number on the scale and her ability to safely land a back flip. These days, she worries mostly about vitamins and stretch marks. The Joneses treat her like their own, and that takes a lot of pressure off Quinn. Mrs. Jones even sits Quinn down and explains to her that she has a place in their home until she can reasonably arrange to live on her own. So for the first time in a long time, Quinn has stability in her life.
A movie is playing on Quinn's battered TV, but only Rachel is really paying attention.
"My dads want a second child," Rachel says, chewing ferociously on a piece of popcorn.
Quinn tosses her own piece into the air and catches it with her mouth. "Always imagined it'd take them longer than that to recover from having you," Quinn laughs. She remembers a time when those words would have been laced with malice, but now, they are affectionate. "Popcorn tastes like cardboard without butter, by the way," she adds with a wince as she reaches for another handful.
"Do you know how horribly dairy cows are treated? Forcibly bred to maintain high milk production, and slaughtered in their infancy for beef. If you want that on your conscious, go ahead and butter your popcorn." Rachel pops another piece into her mouth and chews slowly. "Anyway, I think a baby brother or sister would be good for me. It would certainly teach me how to manage my sleeping schedule better, which is an important attribute for a soon-to-be star like me."
Quinn chuckles. Sometimes, Rachel is still Rachel. "Are they going to do it the same way?"
Rachel tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Actually," she says, looking up, "what they really want to do is adopt."
Quinn goes completely still mid-chew, and her insides turn to ice. "Is this why you've been trying to be my friend this whole time?"
Rachel appears confused. "No, I-"
Quinn's head rings with anger as the pieces fall into place in her mind. "So you could be a spy for your gay dads? Report back to them about the progress of my pregnancy?"
"Quinn…"
But Quinn is blinded by her rage, and she charges on. "No wonder you knew so much about everything from swollen ankles to breech positions. And-and all that singing to the baby and the yoga?"
Rachel rockets off the bed and spins to glare at Quinn. "Will you shut up for one minute and let me speak?" she grinds through her teeth. "I looked those things up on the internet because I actually cared about you and the baby, and frankly, I resent your implication that I have been somehow manipulating you. I thought we were better friends than that, but apparently not. I did not sell you or your baby out to my dads. They barely know who you are, never mind that you're with child. In fact, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind; do you know why?" She doesn't wait for Quinn's reply. "Do you know how difficult same-sex adoption is in Ohio, especially in this cow town? That my two dads can't even register to be adoptive parents together because their marriage is not recognized here? So Daddy had to register as a single parent. Tell me how that's fair, Quinn. And that was years ago. The adoption agency checks back every six months, but we know we're dead last on their list. Do you know how that feels? That two emotionally, physically, and financially capable parents have a much smaller chance at a baby who would be lucky to call them daddy and papa than nearly any heterosexual couple who can make it through the interview without soiling their own pants?"
Quinn's heart drops, and she feels stupid for having brought it up. "Rachel, I had no idea."
"Of course not," Rachel shoots back, temper only growing. "So you assume that I only have eyes for the baby growing inside you. We don't want a new family member badly enough to resort to manipulation, and as much as you must believe otherwise, I don't need friends that desperately, Quinn."
"I'm sorry," Quinn says uselessly, cheeks hot. "I didn't know."
"I don't even want my dads to adopt your baby, because then you'd be part of my family for all the wrong reasons."
"The wrong reasons," Quinn echoes dumbly. "I don't understand…"
"I don't want you to be my sister's mother. I want you to be my girlfriend," Rachel blurts out, and the surprise in her eyes is mirrored in Quinn's features. But Rachel settles quickly into her words, and her eyes lower. "Do you get it now, Quinn?" she asks quietly before she retreats from the room. Moments later, the front door opens and closes, and the distant sound of a car engine floats through Quinn's window.
Quinn remains motionless on her bed, a bucket of homemade popcorn resting by her hip. Her eyes blur, and she can't even remember what movie they'd been watching - something old, no doubt, since they'd been using the VCR that Rachel had set up when Quinn had first moved in with Mercedes.
Quinn's mouth tastes like cardboard, and it is most definitely not because of Rachel's damn vegan popcorn.
--
The sky is dark by the time Quinn pulls into the Berry driveway. She walks up to the porch with a brown paper bag clutched in her hands.
One of Rachel's dads answers the front door, and Quinn's palms immediately begin to sweat. She quickly realizes that she's never actually met Rachel's dads, only seen them in photos and heard about them from Rachel's stories. Quinn is suddenly equal parts intrigued by the family dynamic and intimidated by the prospect of Rachel's dads knowing things.
Not that they're doing anything that should concern her dads, Quinn insists to herself.
"Is, uh, is Rachel home?"
Rachel's dad stands his ground, stoic in the doorway. "Yes, but I don't think she wants to be disturbed."
Quinn's heart does a little flip, and she has to re-center her weight across her ankles. "Please, I really need to speak to her."
"I'm sorry. You'll have to catch her at another time."
"Mr. Berry-"
"Quinn," the man says, and the sound of her name surprises her. "My daughter is upset and doesn't want any visitors. I don't know whether you were involved, or how, but I can tell you're equally upset." At this, he pulls out a pack of tissues from his breast pocket and offers one to Quinn. Only then does she realize she's been crying the whole time, and a flush travels up her neck to her cheeks. She takes a tissue from him and wipes self-consciously at her eyes. After a short pause, Rachel's dad continues, "Come back tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay." Quinn holds out the paper bag. She'd clutched the opening so hard that it's scrunched up and almost torn. "Could you just give her this?"
Rachel's dad takes the bag from her. "Sure, Quinn. Nice meeting you."
Quinn stumbles back to her car and sits in the Berry driveway for another ten minutes to try to recollect herself. The best thing that's ever happened to her, and she has to go and fuck it up with her dumbass assumptions.
She'd slipped momentarily back to an old behavior, seeing the worst in people, even when Rachel has done nothing to deserve it.
Quinn drives home - to Mercedes's, anyway, but she calls it home now - and by the time she crawls into bed, she's too exhausted to even think. Quinn falls asleep without changing, in a position that Rachel would lecture her about if she were around.
Quinn doesn't make it through the night. At a quarter to three, she stumbles to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. Her reflection in the mirror is unkind; her eyes are red and puffy, and her hair sticks up awkwardly from her head.
Back in her room, Quinn logs onto her Myspace for the first time in months and goes through every single comment she's ever left on any of Rachel's videos or photos. She doesn't even remember most of them, but the words are sharp and acrid and intended to hurt. She cringes at them, bristling at the thought that Rachel's had to read them all. With a heavy heart, she deletes them one at a time, murmuring a quiet apology at her computer screen for each one.
It's nearly dawn when Quinn finally removes the last comment. Before she logs off, Quinn watches Rachel belt out 'For Good' from Wicked, and when Quinn begins to cry, she knows it's not from the baby hormones.
Her fingertips slide to the keyboard, and she taps out a quick comment, the letters blurring behind the tears she cannot blink away.
It says simply: 'Because I knew you.'
Part 2