Chapter Text
Rachel is alone in her room when she hears the footsteps coming down the hall. Neither of her dads are home—Hiram is at work, and Leroy is with Ellie is at yet another checkup; Rachel had no idea babies required so much medical attention—but Rachel doesn’t panic. It’s probably just Quinn, who has all but moved in since that day in the park, and never bothers ringing the doorbell.
Rachel is not prepared to look up and see Quinn with a bob, and she drops her book when she does.
“Quinn,” Rachel exclaims, jumping up from the bed. “Your hair.” Quinn smiles, ducking her head, and Rachel has to resist the urge to walk over to her and start running her fingers through her hair.
“It was time for a change,” Quinn says, and Rachel nods emphatically.
“It looks incredible,” she says. “You look incredible. Not that you weren’t already gorgeous before, but—your hair.” Quinn laughs and shakes her head.
“I’m glad you like it,” she says. Rachel isn’t sure like is a strong enough word. With her hair like this, Rachel can see every inch of Quinn’s smooth, pale neck, the sharp edge of her jawline, the way it moves as Quinn smiles—
Oh.
Oh, Rachel has been here before. With Jesse, with Finn, with a girl in her seventh grade homeroom that Rachel used to dedicate a significant amount of time to not thinking about.
She has feelings for Quinn.
“Rach?” Quinn says, frowning slightly. “You still in there?”
“Yes!” Rachel says, louder than necessary. “Yes, sorry. Just—spaced out a little. I’m sorry. I’m here.” Quinn raises an eyebrow, and oh, this is why that expression has always been so interesting to Rachel. It’s hot.
God, how long has this been going on? How long have I been into her?
“I’m kind of surprised it turned out this well,” Quinn says, walking farther into Rachel’s room. “Kurt cut it yesterday.”
“Kurt did?” Rachel says as Quinn sits on her bed—and suddenly Rachel is very aware of how comfortable Quinn is in her space these days, and how comfortable Rachel has been having her there. “I thought you still—I thought you didn’t get along.”
“You thought I still bullied him?” Quinn guesses correctly. “No. I told you, I’m done with that.”
“You said you were done doing that to me,” Rachel points out. “Not everyone else. Besides, aren’t you trying to rejoin the Cheerios in the fall? Isn’t being a terrible person a bit of an entrance requirement?” She tries to keep the petulance and fear out of her tone, but judging by Quinn’s surprised look, she doesn’t quite manage it.
“You think things are going to change when I get back on the squad,” Quinn says. Rachel flinches, but can’t argue. When did Quinn learn to read her like that? “They’re not, Rach. The bullying, it’s—I mean, it definitely isn’t a requirement to be a Cheerio. Brittany would never make the squad otherwise.” Rachel nods, conceding the point. Brittany can be painfully, intensely honest, but she’s never been cruel. “I mean, for some of the girls who barely make the cut, maybe it’s a requirement, and Coach Sylvester definitely encourages it, but—“ Quinn shakes her head. “The way I treated you and Kurt and everyone else, it wasn’t about you guys, and it wasn’t about cheerleading.”
“And what was it about?” Rachel asks, sitting down beside Quinn on the bed. Quinn shrugs.
“Haven’t gotten that far in my therapy yet,” she says. It’s just nonchalant enough that Rachel doesn’t quite believe her, but she lets it go.
“I didn’t know you went to therapy,” she says instead, which arguably may not be any easier of a subject, but at least it’s information Quinn offered up, rather than skillfully lying about.
“My mom sent me after I moved back in,” Quinn says. “I think she thinks it’ll help me get over being kicked out while pregnant and giving up my baby and my parents getting divorced and L—“ She stops. “She thinks it’ll help me get over it.”
“What were you going to say?” Rachel says, unable to stop herself from pushing for more. She managed to stop herself earlier; that’s one more time than she’s usually capable of. “Parents getting divorced and…?”
“Nothing,” Quinn says. She stands up from the bed. “You wanna go do something?” Rachel, contrary to popular belief, can recognize a rejection when she hears one—she just usually doesn’t care enough to respect them.
For Quinn, though, she’ll always care.
“Sure,” Rachel says, standing as well. “We could get coffee, or go to the park, or—“ Rachel’s phone rings. She glances down at it, feeling a familiar tug in her chest when she sees the name on the screen. “Sorry,” she says, glancing up at Quinn. “It’s—it’s Finn.” Something unidentifiable flashes in Quinn’s eyes, and she steps back, moving towards Rachel’s bedroom door.
“I’ll go look for something to eat,” she says, “let you answer that.” Rachel bites her lip, uncertain how to navigate the your-ex-boyfriend-who-you-tricked-into-thinking-he-was-the-father-of-your-baby-who-is-now-sort-of-not-really-my-boyfriend-is-calling situation. She doesn’t have the chance to, though, because Quinn escapes the room and disappears down the stairs.
“Hello, Finn,” Rachel says into the phone instead.
“Hey, Rach,” Finn says, that familiar, dopily happy tone in his voice. Rachel smiles a little bit at the sound. She isn’t sure how she feels about Finn, or even what they’re doing together, but he is sweet, when he tries. And his mostly-unfailing optimism is nice.
(Rachel can’t help but think, though, that sweet and nice aren’t really the kind of words she used to feel for him, nor the kind that make a relationship last.)
“Do you wanna come hang out?” Finn is saying. “There’s some musical marathon thing on TV.” That—that’s nice, too. Rachel hadn’t expected Finn to be a very attentive boyfriend—or friend, or whatever it is that they’re doing—and he isn’t, really, but he tries, at least, to think of her interests, even if he doesn’t share them.
“It’s very nice of you to think of me,” Rachel says. “But unfortunately, I have a prior commitment today.” Finn doesn’t say anything. Rachel can just picture him blinking at her confusedly, and she clarifies, “I’m hanging out with Quinn.”
“Quinn?” Finn asks. “You guys are friends now?” There’s a note of—of judgment, or distaste, or something, in his voice, and it irks Rachel.
“Yes,” she says. “My fathers did adopt her baby, if you recall.”
“Well, yeah, but—“ Finn sighs. “I don’t know, Rach. I just don’t want you to get hurt, you know? Quinn isn’t a good person.” That makes Rachel bristle.
“I can understand why you would hold that opinion of her,” she says, her tone clipped, “considering how she treated you, but Quinn has been nothing but courteous to me lately, and I would appreciate you withholding judgment until you get to know who she is now.”
“Whoa,” Finn says. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to make you mad. I’m just trying to help. I don’t like it when people hurt you, and Quinn hurts people a lot.” Rachel exhales, pushing the surge of protectiveness towards Quinn away.
“I know,” she says. “That’s sweet of you, Finn, but I don’t need you to protect me. I can handle Quinn.”
“Okay.” Finn changes topics, although Rachel has the sinking feeling that she hasn’t heard the last of this. “So, if you can’t hang out today, do you wanna tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Rachel agrees. “I’ll text you later to figure out the details. I have to go, Quinn is waiting for me.” Finn says goodbye, and Rachel hangs up. She wanders downstairs, wondering vaguely wondering what Quinn has found to eat.
The answer is nothing, apparently. Rachel comes around the corner into the kitchen and Quinn is standing in front of the fridge with the door open, staring into it blankly.
“Quinn?” Rachel says. Quinn doesn’t respond. Frowning, Rachel reaches out and taps her shoulder. Quinn starts slightly, turning to face Rachel. “What are you doing?” Rachel asks. Quinn blinks, glancing back at the fridge. She lets go of the door handle, and the fridge falls shut.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Just spaced out, I guess.”
“Are you alright?” Without thinking, Rachel reaches out, pressing her the back of her hand against Quinn’s forehead to check for a fever. Shockingly, Quinn doesn’t shy away from the contact—although she does roll her eyes at Rachel’s fretting.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just tired.” Something nags at Rachel. She had done a lot of reading on pregnancy when she had first learned about Quinn, wanting to help anyway she could, and right now, a few articles she had stumbled across are sticking in her mind.
“You’re tired a lot,” she says.
“I did have a baby.”
“A month ago, yes,” Rachel says.
“Rachel.” Quinn’s tone is a warning, one that says, don’t push. Rachel pushes anyway.
“Would you say your chronic exhaustion started after you gave birth to Ellie?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t say I’m chronically exhausted,” Quinn says, exasperated. “I wouldn’t say I’m exhausted at all, actually.”
“Right, because the leftover spaghetti was just so fascinating to stare at for three minutes,” Rachel says.
“Would you leave it alone?” Quinn snaps. She’s glaring at Rachel, and Rachel shrinks back instinctively. It’s the same tone and glare that have preceded a thousand insults about her hands, her nose, her clothes. “God, Rachel, mind your own fucking business for once!”
“This is my business,” Rachel protests. “I care about you, Quinn! I’m trying to help!”
“Why?” Quinn says.
“I just told you, I care about—“
“Why?” The edge to Quinn’s voice has vanished, replaced by a slight tremor. “Why do you care so damn much?” Rachel blinks. She hadn’t anticipated this. She’s pretty sure she’s seen a greater variety of emotions from Quinn in the last thirty seconds than she did in their entire first year of high school.
“I…” Rachel shakes her head. “What do you mean?”
“I treated you like shit, Rachel,” Quinn says, and oh God, she’s crying, what do I do? What am I supposed to do with a crying Quinn Fabray? “I made your life hell for a year and a half, I bullied you and all your friends, the slushies I ordered on you probably ruined half your wardrobe—I let your dads take my baby because I’m too fucked up to love her properly—“
“Quinn.” Rachel steps forward and pulls Quinn into a hug. Quinn struggles against it for a moment, pushing and pulling at Rachel’s shoulders, until she gives up and leans into it, burying her face in Rachel’s neck and starting to sob. Rachel just holds her tighter. “Quinn,” she says softly. “You are a good person, okay? You’ve made mistakes, yes, but I’ve long since forgiven you for them, and you are not the things you’ve done to survive. You are good.” She continues in the same vein for a few minutes, murmuring kindnesses into Quinn’s ear over her quiet cries. Finally, Quinn takes a deep, shuddering breath, and steps back from the hug.
“I just…don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t want to be my friend, Rachel. Why are you so…”
“High school sucks,” Rachel says. Quinn smiles slightly at the brutal honesty, looking away. “None of us are who we want to be right now. The bullying and the slushies and all of it is—yes, it’s despicable, but it kept you safe. It kept you on top. Maybe that shouldn’t matter, but it does, and I can’t blame you for doing your best in the environment we’re all trapped in.”
“But you don’t do that stuff,” Quinn says. “You never have.”
“I have no power.” Rachel shrugs. “What would be the point of me throwing a slushie or calling someone a rude name when it wouldn’t get me anything? I’ve always admired that about you, Quinn. You know what you’re doing. You don’t do anything without a purpose, and your actions put you exactly where you wanted to be.”
“But you could’ve done that, too,” Quinn says. “You could’ve been a Cheerio freshman year if you had tried, and done the same things I did to get to the top—“ Rachel is laughing before Quinn gets halfway through her sentence.
“Me, a Cheerio,” she echoes. “With a nose job and an extra cup size, maybe.”
“What?” Quinn shakes her head. “No, I’m serious. You’re gorgeous, and you’re a good dancer, which translates pretty well to cheerleading, you just—chose not to. You’re yourself, instead of one of Coach Sylvester’s drones. I gave up, instead.”
“Quinn.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “Please be serious. I never could’ve had what you had. You took advantage of your situation, and I took advantage of mine. The only difference between us is where those situations took us.”
“I don’t believe that,” Quinn says firmly. “You’re a good person, Rachel.”
“So are you,” Rachel says. Quinn stares at her for a long moment, then shakes her head and looks away.
“I don’t deserve you,” she says. Rachel can read signals when she chooses, and this clearly signals the end of their argument.
So, instead of debating the point, Rachel just flips her hair over her shoulder and says, “No one does.” She's clearly joking, and Quinn laughs, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. “Now, I am actually hungry. What’s in here, anyway?” Rachel pulls the fridge open, and Quinn steps up beside her, looking over her shoulder, the tension in the room fading away.
“You talk about Rachel a lot,” Dr. McMillan says neutrally, after Quinn has finished with her relation of her fight with Rachel the day before.
“Seriously?” Quinn says, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what you got from that story? Not going to get into my clearly deep-seated issues around my self-worth or anything?” Dr. McMillan gives her a look, and Quinn leans back in her chair, sighing. “Yeah, I’m obsessed with her, whatever,” she says, waving a hand.
“Obsessed?” Dr. McMillan says, mirroring Quinn’s raised eyebrow. “Why do you call it an obsession?”
“Because it’s—“ Quinn takes a moment, searching for the right words. “It’s not like a crush or something, because I bullied her for two years over it, right? People don’t do that to girls they like. And now it’s like, her dads adopted my baby, so we’re kind of related, so it’s weird.”
“Okay, we both know that you are not related to Rachel in any way, legally, biologically, or emotionally,” Dr. McMillan says. “So I’m going to ignore that excuse. But the bullying—you didn’t come to terms with your sexuality until after you got pregnant, correct?” Quinn nods. “And you grew up in a home that was both incredibly emotionally repressive and homophobic. Expressing your feelings at all was something to be avoided, let alone expressing your feelings towards another girl. Isn’t it possible that those feelings manifested as bullying?”
“Yes,” Quinn says. “I’m not denying that how I used to treat Rachel was partly about my—my sexuality and being attracted to her, or even…interested in her. I’m saying, it’s not a crush, or any kind of legitimate romantic feeling, because if it was, I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her.” Dr. McMillan hums in that infuriatingly unexpressive way that she’s excellent at—making it clear that she’s thinking without letting Quinn guess what she’s thinking.
“What sort of names did you call Rachel, when you bullied her?” she asks. Quinn blinks.
“Why would I tell you—“
“Humor me.” Dr. McMillan raises that eyebrow at Quinn again, and Quinn sighs heavily.
“Man hands…was pretty common,” she says. “Treasure trail, um, stubbles, RuPaul—“
“Do you notice any kind of pattern with these insults?” Dr. McMillan interrupts. Quinn would normally get angry at being cut off, but she takes the out happily. She has no interest in reliving more of her worst moments.
“Pattern?” she asks.
“They’re all masculinizing,” Dr. McMillan says. “They all assign Rachel male characteristics. Would you describe Rachel as a masculine person?”
“Rachel?” Quinn says incredulously. “Absolutely not. She’s tiny, and wears dresses all the time, and has really nice hair—“
“So why call her a boy?”
“Easy,” Quinn says, “the only people Lima hates more than gay people are trans people.”
“Or,” Dr. McMillan says, “maybe you were attempting to legitimize your attraction to Rachel. If she were a boy, or at the very least, masculine, it wouldn’t be quite as shameful to find her appealing.” Quinn leans back in her chair, feeling vaguely sick to her stomach.
“Is it your job to make me realize I’m actually a way worse person than I thought I was?” she says. “Jesus. I bullied her so I could feel better about her stupid skirts turning me on?” Quinn stands up, unable to sit still anymore, and walks around behind her chair, where there’s a window looking over downtown Lima. “That’s…” Dr. McMillan doesn’t push her to finish the sentence, letting her collect herself at the window for a few moments.
I’m disgusting. I’m actually fucking disgusting, oh my God. Quinn doesn’t realize she’s spoken aloud until Dr. McMillan says her name quietly from behind her. Quinn turns.
“Can you tell me what the first thing you think of when you think of Rachel is?” Dr. McMillan asks.
“Sectionals,” Quinn says immediately. “The other teams stole our setlist and we had to improvise. Rachel sang Don’t Rain On My Parade, and it—“ Quinn shakes her head. She can’t describe that performance. She can’t even begin to try.
“Okay,” Dr. McMillan says. “And what’s your favorite thing about Rachel?” That takes Quinn a bit longer, but only a few moments.
“Her determination,” she says. “She just—she wants everything, and she is so, so determined to get it. Nothing gets in her way, she never gives up. It makes her so annoying sometimes, but at the end of the day, it’s going to get her out of Lima. It’s going to get her on Broadway, and it’s going to be unbelievably good.”
“And your least favorite thing?” That takes Quinn the longest. She thinks about it for a long moment, leaning over the back of her chair.
“She cares too much,” she says finally. “Everything is life and death for her. I don’t think she’s ever been detached from something in her life.”
“Why don’t you like that?” Dr. McMillan asks, sounding more personally curious than professionally interested. Quinn has gotten good at telling the difference over the past month and a half. “Aren’t empathy and passion attractive qualities?”
“Well, yeah, but…” Quinn shakes her head. “It keeps getting her hurt. If she learned to not care, she’d be a lot happier.” Dr. McMillan does not look like she agrees with that assessment, but she doesn’t argue the point.
“So, Quinn,” she says instead. “It’s my impression that you think you have some kind of perverted, unhealthy obsession with Rachel. Would you say that’s accurate?” Quinn looks down at the chair in front of her, feeling shame hot on her face. She nods. “And yet, your first thought of Rachel is one of her doing what she loves, your favorite quality of hers is one that I’m willing to bet she's also extremely proud of, and you only dislike your least favorite quality of hers because you don’t like to watch her get hurt. Is that also accurate?” Quinn really, really doesn’t like where this is going. Dr. McMillan sets down the pen and paper she brings to each of their sessions and looks Quinn in the eye, smiling slightly.
“What part of that sounds unhealthy? No, what part of that doesn’t sound like perfectly healthy, and honestly, kind of sweet, love? Even though the way you displayed it was terrible, and toxic for you both, what’s wrong with just the way you feel about Rachel?”
“I don’t deserve her,” Quinn says after a long moment, tears in her eyes. “I never will.” Dr. McMillan gives her a sympathetic look.
“Maybe we should save the deep-seated self-worth issues for our next session,” she says. Quinn laughs.
“Yeah,” she mutters, wiping at her eyes. “Yeah. Um, thanks.” Dr. McMillan nods, and Quinn flees the office, as fast as she possibly can.
Finn and Rachel end up going bowling. It’s…not not fun, but the bowling alley smells like fake cheese and cigarette smoke, permanently ingrained in the floor from before they stopped letting people smoke in the building, and Rachel can’t stop thinking about the fact that she’s wearing someone else’s shoes. She feels kind of like Ms. Pillsbury, obsessed with germs, but she does not trust that the bored teenager behind the counter who rented her the shoes made any attempt to clean them between uses, and it’s gross. Rachel can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when they step out of the building and back into fresh air. Finn doesn’t seem to notice, and it irks Rachel, just a bit. He’s so unobservant sometimes.
“You wanna go to Breadstix?” Finn asks as they climb into his car. The slight irritation Rachel is feeling grows.
“I’d rather not,” she says. “Their only ‘vegan’ option is a salad that you have to pick the cheese off of yourself.” Finn blinks.
“Uh, right,” he says. “Well, is there somewhere else you wanna go?” Rachel considers it for a moment.
“We could just go to your house?” she says. She knows that Kurt tends to keep a decent selection of vegetables around the house—Finn and his mother had moved back in with the Hummels around the beginning of the summer—and she can throw together a far better salad than Breadstix, even if her culinary skills end just about there.
“Sure,” Finn says, grinning at her as he starts the car. They drive back to his house in relatively comfortable silence, Rachel humming along to the radio and Finn shooting her adoring looks at stoplights. It makes her a little bit uncomfortable, actually. Like she’s performing for him, when she really isn’t. She’s just enjoying the music, not trying to show off. She ignores the sensation, though, and tries to enjoy the attention. The boy she’s been after for months is smiling at her; she should be happy.
(She’s not unhappy, at least.)
“Kurt’s at Mercedes’ place,” Finn says as they head into the house. “And my mom is out with his dad tonight.” Rachel hums in acknowledgement, heading for the kitchen and the food that awaits her. Finn catches up to her, slipping his hand into hers as they step into the kitchen. He uses the contact to tug her around, and she goes with motion at first, smiling curiously, until he spins her into him and pulls her into a kiss.
“Oh.” Rachel pulls back, blinking in surprise. Finn pauses, blinking at her.
“Was that…not okay?” he says.
“It was…unexpected,” Rachel says, carefully not answering the question.
“Oh.” Finn frowns. “I figured, when you said you wanted to go to my place, you meant, like, coming over to make out.”
“Ah…not exactly,” Rachel says, wincing. “I really am hungry.” Finn shrugs and drops her hand.
“I could eat first, too,” he says, and Rachel sighs.
The kiss, if nothing else about the day, had confirmed it for her. She doesn’t want Finn, not the way that he wants her. She’d had a decent time hanging out with him that afternoon, and really, she’d like to be friends with him, but she doesn’t want to be with him.
(She wants to be with Quinn.)
“I…I don’t really want to make out at all, actually,” Rachel says, biting the bullet. Finn blinks at her. “I think we should just be friends, Finn.”
“But you like me,” Finn says, shaking his head. “You spent all of last year trying to break up me and Quinn. And now—what, you just don’t like me anymore?”
“I do like you,” Rachel says. “Just…not like that. You’re very sweet, Finn, and I want to be friends with you, but I—I don’t want to date you, and I don’t want to lead you on. So…”
“I don’t get it,” Finn says. “What’d I do wrong? I took you out all the time, and listened whenever you talked about Broadway even though it’s kind of boring, and didn’t even get annoyed when you wouldn’t let me touch your boobs—“
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rachel interrupts. Finn sounds hurt, and it’s upsetting Rachel, too. “You didn’t. It’s just—there’s someone else.”
“You’re cheating on me?” Finn asks, and Rachel does a double take.
“No,” she says. “I mean, we’re not dating, at least not exclusively, so that wouldn’t even be possible, but regardless, I haven’t done anything. There’s just…someone else that I have feelings for. Strong feelings.”
“Stronger than your feelings for me,” Finn says. Rachel bites her lip anxiously, but nods. Finn glares at the tile floor for a moment. “I think you should go,” he says eventually.
“Finn—“
“No,” Finn says. “No, you need to leave.” Reluctantly, Rachel nods and leaves the kitchen, heading for the front door. Finn doesn’t follow her as she slips her shoes back on and leaves. It’s as she’s stepping out the door that she hears a crashing noise and an angry shout from the kitchen, and she winces, hoping that, whatever damage Finn is doing, he’s not doing damage to himself.
It’s not a long walk back to her house from Finn’s, but Rachel doesn’t want to walk all the same. She pulls her phone out, intending to dial—
Quinn, the screen proclaims as the phone buzzes in her hand with an incoming call. Rachel picks up.
“Quinn,” she says. “Just who I was intending to call! Would you perhaps be able to come pick me up? I’m—well, it’s rather complicated, actually, but I’m walking right now and would rather not walk the entire way home.”
“Rachel,” Quinn says, and though her tone contains a note of amusement, Rachel immediately picks up on everything else in it: exhaustion, mostly, along with pain and resignation.
“Are you alright?” Rachel asks. “You sound—“
“I’m fine,” Quinn interrupts. “Look—where are you? I’ll come pick you up.” Rachel glances up, noting the street signs on the nearest corner, and gives the address to Quinn. Quinn hangs up without another word, and Rachel pulls the phone away from her ear, frowning at it before she puts it away. It’s not like Quinn to be so abrupt with her—at least not recently.
She doesn’t have long to ponder it. Quinn comes rolling up beside her in her car only minutes after she hangs up the phone, and Rachel slips into the passenger seat, realizing as she does so that she’s somehow never been in Quinn’s car before. It’s small—cute, almost—and the inside smells like vanilla: not the fake, overbearing vanilla of an air freshener, but like Quinn actually baked cookies in here or something.
Of course even her car smells good.
“Hello,” Rachel says, smiling at Quinn over the center console, although she’s well aware it lacks her usual enthusiasm. Quinn offers her a similarly drained smile.
“Hi,” Quinn says quietly as she pulls away from the curb. “Can we go to your place?”
“Sure.” Rachel examines the side of Quinn’s face, noting the redness in her eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay, Quinn?” Quinn exhales shakily, not taking her eyes off the road.
“I had, um,” she licks her lips, “a really tough session with my therapist.”
“Oh.” Rachel isn’t entirely sure how to have a conversation about that. She’s been in therapy since eighth grade herself, to help her cope with the bullying, but she’s never really told anyone about it, or even had anyone to tell other than her fathers, who have never asked her for details about her sessions. “I’m sorry.”
“No, not—“ Quinn makes a frustrated noise. “Not like, bad. Just…hard.” She pulls onto Rachel’s street. “We talked about the way I used to treat you and…people like you. And the reasons for it.” Rachel doesn’t say anything, and Quinn doesn’t elaborate. They pull into Rachel’s driveway, and Rachel takes her seatbelt off, but she hesitates before she opens the car door. Quinn isn’t moving, one hand on the steering wheel, one still holding the key where she had turned the car off.
“It’s just all so screwed up, Rach,” Quinn says after a moment. “And knowing why I did it, it just gets more complicated. Not better, just more complicated, and—my life is complicated enough, right?” She doesn’t seem to want an answer. Instead, Rachel just reaches across the car and wraps her hand around Quinn’s where it holds her car keys. “Whatever,” Quinn says, shaking her head. “Let’s just go inside.” Reluctantly, Rachel releases Quinn’s hand, and they both climb out of the car.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Rachel says to Quinn as they take off their shoes in the entryway. “Whatever’s making things so…complicated. You can tell me.” Quinn says nothing, not even turning to look at Rachel. Rachel sighs heavily, but doesn’t push. There’s a tension in Quinn’s shoulders that hasn’t been there since her head Cheerio days, and it makes Rachel a bit nervous, puts her on her guard enough that she doesn’t want to ask about it.
“Can I go see Ellie?” Quinn says quietly as they make their way into the house. Rachel blinks at her.
“You don’t have to ask permission,” she says. “You know that.” It had been one of the rules her dads had agreed on with Quinn: she can see her daughter at the house whenever she wants to, but she has to ask permission to take Ellie anywhere else, amongst other things. Quinn shrugs, still not looking at Rachel, and they head into the house. Rachel trails behind her, watching Quinn’s much-shorter hair float around her neck. The way Quinn is moving, with that mysterious weight back on her shoulders, makes Rachel’s chest ache in a way she doesn’t fully understand.
She doesn’t have time to analyze it, though, because they turn the corner into Ellie’s nursery, and Puck is standing there with Hiram, cradling Ellie in his arms. Quinn stops in her tracks at the sight, and Rachel nearly walks into her. Puck turns to look at them, and his face splits into a grin at the sight of Quinn.
“Hey, baby mama,” he says. “Rach.” Rachel nods at him in greeting, more concerned with the way Quinn is trembling ever so slightly. He bounces Ellie lightly in his arms, looking down at her with that giant grin still on his face. “Look at her,” he says, only partially to the two of them. “Isn’t she pretty?” No one responds to him for a long moment.
“Yeah,” Quinn says eventually. “Pretty.” Rachel, unable to stop herself, slips her hand into Quinn’s, twining their fingers together and squeezing tightly. Quinn doesn’t return the pressure, but she doesn’t pull away, either. “I’ll come back later,” Quinn says finally, still watching Puck with their daughter.
“Why?” Puck says, glancing up at her with a frown. “She’s not crying or anything, now’s the best time to hang out with her.”
“I’ll come back,” Quinn says again, pulling her hand out of Rachel’s and walking quickly out of the room. Puck looks at Rachel, visibly confused.
“Is she okay?” Hiram asks. Rachel frowns.
“I…” She shrugs. “I’ll go find out.” She glances at Puck again, who is already back to staring at Ellie, completely absorbed in her. It’s sweet, and Rachel leaves the room with a smile.
She finds Quinn in her room, sitting on Rachel’s bed.
“Hey,” Rachel says, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you alright?” Quinn looks up at her and smiles wanly, but the expression crumbles quickly.
“He loves her,” Quinn says quietly, letting her gaze drop back down to her lap. Rachel steps forward and sits next to her, leaving some space between them. For a moment, she has a vicious bout of deja vu—flashing back to a moment that fall, after the secret of Ellie’s parentage had come out, when Rachel had followed Quinn down the hallway and sat a few feet away from her, looking for forgiveness. The distance between them then had been a barrier, a fence: something there to keep Rachel safe, keep Quinn from hurting her.
Now, Rachel leaves distance between them because she’s worried that if she gets too close, she’ll fall right into Quinn. It’s still a matter of self-preservation, but Rachel is risking so much more.
“He does,” Rachel says, confused. “Why would that bother you?” Quinn exhales, long and slow, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.
“Because I don’t,” she says. “I don’t love her, Rachel. I hold her, I hold my own daughter, and I don’t feel anything.” Rachel throws caution to the wind. She slides over on the bed, putting her arm around Quinn’s shoulders and pulling her into a hug. Quinn stiffens in her arms, but Rachel doesn’t let go.
“Quinn,” she says, and Quinn bolts to her feet, pushing out of Rachel’s arms.
“What are you doing?” Quinn asks, her voice half-panicked. “Why are you touching me?”
“I—“ Rachel frowns at her. “You’re upset. I was just—“
“No, I mean—“ Quinn makes a frustrated noise. “Do you even listen to me when I talk?”
“What?”
“First you—you try to convince me that it’s okay, the way I used to treat you,” Quinn says. “And now I tell you that I don’t love my daughter and you just—you just fucking hug me, like it doesn’t even matter!”
“It matters,” Rachel says. “It’s upsetting you. Of course it matters.” Quinn shakes her head.
“You don’t get it,” she says. “Why don’t you get it, Rachel? I’m a terrible person, okay? You said it yourself. When I was on the Cheerios I was terrible, and I haven’t changed. I’m vindictive and angry and sinful and cruel and—and—“ She’s hyperventilating now, almost wheezing, and Rachel gets up, stepping towards her, not knowing what else to do. Quinn holds a hand up, though, and Rachel stops. Slowly, Quinn regains control of her breathing, though her shoulders are still trembling slightly. “I can’t even love my daughter, Rachel,” Quinn says finally. “I don’t think I’m capable of love at all.”
“Quinn.” Rachel reaches out, pulling Quinn’s hand into her own, and Quinn allows the contact. Rachel can feel Quinn trembling through her fingertips. “I don’t believe that.” Quinn starts to protest, but Rachel shakes her head, talking over her. “Listen, how you feel about Ellie…have you heard of post partum depression?” Quinn blinks at her, shaking her head slightly. “It happens to a lot of women after they give birth. Depression, anxiety, insomnia, exhaustion. Problems bonding with your baby.” Something flashes in Quinn’s eyes. “It also tends to run in families, so you may want to ask your mother if she experienced anything like this—“
“You’re saying,” Quinn interrupts, “you’re saying there’s—nothing wrong with me? This is normal?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Rachel says, nodding firmly. “It’s not normal exactly, it doesn’t happen to everyone, but you’re far from the first. And you’re not alone.” Quinn holds her hand a little bit more tightly.
“You’re really not going anywhere?” she asks. It’s…half joking, half something else that makes Rachel’s chest hurt.
“I’m staying right here,” Rachel says, “with you.” As she says it, she realizes that it’s true.
She’ll stand here with Quinn until the sun explodes, if Quinn asks her to.
“So,” Kurt says as Rachel settles onto his couch beside him, vegan ice cream and spoon at the ready. “What was so serious that it required an emergency ice-cream-and-venting session?” Rachel points her spoon at him.
“You can’t tell anyone about any of this,” she says firmly. Kurt rolls his eyes and begins to respond snarkily, but Rachel talks over him. “I’m being serious, Kurt. You could destroy lives with what I’m about to tell you, and I trust you, but I don’t know if I trust you that much.” Kurt looks at her for a moment, frowning.
“You’re being serious,” he says. Rachel nods. “Okay, then,” he says. “Consider this the couch of secrets. What is said will not leave this room.”
“I ended things with Finn,” Rachel says, continuing when Kurt begins to speak up, “but that’s not the thing. I broke up with him because I have feelings for someone else.”
“Okay,” Kurt says, clearly unimpressed with the caliber of gossip thus far.
“It’s—since the adoption, Quinn has been coming around a lot,” she says. “And—I don’t know. I’ve always felt connected to her, I suppose, but I never gave it much thought—or avoided thinking about it, I suppose. But now we’re friends, and…I’m realizing that it’s sort of your fault, since it was her haircut that made me figure it out, oddly enough. And now it’s just constant. I—“
“Hold on,” Kurt says, raising a hand. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have spell this out for me. Are you seriously telling me right now that you have feelings for Quinn Fabray?” Rachel stares down at her untouched ice cream.
“I—I think I may be falling in love with her,” she says. Kurt is quiet for a long moment.
“I didn’t take you for a masochist,” he says eventually, and that sets something off in Rachel. She starts laughing, and then crying. Kurt slides over on the couch, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
“I think I would have to be enjoying it, to be a masochist,” she says, voice shaking. “I just—she’s so beautiful, Kurt, and—she likes poetry, did you know that? She likes poetry, and bad horror movies, and she’s funny, and—“ Kurt shushes her gently, pulling her further into his shoulder. Rachel doesn’t protest, curling up against him and trying to slow her breathing down.
“I didn’t even know you were gay,” he says eventually, when Rachel is no longer actively crying.
“I don’t know what I am,” she says. “I think I’m just obsessive. And right now it’s all Quinn, all the time, up here.” She taps the side of her head.
“You couldn’t have picked any other girl from Glee club to have your gay panic about?” Kurt says, teasing. He’s bringing levity to the moment, levity that Rachel desperately needs. She needs this to be funny, light, something other than a death sentence. “You couldn’t have picked, like…I don’t know, Tina? Anyone other than the mother of your baby sister.” Rachel half-laughs.
“I think that’s a small obstacle in comparison to Quinn’s religious convictions and overwhelming heterosexuality,” she points out.
“I mean, she did give her baby to a gay couple,” Kurt says thoughtfully. “She can’t be homophobic.”
“There’s a difference between making a good choice for your child’s future and finding out that the girl whose bed you sleep in on a regular basis has big gay feelings for you,” Rachel says.
“She sleeps in your bed?”
“We—“ Rachel sighs. “She likes being held, okay? I’m not about to say no.” Kurt gets this smirk on his face.
“She likes being held,” he repeats. “Are you telling me that Quinn Fabray likes being the little spoon?” Rachel shoves at his chest as he starts laughing.
“Shut up,” she mumbles. “Shut up, this is serious.” Kurt settles down and holds her a little bit tighter.
“I know it is, Rach,” he says. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel leans into his shoulder. “There’s not much I can do, I suppose. Like you said, it’s a bit masochistic, isn’t it?” Kurt hums.
“You couldn’t have picked up a safer hobby than crushing on Quinn Fabray?” he says. “Say, base jumping or skydiving or—“
“Shush.” Rachel finally starts in on her ice cream, which is half-melted by this point.
“It’s going to be okay,” Kurt says after awhile. “I got over my crush on Finn, right? You can get over this.” Rachel makes a noncommittal noise and takes another bite of her ice cream.
Kurt sounds sure, but Rachel can’t quite believe him.
“Rachel may be right,” Dr. McMillan says, her steady gaze trained on Quinn.
“It could be this…post-partum thing?” Quinn asks, clearing her throat against the desperate note trying to work its way into her voice. Dr. McMillan sighs, setting her notepad down for a moment.
“It could be,” she says. “Although I think it might be more complicated than that.” Quinn blinks at her. “Going off your descriptions of your mental state before you were pregnant, and of your childhood, I think it’s safe to say that you’ve had underlying mental health issues for quite awhile.” Quinn nods in agreement. “So, I have two guesses: first, you developed post-partum depression after Ellie’s birth, and since it’s gone untreated, it’s become chronic.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Quinn says. Dr. McMillan nods.
“Secondly, and I’m tempted to lean towards this theory,” she says, “you’ve had some sort of mental illness for a lot of your life, and the stress of your pregnancy, Ellie’s birth, and the subsequent adoption has brought it to the surface, where it’s manifested as an inability to bond with your daughter, among other things.”
“Okay,” Quinn says. She likes the second theory less, but she doesn’t show it. “I mean, it could be either, right? Does it make a difference which one is true?” Dr. McMillan shrugs.
“Not particularly,” she says. “Either way, my recommendations for treatment are the same.”
“And what are they?” Quinn asks.
“Continued therapy,” Dr. McMillan says. “Increasing the frequency of our appointments, and focusing more on your depression and issues surrounding Ellie. And, if it’s necessary, some kind of medication.”
“Medication,” Quinn repeats. “What kind of medication are we talking about here?” In her head, she can’t help but imagine some kind of…mental hospital scenario: little green pills in a plastic cup that leave her sedated, sluggish and empty. She knows that the thought probably isn’t accurate—therapy certainly hasn’t been what she imagined it to be—but she can’t help it. She was raised a certain way, a way which certainly did not allow for medication for mental illnesses.
“It depends,” Dr. McMillan says. “It would probably take a few tries to find a medication and dosage that works for you, but antidepressants could help stop your mood swings, regulate your sleeping patterns, maybe even bond with Ellie.” Quinn nods, a lump in her throat.
“Can that—I want that to be a last resort,” she says. “I don’t want medication unless I have to have it.” Dr. McMillan nods.
“Of course,” she says. “But I also don’t want you to be afraid of that possibility, okay, Quinn? Medication is a big thing, but there’s no shame in it, and it won’t change who you are.”
“What if I want to change?” Quinn half-whispers. Dr. McMillan smiles at her.
“Then it will take a lot of hard work on your part,” she says. “And if you’re successful, then it will be because you put the work in, not because of me, or because of any pill.”
“Alright.” Quinn shifts in her chair. “Let’s put together a schedule for my sessions.”