Quinn has a revelation following all the drama of Babygate. Puck/Quinn. Reviews are love, so please R&R. Hope you like it…
XOXO
She's my baby. How could I ever have thought of giving her up?
I love her, I know that now. I love her, and I love him for giving her to me. And maybe…maybe I love him for other reasons too. He's here: standing next to my bed with a wonderful expression on his face. I giggle at the sight of it, which makes him look at me sharply.
"What're you laughing at?" He asks me.
"You love her," I reply, delight colouring my tone. He grins, and suddenly, I see that what I told him all those months ago really is true – he's no Lima loser. We can get out of this place, even if we have to work our fingers to the bone until well after college. We'll make something of our lives in the end.
"'Course I do. 'Course I love her," Noah says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You ain't too bad either," he adds, and I elbow him gently. He hesitates for a second or two, and then, with a slight waver to his usually steady voice, he asks: "Can I hold her?"
"'Course you can," I mimic his earlier tone of voice. Natural. Obvious. "You're her daddy."
I hand my – no; she's ours, not just mine – baby to him, and he holds her. He's slightly awkward, but incredibly tender. I didn't know Noah Puckerman had such a gentle streak to him. Then I remember all the ice cream he's bought me, all the kisses – chaste and passionate alike – that he's placed on my lips…all the late night phone calls, all the hormonally-imbalanced mood swings, all the tears and arguments he's endured at my hands. Of course Noah Puckerman can be gentle.
Sure, he can be an ass at times. Like the whole sexting-Santana-whilst-babysitting-with-me debacle. And the "I don't date fat girls" thing. But he's learnt, and he's matured too. He isn't a bullying jock anymore, just like I'm no longer a cruel, beauty-obsessed Cheerio.
It'll take work, and we'll probably hate each other sometimes, but I think that we'll cope. We'll survive. And maybe there'll be some laughter and good times along the way.
"What are we going to call her?" Noah asks, interrupting my thoughts. I blink, realising we haven't actually decided yet.
"I don't know, did you have an idea?" I ask, hoping to the heavens above that he won't suggest some dumbass moniker like "Drizzle". I refuse to give my baby girl a name that sounds both vaguely like a waffle-topping and a double-entendre rolled into two ridiculous syllables.
"How about…Naomi?" Noah suggests, and I exhale. Noah is not Finn. He is more of a douche, and yet more of a sweetheart, more of…well, everything, if I'm to be perfectly honest. I look at him, his beautiful hazel-flecked green eyes staring down at our daughter with utter devotion. She is perfect, and he is as close as he'll ever get. The two of them together are more than I could ever wish for.
"Naomi," I breathe softly. "It's perfect, Noah."
Slowly, he smiles. He hands back baby Naomi, kissing her on the forehead, and then he leans over and kisses me. When we finally break apart, all the nurses in the ward are staring at us and smiling devilishly at one another. I couldn't care, at that moment, whether they're saying good or bad stuff about us.
I have my family with me, and I know that makes it all – being a teenage mom, being a disappointment to my parents, being hated by the whole of the popular crowd at school – okay. I'm happy to accept that I'm a mother – Noah and I owe Naomi a good life. But I really do hope that it's not just that obligation that ensures that we stick it all out.
A few seconds later, when he tells me something that I'm not sure he's ever said to anyone but his mom or newborn daughter before (him being so "badass", and all), it all clicks into place.
"I love you, Quinn Fabray," he whispers into my ear.
"I love you too, Noah," I say. The "Puck" of yesterday is long-forgotten. "But you said it wrong."
"Huh?" Noah looks confused – as if he's worried he's got everything wrong. I laugh.
"Yeah," I say, my voice light, trying not to sound too serious or scary. I'm not sure how he'll react to this. "Shouldn't it be Quinn Puckerman?"
He laughs with a mixture of relief and surprise. "You wanna marry me?"
"Why not? We'll make it good."
"Hell yeah, baby. We'll weather it all," he agrees, a beaming smile tugging at his lips.
"Together," I add. "We'll weather it together."