Chapter Text
Rachel isn’t exactly unused to the sound of girls crying in bathroom stalls. Mckinley High School is not friendly to anybody, and besides, this particular bathroom is a favorite for the particular quarter of the student body that spends a lot of time crying in stalls. There’s even a few chairs stacked in the corner, to sit in while washing the slushie out of one’s hair.
Rachel doesn’t usually make a habit of talking to the girls crying in the bathroom. It’s not as if she can do anything for them. Besides, she learned after her first few tries back in freshman year that, as empathetic as she is, she’s not particularly good at being comforting. She’s not good at much of anything when it comes to other people, really. She can feel everyone’s pain, but she only ever seems to be able to make it worse.
But—something is different, this time. The crying is muffled, muted. Something about it is nagging at Rachel, and she hesitates, looking at the stall door. Nothing seems all that unusual. Just as she starts to move on, dismissing her strange feeling, it swings open.
“Quinn?” Rachel’s eyes widen. Quinn freezes at the sound of her name, one foot out of the stall. She meets Rachel’s eyes, her jaw clenched.
“Berry,” she says neutrally. Her voice is calm, cold, but the evidence of her emotion is all over her face. The light mascara she’s taken to wearing since she got kicked off the Cheerios (she hadn’t worn a lot of makeup in her cheerleading days, but certainly more than this, and Rachel is decisively refusing to think about how makeup-less Quinn makes her feel) is smeared, and her eyes are red.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asks. She tries to make her voice soft. Comforting. Quinn looks—fragile, in a way that Rachel has never seen her before.
Quinn snorts. “I’m fine,” she says. The words come out sarcastic and grating. She goes to the sink and wets a paper towel, dabbing at her eyes.
“Quinn,” Rachel says again, but fails to follow it with anything. Quinn pauses in her cleaning and meets Rachel’s gaze in the mirror. They look at each other for a long moment. It has the strange..charge that Rachel has noticed between them occasionally. It appears when they’re fighting, sometimes, and it had been there when Quinn forgave her for telling Finn that Puck is the father of the baby currently nearly-formed inside of Quinn—maybe one of their heaviest interactions. It’s a sort of electricity that springs up between them, and Rachel doesn’t know what to make of it.
Right now, she just knows that Quinn looks tired. More than tired. Hollow.
“I want to keep her,” Quinn says, snapping them both out of whatever trance they’ve been in.
“What?” Rachel says. It comes out a bit abrasively, and she winces, but Quinn doesn’t seem to notice her tone.
“The baby.” Quinn turns around, leaning against the sink, and meets Rachel’s eyes in real life, instead of through the mirror. “I—I don’t want to—to give her up.” She shrugs. “I never have.”
“Oh,” Rachel says. “Oh. Quinn…”
“I have to, I just—“ Quinn shakes her head, and Rachel can see fresh tears forming in her eyes. “She needs to have a life. A good life. With—with parents who love her and can afford to feed her and—they need to be good people.” There’s an urgency to the way she says the last words. “They need to be good.”
“I think you’d be a good mother,” Rachel says. It’s the wrong thing to say. Quinn closes off. Rachel watches as it happens, as that familiar mask locks back down over Quinn’s features. Without a word, Quinn goes back to fixing her makeup. Rachel watches, a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She just wants to make things better, but she’s upset Quinn all over again. Quinn pulls a bottle of eye drops out of her pocket, and Rachel suddenly realizes that this is habit for her. She’s used to this.
Apparently, Quinn Fabray has spent a significant amount of time crying in the bathroom, and Rachel isn’t sure what to do with that information.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Quinn says as she turns to leave the bathroom. “Me being upset or…what I said.” The mask is still in place, and Quinn isn’t looking at Rachel, but the request sounds genuine, if not desperate, and Rachel can’t refuse.
“I won’t,” Rachel says, and for once, her words come out soft without her trying at all. Quinn nods once, still not looking at her.
“Thanks, Rachel,” she says, before pushing her way out of the bathroom and back into the loud, busy hallway.
Quinn had called her by her first name. Quinn had thanked her. Rachel doesn’t understand the way it makes her chest tighten.
“I have an idea,” Rachel says. Her fathers both glance at her from their places in the kitchen.
“An idea?” Hiram says, looking back down at the vegetables he’s chopping. Rachel nods.
“An idea for Quinn’s baby,” she says, and this time, she gets both of their full attention.
“An idea for…” Leroy frowns at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I think we should adopt her,” Rachel says, and it’s probably good that Hiram has put his knife down, because the words make him jerk in surprise.
“You—what?” Leroy asks, stepping away from the stove. “Rachel—“
“Hear me out,” Rachel interrupts. She had prepared a PowerPoint for this argument, actually, but had decided at the last minute that it would be better if she just asked. If the request came straight from the heart, without the visual aid of multiple graphs explaining that they could afford another child. Hiram and Leroy exchange utterly speechless glances before turning to Rachel, waiting for her to explain herself.
“Quinn doesn’t want to give her up,” Rachel says. “The baby, I mean. She wants to keep her, but she doesn’t feel like she can, given her current state of transience, and lack of financial means to support a child. She wants to give her daughter a good life. But she also doesn’t want to lose her entirely.”
“Okay,” Leroy says. “Quinn can do that without—there will be plenty of couples willing to have an open adoption for a healthy baby. She can stay in her daughter’s life. She doesn’t need us.”
“Maybe not,” Rachel says. “But she already knows you, or knows of you. Besides, the nearest couple willing to have such an arrangement might be quite some distance away. If we took her, Quinn would be guaranteed everything she’s looking for. The baby would have financial security, a comfortable home, and excellent parents.” She smiles at them, because as much as Rachel has occasionally—longed for a mother, her fathers have been good to her. Beyond good. “And Quinn would be guaranteed a relationship with her. It’s the ideal compromise.”
“For Quinn, maybe,” Hiram says. “Rachel, we’ve never wanted another child.”
“Haven’t you?” Rachel asks. “Or have you just never thought you could have one?” Both her fathers stare at her. “Adoption is—complicated, and expensive. Especially so for a gay couple. And it was a miracle you found a willing surrogate for me in the first place. So, do you not want another child, or has it simply not crossed your minds as an option?” Her fathers turn to look at one another.
“It’s not like the guest room gets much use,” Leroy says quietly. “We still have most of Rachel’s baby things. It wouldn’t be hard to make it into a nursery.” Rachel feels a quiet burst of victory fill her chest, but she pushes it down.
“Lee…” Hiram looks torn.
“Is that a yes?” Rachel interjects, unable to hold it back.
“It’s a probably not,” Leroy says. “It’s—we can’t just decide on this, sweetheart. You have to understand, even if we agreed, Quinn wouldn’t—of course we would let her come see the baby, but she wouldn’t be her parent. We’d be her parents. Quinn would be…” There isn’t really a word for a mother who isn’t a mother, but Rachel understands what he’s trying to say.
“I know,” Rachel says. “And I can explain that to her. Just—please, tell me you’ll think about it.” Hiram and Leroy exchange another look.
“We’ll think about it, Rachel,” Hiram says. “But that’s all we can promise you.”
“That’s all I’m asking for,” Rachel says, and it’s only mostly a lie.
“What do you want?” Quinn says the moment she enters the auditorium. It’s empty this late after school, after all of the clubs—including Glee—have already been dismissed. Rachel is sitting on the edge of the stage, her heart pounding in her throat.
(Inconveniently, Rachel’s mind picks this moment to notice how beautiful Quinn is. She wears her hair down these days, and it does something to Rachel—it’s so different from the tight ponytail Quinn had worn with her Cheerios uniform. It’s flowing, and soft, and—it sort of makes Rachel want to hyperventilate, sometimes, at just how beautiful Quinn really is.)
“I have a proposition for you,” Rachel says as Quinn approaches the stage. Quinn raises an eyebrow, and that also does something to Rachel, though she ignores it.
“A proposition,” Quinn echoes. “I don’t swing that way.” It’s said without the bite that used to accompany comments like that from Quinn, and it almost makes Rachel smile. It sounds like teasing. Dry, sarcastic teasing, but teasing. Not anger.
“Be serious, please, Quinn,” Rachel says. “It’s about…Beth?” Puck had sung that song in Glee a few days ago, and while he hadn’t said anything about it, it was pretty obvious to Rachel what he meant by it. Quinn’s hand goes to her stomach, and she looks away.
“I haven’t decided if I’m staying with that yet,” she says. “Or if I’m…going to name her at all.”
“You should,” Rachel says. Quinn looks back at her, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Yeah?” she asks, and Rachel breathes an internal sigh of relief upon seeing that the mask is still gone. Quinn’s voice is curious, not defensive.
“Yes.” Rachel takes a deep breath. She stays where she is on the edge of the stage. She thinks she might need the high ground; what she’s about to say could make Quinn…upset. “Because I…I think I’ve found away for you to…sort of keep her.”
“What?” Quinn asks. Rachel shrugs, half-smiling, waiting for Quinn to ask her to explain herself.
Quinn doesn’t.
“I told you not to tell anybody,” Quinn says, clenching her jaw. Rachel’s heart drops. “I told you—“
“Quinn.” Rachel hops off the stage, walking quickly towards Quinn. Quinn takes a few steps back, and Rachel realizes suddenly that Quinn is afraid. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Quinn afraid before, and the sight makes her stop in her tracks.
“Quinn, please listen,” Rachel says. “I just want to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help, Berry!” Quinn snaps. Rachel flinches automatically. It’s just her last name, not an insult, but it’s that tone. It’s the same one that Quinn has used to call her man hands, and RuPaul, and treasure trail, and—
“Please,” Rachel says again. “Don’t shut me out. Not yet. Let me explain first.” Quinn closes her eyes, a muscle twitching in her jaw.
“Fine,” she says, and it’s still tense, but it’s not soulless evil cheerleader Quinn. Not yet.
“I told my dads about what you said,” Rachel begins. “So you don’t have to worry about anyone here finding out. Noah or..whoever.” Quinn nods. “I told them because I—I wanted them to adopt your baby.” That forces the last remnants of the cold mask off of Quinn’s face, replaced by sheer shock.
“…What?” she asks.
“Hear me out,” Rachel insists, even though Quinn is making no attempts to leave. “You already know that they can provide her with a good, safe home, and money, and everything else that you mentioned before. And they’d be willing to make it an open adoption, Quinn. You could see her whenever you wanted. So could Noah.” She tacks on the last sentence as an afterthought, because as much as this plan will be good for him, too—Rachel has noticed the longing look in his eyes whenever he talks about Quinn or the baby—Rachel has really only planned it while thinking of Quinn.
“I could see her?” Quinn is half-whispering, and Rachel can’t help but take another step towards her. This time, Quinn doesn’t back away.
“You could see her,” Rachel confirms. “You—you need to understand, though, Quinn, she would still be my fathers’ daughter. Not just legally. If they’re going to agree to this, they’re going to be her parents.”
“But I could see her,” Quinn says again. “I could hold her, and talk to her, and—and—“ She stops there. She isn’t really looking at Rachel anymore; her eyes are a bit glassy. Rachel reaches out and takes Quinn’s hand.
“You could do all of that,” she says. “You won’t be her parent, but you could still be her mother.” Quinn nods slowly, her gaze sharpening once more.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I’ll do it.” Rachel blinks. She hadn’t really expected it to be that easy to convince Quinn.
“You’re sure?” Rachel says. “It took my dads three weeks to agree to it.”
“I’m sure.” Quinn squeezes Rachel’s hand. “It means I’ll get to see her, and it means she’ll be safe. I trust your dads. I have a great example of their parenting right here, after all.” Rachel flushes slightly, looking away.
“I suppose,” she mutters. “Though I can be selfish, and abrasive, and shortsighted, and—“
“You’re talented,” Quinn interrupts. “So, unbelievably talented, Rachel. And yeah, you can be all of those things, but it’s usually because you know exactly what you want, and people don’t listen to you unless you demand it. You’re brave, and strong, and a good leader when you try, and you don’t let anybody get in the way of your dreams.” She lifts one shoulder. “If my daughter turns out like you, I think I’ll be proud.”
It’s easily the nicest thing Quinn has ever said to Rachel, and she’s speechless yet again. Quinn has an uncanny way of doing this to her, seemingly without even intending to.
“Thank you,” Quinn says quietly. She squeezes Rachel’s hand again before she lets go. “I’m going to go tell Puck. I’ll see you around, Rachel.” She hesitates for a moment, half turning towards the exit and half leaning back towards Rachel. Finally, she darts forward, wrapping her arms around Rachel, and Rachel is too stunned to return the hug. Quinn seems to understand, though, because when she pulls back, she’s smiling, and there are tears in her eyes once more.
“Thank you,” she says again, and walks away.
Elizabeth Berry is born only a few hours after New Directions performs (and loses) at Regionals. None of the Glee club members know what to expect when they stand up onstage during the judging, because every single one of them was in the waiting room of the hospital as the baby was born—except, of course, Puck, Mercedes, and Rachel, who were in the room with Quinn.
(Rachel is pretty sure she’s going to have a hand-shaped bruise on her arm where Quinn was squeezing it for a week.)
They compromise on the name. Hiram and Leroy decide to call her Ellie instead of Beth, because Beth Berry is a ridiculous name to saddle a child with (Hiram’s words, not Rachel’s), and Quinn agrees, but she also wants to use Puck’s name for their daughter, even if she’s not really theirs. So Ellie Berry it is, and Quinn is the first one to hold her when she’s born, kissing her forehead before she’s handed off to her new fathers.
Quinn decides to move back in with her mother, who shows up at the hospital with the desperate promise of a fresh start. Rachel watches them interact with a distinct discomfort in the pit of her stomach, but she says nothing. Quinn looks…relieved at the prospect of going home again. She’s looked so tired for the past few months, and Rachel—Rachel just wants her to be able to rest again.
If going home with Judy will give her that, then Rachel will keep her opinions to herself.
“She’s so small,” Quinn murmurs. This is not the first time she’s observed this in the few hours since they brought Ellie home from the hospital to the Berry house. She seems fascinated with just how minuscule a baby really is, staring at Ellie’s tiny fingernails as she drinks from a bottle.
(Quinn had looked so thoroughly disgusted when Rachel had asked her if she intended to breastfeed a few weeks before Ellie was born that Rachel had begun researching formulas almost immediately. And, though they haven’t said anything, Rachel is fairly sure her fathers are more comfortable with this option, as well.)
“She is,” Rachel says, smiling. “She’s also asleep, I think.” Ellie has been a remarkably quiet baby so far, and Rachel is desperately hoping that will continue.
“Yeah.” Quinn looks up at Rachel. “Can I—can I stay here tonight?” Rachel hesitates, glancing into the kitchen where her fathers are. “I’m not trying to overstep my bounds,” Quinn says, seemingly reading Rachel’s concern. “I just—I would feel better. Being close to her.”
“Okay,” Rachel says. “I’m sure they’ll be okay with that if I ask.” A thought occurs to her suddenly. “But, you’ll have to stay with me, since the guest room is…” She makes a vague gesture. The guest room has been repainted a light baby blue (Quinn had virulently refused to go for pink when Rachel’s fathers had asked her; Ellie will not be raised under gender stereotypes, apparently) and the bed has been replaced with a a crib.
“That’s okay,” Quinn says, her gaze drifting back down to Ellie in her arms. “I share a bed with Brittany and Santana all the time, and they’re—a lot more restless than you probably are.” Rachel hadn’t actually intended for Quinn to share her bed—she was going to volunteer to take the couch—but now that Quinn has suggested it, she isn’t about to say no.
(Rachel stubbornly refuses to consider what her sudden desire to share a bed with Quinn might mean.)
“I’ll go ask,” Rachel says, standing from the couch and heading into the kitchen. Leroy and Hiram are seated on barstools at the long counter, each with a glass of wine, talking quietly. They fall silent at Rachel’s entrance. “Can Quinn stay here tonight?” At her fathers’ uneasy looks, she continues. “She isn’t trying to—to claim your daughter or something, she just wants to be close to Ellie. She did give birth a day and a half ago, after all.”
“Okay,” Leroy says. “She can stay. But, Rachel…at some point, we’re going to have to set some boundaries with her.”
“I know.” Rachel smiles at them. “Thank you.”
“Well,” Hiram says, setting down his wine. “It’s past Ellie’s bedtime, I think.” He and Leroy stand, and move to leave the kitchen. Rachel stops them by throwing her arms around them both.
“I’m serious,” she says, her voice muffled against Leroy’s chest. “Thank you.” Her fathers hold her tight for a moment before letting go, and they move as one into the living room.
Quinn is asleep. Her head is tipped back against the back of the couch, her eyes closed and mouth slightly open. She’s holding Ellie in her lap, and Ellie is sleeping, too, curled up against her mother.
Rachel finds the whole tableau just a little bit unbearably cute.
“Past Quinn’s bedtime, too, apparently,” she mutters, although neither of her fathers responds. Leroy steps forward, crouching down in front of the couch. He reaches out for Ellie, easing a hand under her head and gently lifting her out of Quinn’s arms. Quinn shifts in her sleep, her fingers curling where they’d been holding onto Ellie, but she doesn’t wake up.
Hiram takes Ellie and leaves the room, Leroy trailing close behind him. Rachel turns to Quinn’s sleeping form, watching her for a moment. Quinn looks pretty in her sleep, which is monumentally unfair, in Rachel’s opinion. Like she wasn’t already pretty enough awake.
Rachel doesn’t spend too long looking. She feels sort of creepy doing so, after all. Instead, she sits down beside Quinn and sets a hand on her shoulder.
“Quinn,” she says, shaking her slightly. “Wake up.” Quinn doesn’t respond. “Quinn.” Rachel shakes her a bit harder. This time, Quinn groans, shifting in place. She opens her eyes, squinting against the dim light of the living room.
“Rach,” she mumbles, glancing over at Rachel. Rachel feels herself flush pink at the nickname. Plenty of people call her that, but Quinn never has before.
“Hi,” Rachel says, keeping her voice low. Quinn’s mask is still down, and Rachel doesn’t want to risk anything that might bring it back up.
“Where’s…” Quinn looks down at her arms, frowning.
“My fathers have Ellie,” Rachel says. “They’re putting her to sleep upstairs.” Quinn nods slowly.
“It’s going to take some getting used to,” she says. “Thinking of them as her parents, instead of me.”
“I know.” Rachel doesn’t want to overstep her bounds, but she can’t resist—she puts an arm around Quinn’s shoulders. Quinn doesn’t resist the contact. She actually leans into it, resting her head on Rachel’s shoulder. “But we have time, Quinn. It’s going to be okay.” Quinn inhales sharply, and Rachel feels her tense up beneath her arm. For a moment, Rachel prepares herself for the mask to come back up, for Quinn to lash out at her, but then Quinn exhales slowly, shakily, and Rachel realizes with a start that Quinn is crying.
“Quinn,” Rachel says, turning slightly to wrap her other arm around Quinn as well, pulling her into a hug. “What’s wrong?” Quinn shakes her head and buries her face in Rachel’s collarbone.
“It’s—it’s going to be okay,” she says, her voice trembling. Not just her voice, Rachel realizes—Quinn’s whole body is shaking in Rachel’s arms. “It’s gonna be okay, Rachel.” She lifts her head, not breaking their embrace but shifting back enough to look Rachel in the eye. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve believed that?” Rachel reaches up, wiping away a few of Quinn’s stray tears with her fingertips.
“I’m guessing awhile,” she says. Quinn half-smiles, her breathing beginning to slow once more, and nods vigorously. They sit like that for a few moments, looking at each other, Rachel’s arms still around Quinn, until Quinn seems to suddenly realize just how close their faces are and clears her throat, shifting back. Rachel lets her go.
(She doesn’t want to.)
“Would you like to go to bed now?” Rachel asks. A thought suddenly occurs to her. “Have you slept at all since Ellie was born?” Quinn shrugs.
“A little bit at the hospital,” she says. “But yeah, I’d—I’d like to go to bed, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Rachel says, standing. “Please, follow me. I can lend you some pajamas, although I doubt anything I have will fit you.”
“Are you calling me fat, Berry?” Quinn asks, raising her eyebrow as she stands.
“What?” Rachel says, her eyes going wide. “No! No, of course not, I’m—you’re taller than me, is all I’m—“ Quinn is smirking, and Rachel blinks rapidly as the realization hits her. “You’re teasing me,” she says, and Quinn laughs. It’s a tired sound, colored by the exhaustion that Rachel can see in the way Quinn sways slightly on her feet, but it’s genuine, and it makes Rachel’s chest feel tight and hot.
“I sure am,” Quinn says. “Don’t worry about the pajamas, my mom packed me an overnight bag.” Rachel nods, steadfastly ignoring the twinge of disappointment that echoes through her body at the realization that she won’t get to see Quinn in her clothes.
“Very well,” Rachel says, leading them both down the hall towards the stairs, with Quinn following close behind.
Getting ready for bed is…oddly comfortable. They take turns in the bathroom, changing and brushing their teeth. Quinn hums quietly, sleepily to herself from the other room as Rachel goes through her moisturizing routine, and Rachel tries her absolute hardest to not find it cute.
Eventually, though, Rachel turns off the lights, leaving the lamp on the bedside table as the only light in the room. Quinn crawls under the covers on the right side of the bed, getting comfortable against the pillow. She pulls the blankets all the way up to her neck, and Rachel has to bite back a smile at the image. She slides into bed next to Quinn, keeping a careful distance between their bodies, and clicks off the lamp.
Almost immediately, Quinn shifts closer to her. There’s a long pause, during which Rachel counts her inexplicably rapid heartbeats and listens to Quinn’s soft breathing beside her, and then Quinn scoots a bit closer again. Rachel switches to listening to her own breaths, trying to keep them rhythmic and even, despite the fact that she can now feel the heat radiating off of Quinn against her side.
Quinn slides closer.
“Quinn?” Rachel says into the darkness.
“Yeah?” Quinn mumbles, clearly half-asleep.
“Do you—are you—“ Rachel sighs, and opts to bite the bullet. “Do you want to cuddle with me?” Quinn sits up.
“What the hell, Berry?” she says, and though Rachel can’t see her, she can hear the scorn in her voice.
“I don’t mean…” Rachel sits up as well, her vision adjusted enough to the dark that she can see the outline of Quinn’s face beside her. “It’s perfectly normal to—to want to be held, Quinn. Humans are social animals. We need contact. It makes us feel safe and protected and loved. It doesn’t mean anything.” Quinn says nothing, and Rachel begins to wonder if she’s read the entire situation wrong. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You just…kept getting closer to me so I thought…”
“Whatever,” Quinn says, lying back down—though not getting any further away from Rachel. Rachel lies down beside her.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. Quinn grunts noncommittally. They lie there in silence for awhile, long enough that Rachel begins to relax, thinking Quinn is asleep.
Then Quinn rolls over, throwing an arm across Rachel’s stomach and curling into her side.
Rachel tenses for a moment. She can’t tell if Quinn is asleep or awake, and she doesn’t want Quinn to wake up in a position like this, especially given her reaction to Rachel’s earlier suggestion. But then Quinn shifts again, sliding farther on top of Rachel, and even if she wanted to, Rachel is no longer capable of escaping.
Hesitantly, Rachel slips her arm around Quinn’s waist. It seems to be the right move, as Quinn’s possibly-sleeping form presses closer to her, and lets out a soft, satisfied sigh. Her hands curl in the hem of Rachel’s shirt, and Rachel can feel Quinn relax against her.
Rachel, meanwhile, cannot relax at all.
Quinn is curled up on top of her like—like some kind of jungle cat, and while Rachel is surprisingly comfortable with the position itself, the fact that it’s Quinn Fabray lying on top of her is keeping her eyes wide open. Rachel’s hands are pressed against Quinn’s back and hip respectively, and she finds herself cataloguing the sensation in her mind.
Quinn is…softer than Rachel would’ve expected. Cheerio Quinn had flawless abs, solid muscle without an ounce of fat on her frame. This Quinn still possesses those cords of muscle, but they lie beneath a layer of post-baby weight that Rachel is suddenly realizing is the reason Quinn has worn nothing but oversized sweatshirts since she got out of her hospital gown. It makes Rachel’s heart twist sickeningly to think of both the source of the weight itself and the idea that Quinn would ever be ashamed of her body.
Rachel glances at her alarm clock and sees that it’s nearing eleven. She really needs to sleep. With a Herculean effort, she manages to force all thoughts of Quinn and Quinn’s body away, pretending that the warmth splayed out across her is simply a—a heated blanket.
A heated blanket with soft hands and hair that smells like oranges.
Quinn is alone when she wakes up.
It takes her a moment to remember where she is. The decor of the room is—well, it definitely isn’t what Quinn would choose for herself. Or anyone else still in possession of their sanity, except maybe—
Rachel.
She’s in Rachel Berry’s bed.
That realization doesn’t make Quinn panic the way it would’ve a year ago, or even a few months ago. It isn’t calming, certainly, and Quinn sits up, suddenly uncomfortable with the situation, but she doesn’t run away screaming, so she’ll count it as progress. Progress towards what, exactly, Quinn isn’t sure, because even if she had the guts to go up to Rachel and say sorry about all the slushies and insults, you’re actually pretty cool sometimes, also I’m gay and maybe have a massive gay obsession with you, she doesn’t think Rachel would take it very well.
“Good morning.” Quinn blinks, looking across the room, and it seems that her thoughts have conjured up their subject, because Rachel is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Sleep well?”
“Uh.” Quinn clears her throat, pushing a hand through her hair. “Yeah, actually. Pretty well.”
“Good,” Rachel says. “I could make you breakfast, if you like. It would give you time to take a shower.”
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “Sounds good.” She’s unable to force enthusiasm into her voice, and Rachel seems to pick up on it. She frowns slightly at Quinn for a moment—more a look of concern than anything—before leaving the room.
Quinn falls back against the pillows for a moment, unable to resist. She slept through the night. Slept well, if the way she remembers feeling while drifting off in Rachel’s arms means anything. She slept more last night than she has since Ellie’s birth, and still, she just feels so tired.
Quinn gets out of bed before she can fall back asleep again, no matter how tempting that option is. She showers and dresses on autopilot, borrowing Rachel’s shampoo and trying to ignore the way her heart climbs into her throat at the idea of smelling like Rachel.
(It’s not as if she isn’t at peace with her feelings for Rachel. She is. She’s been comfortable with them for awhile, if not with the sheer depth of the way Rachel makes her feel sometimes, but it’s just…easier to ignore them. To play them down. To not picture the inevitable rejection that will come, the day she stops being able to hold them back.)
Quinn spends quite awhile looking at herself in the mirror. Her body looks strange to her. It had looked wrong, even grotesque, when she was pregnant, and even now it looks bizarre, with fat in odd places and muscle hardly visible anywhere. Quinn had spent most of her childhood not feeling at home in her body. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to reclaim that all-too-short year where she felt like she looked like her.
“There you are,” Rachel says as Quinn steps into the kitchen. “I made eggs for you. I wasn't sure how you liked them, so I scrambled them. That seems like the universal standard for eggs, from what I understand. Does anyone actually eat eggs that aren’t scrambled, or is that just in movies?” Quinn blinks at her. She’s not half-asleep anymore; her body isn’t moving with the sluggish clumsiness of exhaustion that she knows so well from Cheerios practice.
Her mind, however, is a different story. Her mind feels underwater.
“Scrambled is fine,” Quinn says, moving to sit at the long counter in the kitchen. She barely heard the rest of what Rachel had said, let alone understood it enough to respond. Rachel doesn’t seem to mind, though; she simply places a plate of eggs and a piece of toast in front of Quinn. Quinn starts eating, the motions automatic, barely tasting the eggs.
Eggs.
“Aren’t you vegan?” Quinn asks, looking up at Rachel. Rachel looks up from the dishes she’s doing, blinking in surprise at the question.
“I am, yes,” she says.
“Isn’t cooking eggs, like…” Quinn shrugs. “Against your honor code, or something?”
“Honor code,” Rachel echoes, half-laughing. “You make it sound like a cult.”
“Isn’t it?” Quinn mumbles. She glances up at Rachel, worried for a moment that the words came out angrily, but Rachel is smiling slightly, interpreting the words for the teasing that they are.
“Quinn,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Yes, it is against my morals to cook eggs, but it’s the only breakfast food besides toast that I could be certain I wouldn’t ruin, and you did have a baby two days ago. I can make a few sacrifices to accommodate that.”
“Thank you,” Quinn says after a pause. “They’re, um, they’re good.” That’s a bit generous. They’re perfectly acceptable, but they’re scrambled eggs. They only get so good.
Rachel wrinkles her nose at Quinn. “Just because I made a moral sacrifice doesn’t mean you can convince me that eating unfertilized chicken fetuses could be in any way enjoyable.” It’s such a Rachel thing to say, and her expression is so cute, and Quinn—
—well, Quinn sort of wants to kiss her, but she keeps that to herself.
“Just say you’re welcome,” Quinn says, shaking her head. She can’t quite keep a hint of a smile off of her face.
Quinn eats quickly and washes her own plate. She refuses to let Rachel do all the work, even if Quinn is technically the guest here. When they’re done, Rachel disappears back upstairs to change her clothes, and Quinn wanders down the hallway to the nursery.
Ellie isn’t in her crib, and Quinn experiences a moment of sheer panic before realizing that it is, in fact, ten-thirty in the morning, and of course Ellie isn’t in her crib. She’s with one of Rachel’s dads somewhere—with one of her dads somewhere.
Quinn really needs to start thinking of Hiram and Leroy as Ellie’s fathers.
Quinn wanders through the house—which is sort of absurdly large, much like Quinn’s own house, and she absently wonders what the Berry men do for work, since they clearly have money—until she finds herself in a study, and the tense knot in her chest relaxes. Leroy is sitting at the desk doing paperwork, Ellie carefully balanced and asleep in his lap. Quinn knocks lightly on the doorframe, and Leroy looks up from his paperwork, smiling politely at her.
“Quinn,” he says. “Come on in.” Quinn hesitates for only a moment before stepping into the room. She hasn’t spent much time alone with Leroy or his husband. Most of their discussion about Ellie had been either through Rachel or with her present, and Quinn isn’t sure what to expect from Leroy.
She shouldn’t be concerned, though, because the moment she takes a seat on a spare chair near Leroy, he scoops up Ellie in his arms and says, “Do you want to hold her?” Quinn blinks at him, staring at Ellie in his arms. She—she sort of fits in them, her head nestled in his elbow. He holds her comfortably. Easily.
He’s had her for less than twenty-four hours, and he already looks like her father.
“I made the right choice,” Quinn says to Leroy. “You’re, uh, you’re gonna be an amazing dad. You already are.”
“Thank you,” Leroy says. “I have to admit, though, I’m surprised at how much faith you have in me, given how you treated Rachel in the past, and the church your family attends.” Quinn flinches and looks away.
“The things I did to Rachel, I…” Quinn shakes her head. “You’re not the one I need to apologize to for that.” Leroy doesn’t respond, but his eyes crinkle at the edges, the hint of a smile on his face. It’s the right thing to say, apparently. “And as far as church goes, and my family…I’m not my father, and I never shared his beliefs. I’m not a homophobe.”
“No?” Leroy asks. He doesn’t sound like he doesn’t believe her, but Quinn still shakes her head vehemently, feeling the need to object to the idea as strongly as humanly possible.
“No,” she says. “I—I’m actually…” she licks her lips. “I’m…gay.” Leroy’s eyes widen slightly.
“Oh,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Well then,” he says, nodding at Ellie in his arms, “how did this happen?” Quinn snorts, shaking her head.
“Denial is a hell of a drug,” she says.
“Don’t I know it,” Leroy says, nodding in agreement. Quinn doesn’t ask what he means. Coming out is sort of enough emotional bonding for one day—and it must show on her face, because Leroy leans towards her just a bit and says, “Quinn, was that…the first time you told anyone?”
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “First time I’ve ever said it out loud, actually.” Leroy shifts Ellie to one arm and reaches out, setting a hand on Quinn’s shoulder gently.
“I’m very proud of you for saying it,” he says. “I know we don’t know each other well, but if you ever want to talk about it—“
“No,” Quinn interrupts. “No, I—look, I appreciate it, but it’s…not something I want to talk about.”
“Not ready?” Leroy asks, and the understanding note in his voice rubs Quinn the wrong way. She doesn’t want to be understood. This—her sexuality, her problems with it or lack thereof—it’s hers.
“It’s not that,” Quinn says. “I just…” She shakes her head. “Please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Rachel.”
“I won’t,” Leroy says. “I promise. Who gets to know, when they get to know, all of that is your decision. I would never take that away from you.”
…Maybe he understands a little better than Quinn wants him to.
“Can I hold her now?” Quinn asks, nodding at Ellie. Leroy smiles.
“Of course,” he says, and hands her over. Quinn shuffles Ellie around in her arms, uncertain of how, exactly, to hold her. Ellie doesn’t seem to mind. She just sleeps, her face pinched and pink and wrinkly, her head smooth and hairless.
Looking at her now, Quinn isn’t…exactly sure what she’s supposed to be feeling, but she’s pretty sure she isn’t feeling it. She had been so determined, those last few months before Ellie was born, to keep her daughter. Someway, somehow, she had been desperate to be in Ellie’s life. And now…in the abstract, she still wants that. She wants to see Ellie grow up, and know her first word, and read to her, and everything else that she had kept herself from picturing before they all became possible, thanks to Rachel Berry. But, right now, looking at her daughter, Quinn doesn’t really feel anything. It’s not like Ellie is a person yet. She’s just a little wrinkly thing that cries and sleeps and smells weird. Quinn doesn’t look at her and feel some deep, maternal love, or connection, or something.
(Quinn is pretty sure that makes her a horrible person, or at least proves that she’s made the right choice, giving Ellie up. She could never have been a good mother.)
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Leroy asks, and when Quinn looks up at him, and his eyes are full of love and softness as he looks at Ellie, it feels like the universe is trying to drive the point home: Quinn doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve Leroy’s kindness, or Rachel’s loyalty, or the baby girl in her arms.
Quinn just nods, not trusting herself to lie out loud.
Twelve days after Ellie is born, Quinn finishes her sophomore year of high school. The day after that, she goes for a run.
She hadn’t been lying when she told Mercedes that being pregnant changed the way she thought about food. She doesn’t look at her dinner and see calories or miles she’ll have to run these days; she just sees food. Just survival, health. But Quinn knows what her body can look like, and this—stretch marks, leftover pregnancy weight, fat in odd places, a total lack of muscle tone—this isn’t it. She just wants to look in the mirror and see herself again. Besides, as much as she’s realizing that Sue Sylvester is actually a terrible person, and a terrible coach, Quinn wants back on the Cheerios in the fall.
So Quinn laces up the running shoes she hasn’t worn in months and takes off down her old weekend route—four and a half miles, down from her house to the park, around the pond and back. She knows it’ll be hard; she hasn’t really worked out in months, but she’s sure she can take it.
She’s wrong.
Quinn lies down on a bench when she gets to the park, chest heaving, spots in her vision. Her brain feels like it’s full of steel wool—scratchy and undefined, and painful. She should’ve brought water. She really should’ve brought water. There’s a few vending machines by the park bathrooms, but she’s not sure she can drag herself that far to buy a water bottle. Certainly not without catching her breath first, at least.
By the time she’s caught her breath, though, Quinn doesn’t really feel like moving. She wonders absently if she can just take a nap here on the bench. The sun is pleasantly warm, but not yet hot, and the hard wood feels like heaven beneath her back. Plus, she’s not sure she can move.
“Quinn?” a familiar voice says, and Quinn’s eyes slip open again, squinting against the sun. With an immense effort, she rolls her head to the side and sees Rachel approaching the bench.
“What are you, stalking me?” Quinn asks, her voice hoarse. Rachel raises her eyebrows, stepping up beside the bench.
“I could say the same,” she says. “You’re the one who’s at my house every other day.” Quinn groans. She doesn’t have enough energy to bicker with Rachel. Instead, she just closes her eyes again. A moment later, she feels movement near her face as Rachel sits down beside her head on the bench.
“Are you alright?” Rachel asks. Quinn hums.
“Went for a run,” she mumbles.
“A run,” Rachel echoes, a note of amusement in her voice. “A bit more difficult than you remembered?”
“So much fucking harder,” Quinn says, the profanity slipping out easily. She’s become sort of desensitized to it since she got kicked out. She’s exposed to it all day, every day at school, and the Joneses were a lot less strict about monitoring her language than her own parents had been. And now, her mother is afraid to tell her to stop doing anything.
Or maybe just afraid to talk to her at all.
“I used to have abs, Rachel,” Quinn says. “Abs. Do you know how much work that was?” She shakes her head. “I should’ve made Puck use a condom.” Rachel doesn’t respond for a moment, and Quinn wonders if she’s scandalized her. The thought makes her smile a bit: the (former) president of the Celibacy Club, making the girl who had come into a meeting of said club and proclaimed that girls want sex just as much as guys do blush—though Rachel is oddly prudish, sometimes.
(Quinn wonders how Rachel would respond if she admitted that all those pornographic drawings of her in the bathroom stalls were the product of a lot of thought.)
“Perhaps,” Rachel says, drawing Quinn out of her thoughts. “But I did get a baby sister out of it, so.” Quinn makes a face.
“It’s weird if you call her your sister,” she says. “Does that make me your aunt or something?” Rachel laughs, and it sounds how the sun on Quinn’s face feels.
“I don’t think it makes you my anything,” Rachel says. “But if thinking of yourself as my aunt means you’ll be nice to me, go for it.”
“I don’t have to pretend to be related to you to be nice to you,” Quinn says. Rachel is quiet again, this time for long enough that Quinn starts to open her eyes, squinting up at her with concern.
Rachel isn’t looking at her as she says, “Could’ve fooled me,” and that makes Quinn force her eyes all the way open.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m done with that. Alright? The stuff I did to you—it’s over. I’m done.”
“Because my dads adopted your daughter?” Rachel asks, still not looking at her. “I don’t want you to pretend to like me because of that. We would never keep you from her, regardless of how you treat me.” Quinn pushes herself into a sitting position, ignoring the spots in her vision and dizziness in her head.
“It has nothing to do with that,” she says firmly. “Look at me, Rach.” The nickname slips out easily, unconsciously, but Rachel flinches slightly in surprise at it, and turns to look at Quinn. “You never deserved any of the things I did,” Quinn says firmly, meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Never. Okay? And it wouldn’t matter if your dads had my baby or if I had kept her or if some random couple got her, that would still be true.”
“I know I don’t deserve it,” Rachel says, and suddenly Quinn is regretting asking Rachel to look at her, because her gaze is intense, and Quinn sort of wants to look away, but she can’t. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.” Quinn nods, biting her lip.
“I know,” she says, and Rachel scoffs.
“No, you don’t,” she says. “You’ve never been bullied, Quinn. You may have been harassed some this past year, but you’ve always had people in your corner, whether it’s Santana and Brittany or Finn or Noah or me. You don’t know what it’s like to be alone. But me? The Glee kids don’t even like me. They only put up with me because I win them competitions. You don’t know anything about the way you’ve made me feel.” Quinn doesn’t argue with that, because it’s true. Quinn has never been bullied, even if Lucy was.
(She’s pretty sure if she told the therapist her mom has her seeing how good she is at thinking of her past self and her current self as two different people, Dr. McMillan would have an aneurysm.)
Instead, Quinn just says, “I like you.” Rachel flinches at the words—flinches, like she’s been slapped—and looks away.
“Don’t patronize me,” she says.
“I’m not.” Quinn turns on the bench, trying to bring herself closer to Rachel without mustering up the bravery to actually move closer. “I—I know I haven’t given you any reason to believe me, but I do like you, Rachel. And I’d like the chance to prove it to you, if you’re willing to give it to me.” Rachel meets her eyes again.
“Prove it how?” she asks. Quinn barely stops herself from glancing down at Rachel’s lips. There are a thousand reasons that kissing Rachel would not be a good idea right now, not the least of which being that it wouldn’t really prove anything at all, but the idea pops into her head regardless, and she has to fight to push it away.
“Well, I can be your friend,” Quinn says, “if you want.” Rachel looks at her for a moment, chewing her lip thoughtfully. They’re—much closer together than they probably need to be to have this conversation, but Quinn can’t make herself scoot away. Rachel’s eyes are gorgeous up close—a deep shade of brown that Quinn has to search to find an adjective for, before she settles on entrancing.
“My friend,” Rachel repeats. “I…would like that.”
“Yeah?” Quinn asks, risking a small smile. Rachel nods.
“I’ve sort of always wanted to be your friend,” she admits, and it feels like a confession—heavy, somehow. Quinn swallows hard, unable to look away from Rachel.
“Well,” Quinn says, desperate to break the moment, since she’s pretty sure that if it lasts any longer, she really will kiss the girl, “as your first act as my friend, how would you feel about buying me a water bottle from one of those vending machines? I think I might actually pass out if I stand up.” Rachel laughs, rising from the bench, and the moment is broken, but Quinn’s stomach is still twisting inside her, and she still feels like she can’t quite breathe.
“I’ll be right back,” Rachel says, heading off towards the vending machines. Quinn rests her head against the back of the bench, trying to catch her breath and wondering what she’s gotten herself into.
It’s easy from there.
Quinn goes over to Rachel’s house nearly every day after that—partially to see Ellie, but mostly to see Rachel, who is just as amazing as Quinn was always terrified she would be. She’s actually not selfish at all, as long as they don’t talk about show choir. She’s funny, and empathetic, and horrible at cooking, and gives amazing hugs, and Quinn is—enamored, is the word she goes with in her head, because it’s strong enough without being scary. Quinn had already had a—a thing for Rachel, on the basis of her voice and her legs, but now there’s gazing, and touching, and inside jokes, and Quinn is losing her mind a little bit.
Not just because of Rachel. Ellie is getting bigger by the day, not to mention less bald and wrinkly, and still, Quinn doesn’t really…feel anything towards her. She hasn’t brought it up with her therapist, because it’s downright sociopath behavior, honestly. What kind of person can have a kid and not feel anything?
(Like father, like daughter, Quinn thinks in her darker moments.)
Outside of Ellie, too, Quinn feels strange. That steel-wool feeling has never quite left her head, and she’s tired all of the time. She starts sleeping past noon for the first time in her life, staying up late doing nothing on her phone and sleeping until her stomach is roaring at her to get up and eat. She sleeps, and runs, and visits Rachel, and even as her body starts to come back to her, Quinn feels like she doesn’t quite fit into herself anymore.
It becomes clear that the feeling isn’t just all in her head when she gets coffee with Mercedes, and ten minutes in, Mercedes leans back in her chair, frowns at Quinn, and says, “Girl, are you okay?”
“Uh.” Quinn isn’t really sure how to answer that. “Yes?”
“You sure?” Mercedes says. “Because you look ready to pass out, and that’s a four shot americano right there.” Quinn looks down at her mostly-empty paper cup.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just sort of…lost, I guess? I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing, so I’m just…doing nothing. And it’s weirdly exhausting, actually.”
“You know what you need?” Mercedes says, shifting forward in her chair once more. Quinn raises her eyebrows. “You need a haircut.” Quinn’s hands go to her hair.
“Really?” she says, frowning. “It’s not that long.” Mercedes rolls her eyes.
“Not because your hair is too long,” she says. “Because you need a change. You’re in a rut, and those are a lot easier to get out of when you stop looking like the person who got stuck in the first place.” That…makes a surprising amount of sense, actually, and Quinn finds herself nodding in agreement. She’s in a rut. That’s why she’s tired. That’s why she doesn’t love her daughter.
It’s just a rut.
“Okay,” she says. “A haircut. I’ll make an appointment—“ Mercedes is already shaking her head.
“Nope,” she says. “It’s all about the spontaneity. Come on, Kurt can cut it.”
“Kurt?” Quinn says. “He hates my guts. And can he even cut hair?” Mercedes gives her a look, and Quinn sighs, silently conceding that yes, of course Kurt can cut hair.
“He hates you because you’re a bitch to him,” Mercedes says. “But you’ve got incredible hair, he isn’t going to mess with that. Besides, maybe you could apologize to him while we’re over there.” Quinn senses a hint of ulterior motive in the last sentence, but she ignores it. It’s not like she can get mad at Mercedes for wanting her friends to get along.
“Okay,” Quinn says. “I guess Kurt is cutting my hair.” Mercedes grins triumphantly, already pulling out her phone to text Kurt.
Quinn follows Mercedes on the drive over, and she figures she probably should be more intimidated than she is. But it’s just a haircut, and it matters a lot less now that she’s been homeless and given birth to a child. If it goes wrong, it’ll grow back. The same thing can’t be said for a lot of the things that have gone wrong for Quinn recently.
“What are you looking for?” Kurt says, once they’re down in his room and Quinn is sitting in a folding chair, a sheet wrapped around her shoulders to substitute for an apron. Quinn looks in the mirror, at the bags under her eyes and the way her hair falls past her shoulders, obscuring her jawline and face.
“A change,” she says. Kurt rolls his eyes at her in the mirror.
“Well, obviously,” he says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What kind of change are we talking about?” Quinn considers it for a moment.
“Shorter,” she says, gesturing somewhere near the top of her neck. “Like, here-ish?” Kurt hesitates.
“You sure?” he says. “Coach Sylvester isn’t going to be a fan of that. Assuming you’re trying out for the Cheerios again.” Quinn considers that for a moment, pictures Sue Sylvester’s reaction to her disgraced Head Cheerio returning to school after having a kid and trying out for the team again, only for her hair to be far too short to even attempt the Cheerio signature ponytail.
“I don’t care,” Quinn says, and is surprised to realize it’s true. “Go crazy.” Kurt makes a high-pitched, excited sound, and whips out a pair of scissors before Quinn can change her mind.