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“Quinn?!”
“Yes, Rachel?”
“Why do you have a dog in your hands?”
Rachel stood half-dressed in their Manhattan apartment, one leg in her tights, one leg out, while Quinn hovered in the doorway holding a tiny golden retriever puppy like it was Simba from The Lion King.
“He's not a dog, Rachel,” Quinn tutted, her voice dripping with condescension. “He's a puppy,” she cooed, tickling the furball under his chin. The puppy's tongue lolled out dopily.
Rachel blinked. Then blinked again. Then closed her eyes entirely, searching deep within herself for the strength she'd cultivated through years of vocal training, Broadway rejection, and living with Quinn Fabray.
She found none.
“We can't have a dog,” Rachel said, hands flying to her hips in what she hoped was a stern, authoritative pose. It was the same pose she'd used in her starring role as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl. That Rachel Berry had been formidable. This Rachel Berry was wearing one leg of pantyhose.
“Well, we certainly can't get rid of him.” Quinn set the puppy on their pristine hardwood floor with the gentleness of someone lowering a newborn baby into a crib.
The puppy immediately pissed on the couch.
Quinn's smile was so strained it could've been used as a suspension bridge. The puppy, for his part, looked immensely pleased with himself as he waddled across the living room, tiny paws squeaking against the floor.
“Quinn...”
“Rachel...”
The puppy found Rachel's Christian Louboutins and began gnawing on the signature red sole with the enthusiasm of a tiny, furry wood chipper.
“MY SHOES!” Rachel shrieked, lunging forward.
Quinn, to her credit, actually looked ashamed. The puppy, however, looked up at them with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging, wearing an expression that could only be described as absolutely no regrets.
Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose. “Quinn Fabray, I swear to-”
“I'll buy you new ones,” Quinn said quickly, scooping up the puppy and redirecting him toward an older trainer. “Look, he's sorry. Aren't you sorry, little guy?”
The puppy yipped.
“He's not sorry,” Rachel said flatly.
“He's very sorry,” Quinn insisted, nuzzling the puppy's head. “He's just...expressing himself.”
“Express somewhere else!”
When Rachel got home from her performance that night. Her vocal cords were tired, her feet aching, still mildly furious about her murdered Louboutins, she found Quinn and the puppy curled up together on the couch. Quinn's arm was draped protectively around the little furball, who was snoring softly with his head on her stomach.
Rachel's heart did a traitorous little flip.
She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture. Then another. Then five more from different angles because the lighting was perfect.
Fine. Fine. They were keeping the dog. That didn't mean she was happy about it.
Although...
Now that she was looking at them side by side in the soft lamplight, there was something eerily familiar about the puppy. The way his little ears flopped. The slight haughty tilt to his fuzzy chin, even while sleeping. Those hazel-gold eyes that had stared up at her while destroying her shoes.
Oh no.
Oh no.
The puppy looked exactly like Quinn.
“Now, Puppy Quinn, sit.”
It was three days later. Rachel held a training treat just above the dog's head, exactly like the YouTube video had instructed. The puppy, whom they'd officially named David, though Rachel had no idea why, because it was a terrible name for a dog, tilted his head and then, miraculously, sat.
“Good job!” Rachel praised, giving him the treat. He wagged his tail so hard his entire back half wiggled. “Okay, now Puppy Quinn, let's try-”
“What did you just call him?”
Rachel's head snapped up. Quinn stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that perfectly Quinn expression that the puppy had somehow also mastered.
Both Rachel and the dog froze, looking equally guilty.
“Uh... David?”
“No.” Quinn stalked into the room. “You called him Puppy Quinn.”
“I absolutely did not-”
“Rachel.”
“Quinn.”
They stared at each other. The puppy looked between them like he was watching a tennis match.
“Look at him!” Rachel finally burst out, gesturing wildly at the dog. “He's literally mini you! The attitude! The judgy eyebrows! The way he destroyed my property and then looked cute about it!”
“I don't have judgy-” Quinn started, then caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror, one eyebrow still raised. “Okay, that's not the point.”
“He even sits like you! With that little-” Rachel did an impression, sitting with perfect posture and tilting her chin up slightly.
Quinn's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. She looked at the puppy, who was now sitting exactly like Rachel had demonstrated, tiny chest puffed out importantly.
“Oh my God,” Quinn breathed.
“See?!”
“He does sit like me.”
“He's you, Quinn! You brought home a dog version of yourself!”
Quinn crouched down, examining the puppy more closely. The puppy stared back, equally serious. It was like watching someone look into a furry, four-legged mirror.
“His eyes are kind of hazel,” Quinn admitted slowly.
“Uh-huh.”
“And he is very dignified.”
“Suspiciously dignified.”
“And intelligent. Look how quickly he learned to sit.”
“Quinn.”
“Rachel.”
They looked at each other. Then at the puppy. Then back at each other.
“We're changing his name,” Quinn announced.
Rachel squealed so loudly that Puppy Quinn startled and barked, which sounded more like a squeaky toy than anything threatening.
“Really?!”
“David is a terrible name,” Quinn said, scooping up the puppy. “But Puppy Quinn...”
“It's perfect,” Rachel finished, beaming.
“I was going to say, ‘mildly concerning,’” Quinn corrected, but she was smiling. “But sure. Perfect works.”
Two weeks later, Rachel came home to find Quinn and Puppy Quinn sitting on the kitchen floor, a package of bacon between them.
“Quinn Fabray, what are you doing?” Rachel asked slowly.
“Sharing breakfast,” Quinn said, completely unashamed, offering Puppy Quinn a piece of bacon. He took it delicately from her fingers like a tiny, furry gentleman.
“It's four in the afternoon.”
“It’s 8 in the morning somewhere, Rachel.”
Rachel stared. Quinn fed Puppy Quinn another piece of bacon. The puppy's tail created a small tornado of happiness on the kitchen floor.
“Are you... Are you having a bacon date with the dog?”
“He's our son,” Quinn corrected, “and he has excellent taste. Don't you, baby?” She cooed at Puppy Quinn, who was too busy devouring bacon to respond. “See? He gets it.”
“Gets what, exactly?”
“That bacon is life.” Quinn took a piece for herself, chewing thoughtfully. “It's one of his best qualities.”
“That he eats bacon.”
“That he appreciates bacon. There's a difference.”
Rachel watched as Quinn offered another piece to Puppy Quinn, who performed a tiny sit without being asked, his eyes locked on the bacon with laser focus.
“Puppy Quinn, sit.” The puppy sat immediately. “Lie down.” He flopped down. “Play dead.” Puppy Quinn rolled over dramatically, tongue lolling out.
Quinn fed him bacon after each trick, looking insufferably smug.
“How long have you been doing this?” Rachel demanded.
Quinn shrugged. “He's very food motivated. Wonder where he gets that from.” She took another piece of bacon for herself.
“You're both going to get fat.”
“We're both going to be happy,” Quinn corrected. She held up a piece of bacon. “Want some?”
"I'm vegan!"
Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose, counted to ten, then sat down on the floor with them. Quinn immediately offered her a piece of bacon with a victorious smile.
Puppy Quinn stared at her with huge, pleading eyes. She fed him a tiny piece, and his entire body wiggled with joy.
“Okay, fine,” Rachel admitted. “This is actually kind of cute.”
“Told you.” Quinn leaned against her shoulder. “Bacon makes everything better.2
“That's not a life philosophy, Quinn.”
“It is now,” Quinn said, feeding Puppy Quinn another piece. “Isn't it, baby?”
Puppy Quinn barked, which could have meant yes, or could have meant give me more bacon. Either was fine.
By week three, things had escalated.
Rachel walked in to find Quinn and Puppy Quinn wearing matching outfits. Both in white t-shirts and what appeared to be coordinated bandanas.
“No,” Rachel said immediately.
“I didn't say anything,” Quinn replied innocently, adjusting Puppy Quinn's tiny bandana.
“You dressed him to match you.”
“He dressed himself. I'm just supporting his fashion choices.”
“He's a dog, Quinn. He doesn't have fashion choices.”
Quinn gasped and covered Puppy Quinn's ears. “Don't listen to her. You're very stylish.”
Puppy Quinn somehow looked smug. Rachel didn't know dogs could look smug, but there it was, a tiny, furry expression of absolute smugness that was identical to the one Quinn wore whenever she won an argument.
“This is out of control,” Rachel muttered.
“This is family bonding,” Quinn corrected, striking a pose. Puppy Quinn attempted the same pose. He fell over.
“I want a divorce,” she announced.
“You'd get joint custody at best,” Quinn said. “And Puppy Quinn would choose me.”
As if to prove her point, Puppy Quinn trotted over to Quinn and sat at her feet, looking up at her adoringly.
Traitor.
“Fine,” Rachel said. “But I'm ordering him a tiny leather jacket.”
Quinn's eyes lit up. “Can we get matching ones?”
“I was joking-”
“I'm ordering them now.”
“Quinn-”
But Quinn was already on her phone, Puppy Quinn perched on her lap like a tiny, furry emperor surveying his domain. They both looked ridiculously pleased with themselves.
Rachel's heart did that traitorous flipping thing again.
She sat down next to them on the couch, and Puppy Quinn immediately climbed into her lap, then onto her shoulder, then tried to climb onto her head before settling for licking her ear.
“He's perfect,” Rachel admitted quietly.
“I know,” Quinn said, equally soft. Then, with her signature smirk: “Just like me.”
“And so humble, too.”
“It's genetic.”
Puppy Quinn barked in agreement, then promptly fell asleep on Rachel's shoulder, tiny paws twitching in dreams that probably involved heroically destroying more designer shoes.
Their apartment might be covered in puppy teeth marks, her Louboutins might be casualties of war, and yes, they'd somehow adopted a dog that was disturbingly similar to one of its owners.
But looking at Quinn's soft smile and feeling Puppy Quinn's warm weight against her neck, Rachel couldn't imagine it any other way.
“Hey, Quinn?”
“Hmm?”
“When the leather jackets arrive, I want one too.”
Quinn's grin was brilliant. “Already ordered yours.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
(Though she did make Quinn clean up the next shoe casualty. Some principles had to be kept, even in the dog world of overwhelming cuteness.
Puppy Quinn's score: Four shoes, one purse strap, and Quinn's favourite Yale hoodie.
Rachel's dignity: Still intact.
Mostly.)
Fin.
We <3 u puppy quinn x