A/N: Written for the following prompt that hollowdheart sent me over on Tumblr: *AU of 3x02: Rachel finds Quinn looking at Beth's picture and comforts her.* Don't know if this is exactly what you had in mind, but hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: Glee does not belong to me. This fic is unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine.

"Quinn?"

The voice is far away. My mind, though distracted beyond belief by Shelby's phone in my hands, registers the noise. Sounds familiar, like a certain someone who I've tortured endlessly for the past few years.

"Quinn?"

The voice is closer now. I hold my breath, somehow thinking that if I do it'll make me disappear. Of course that can't happen, though, and before I know it she's standing behind me. I feel a soft hand place itself on my shoulder. It rests there gently and I barely feel it. I blink back a few tears that are threatening to fall and turn my head. Yep. Definitely her.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. The words surprise me despite them coming out of my own mouth. I sound weak, pathetic. I hardly ever let anyone see my vulnerable side. And to think that I'm exposing myself to Rachel? It's just not that heard of.

"I-I wanted to check on you." She seems nervous, almost as if she's doubting herself. Odd. I don't think I've ever seen Rachel Berry question her actions. She's usually so self-assured, too self-assured. It makes people hate her. It's what has made me hate her. All those slushies, the incessant name-calling, the pornographic pictures (well, those can be credited to something a bit different); they were all reactions to that constant conviction of herself. It's not fair. Why should she be able to walk around like she owns this place when I'm so much better?

Well. When I was so much better.

Now? The pink hair, the Skanks, the smoking, the nearly-drowning-freshmen-in-toilets-just-to-get-a-few-extra-bucks? I guess my new self isn't much better than Rachel. But…no. It doesn't matter. This is me. This new, redefined Quinn has finally emerged after countless attempts to discover her true self. I went through the Lucy Caboosey stage (hated myself) and then came Quinn. Perfect, blonde, dating-the-football-stud Quinn. Guess what? Maybe hated myself even more than I did Lucy. Is that possible? Evidently it was.

All of a sudden Skank-Quinn snaps back into place. I straighten up, interlocking my fingers and stretching them out, cracking each knuckle. Rachel flinches and goes to move in front of me. Oh crap, Shelby's phone. I quickly shove the phone behind my back. She doesn't see it, as she's now facing me. That was a close one.

"What happened to you, Quinn? Huh? You seemed to be doing really well last year. I thought…I thought that you were back to your old self. But then senior year starts and…this?" She gestures to me. For some unexplained reason, I shrink back into myself. No. Stop it. Skank-Quinn isn't afraid of pitiable, meaningless Rachel Berrys. She only cares about her new friends (to an extent; they don't really care for each other, per se, they just tolerate each other), getting money to buy her new addiction without her mother finding out she's smoking, and staying away from Santana and Brittany.

This. Damn it. I clench my fists in order to keep the tears from falling. That's one of Skank-Quinn's worst regrets, shutting out Santana and Brittany. The Latina said it best herself: You can't break up the Unholy Trinity. But shit. That's just what she did.

"Rachel. Don't," I manage to hiss. Good. My voice is slightly more intimidating than before.

"Why not, Quinn? I just want to know what happened. It seemed like you were finally back on track last year."

"Back on track?" I'm appalled. How dare she tell me what I was going through. That's none of her damn business. "You really think I was back to my old self last year?"

I notice her shaking frame but ignore the feelings of guilt pouring through me. I hate taking my stress out on her, just because she's not really that much of a bad person. Sure, she's bossy and self-centered and conceited and a whole bunch of other annoying things, but you can't blame a girl for trying. And that's what she does. She tries. A lot. A whole hell of a lot. It just doesn't always come across the right way. Most of the time her attitude causes some top-of-the-social-pyramid jerk to throw one of those blasted slushies in her face. In this way I can sympathize with her; I've been slushied. And it hurts like hell. And then when the ice gets…down there? Yeah. You know what I mean. It's one of the most uncomfortable feelings you'll ever experience.

"Yes, Quinn, I do. You were back at the top. I don't know how it happened, but it did. You managed to become the teenage slut who gets pregnant—sending a terrible message to everyone, by the way—and then work your way back to top bitch at McKinley in about a year. Talk about uncommon," she mutters.

Part of me, probably the Lucy Caboosey side, wants to embrace her. She looks broken, as if she can hardly believe it herself. I know that my re-rise to popularity crushed her inside. We were actually semi-friends sophomore year, when I had no one to talk to and nowhere to go. And then I have Be—her, and it's like nothing ever changed. I have to admit, I'm still as shocked as she was or apparently is. Even today, senior year, it's hard to imagine that I am—er, was—back at the top.

Another part of me, I'd guess it's the inner junior-year Quinn showing, is furious at her. How can she stand there and tell me that I was back to my old self? My old self was an ugly, overweight excuse of a girl. Was I ever really that perfect blonde, that one that's oh so typically cliché? No. I honestly don't think I was. It kills me to think like that, but who am I kidding? It's the pathetic truth.

"Rachel. Look." I sigh. It's as if all of a sudden all my energy has been deflated out of me. I can't even place this Quinn, but it's certainly not Skank material. It's not even Lucy. What the hell is happening to me? Am I really softening up in front of Rachel Berry?

"Quinn," she interrupts. I'm slightly taken aback at the renewed confidence in her voice but I let her continue. I tug at the chains around my neck and pick at my black-polished nails. My black headwrap slash hat (the one the Skanks said would complete my Skankiness) begins sliding off my head. I fix it and realize too late the same hand I'm adjusting the hat with is the one that holds Shelby's phone. Ohhh shit.

"What was that?" Rachel asks quickly as I try to hastily shove the phone behind my back once again.

"Nothing, Manhands, drop it," I mumble. Out of the corner of my eye I see her cringe at the nickname, but she instantly composes herself. I wince myself, only the tiniest bit, but it's there. I feel bad calling her names when she's trying to be supportive. What can I say? Part of me is just natural bitch. It's a bit of a downfall, I must admit.

"No. I-I knew there was something bothering you and that kind of confirms it." She's back to stuttering and I roll my eyes; can this girl get a grip on her emotions? Then I stop and berate myself. I shouldn't exactly be one to talk. But wait. Did she…?

"What are you talking about?"

"The phone. It's...it's my…mom's, right?" She shifts uncomfortably at referring to Shelby as a parental figure and I don't blame her. I really do feel bad for the girl…sometimes. I couldn't imagine growing up not knowing who my mom is…now if it was my dad, that'd be a different story. But my mom's actually been pulling some of her weight, and it almost hurts to think of life without her in it.

"Rachel." My voice is down to a mere whisper. I can hardly recognize it; it's so un-Quinn like. "Please don't do this."

Ignoring me, she continues, shaking her head. "Quinn. I'm doing this because I care. You obviously need someone to talk to right now, and I'm offering up my services. If you really want me to leave then I will. But judging by the fact that we're still standing here, I get the feeling you do want to talk."

Damn it, Rachel. Why are you so smart sometimes?

I say nothing. Instead, I mentally enclose myself in a bubble of silence, ready to disappear the moment she starts talking about things too painful, too deep.

"This is about Beth, isn't it?" Well great. Didn't really expect to need the confines of my bubble quite yet.

I don't answer; I don't think I can. I'm afraid that any words out of my mouth would turn into rivers—no, oceans—of tears. Either that or I'd break down into Rachel's arms, crying all the same. Wouldn't that be an image? I'd have to make sure to dispose of any security footage. McKinley gets a hold of something like that—Quinn Fabray opening herself to Rachel Berry—and there'd be riots. It'd be madness. Pure madness.

"Why do you care about Beth?"

"Because, Quinn," she starts carefully, "you're obviously still being affected from her birth and most likely her adoption, as well. I can't even imagine what you…"

"Went through?" I snap. She nods. "Yeah. You wouldn't, would you? Now listen close, Rachel." I lean in towards her and a new surge of anger rises in my throat. I can feel it bubbling up to the surface and I whisper into her ear, breathily.

"You don't get to care, okay? I don't understand why you do. You were the one who let slip the truth of my pregnancy! You're mean, Rachel. You're bossy. All you do is steal solos from everyone even if they're better than you. Which, by the way, more than half the time they are. You're just too self-absorbed to realize it. So get this through your head, okay? You. Don't. Get. To. Care."

I'm practically spitting in her ear and I back up, my breathing labored. I didn't mean to lose it like that but I have so much pent up anger that I couldn't help it. I steal a glance at her face. It's frozen, shock and something unreadable written all over it. My insides immediately turn all gooey. My conscience gurgles with regret. Shit. I shouldn't have said any of that. She's actually trying to help me. That's right. Someone has the decency to ask me if I'm alright yet I shoot them down, screaming in their face about irrelevant crap.

All of a sudden, with no warning whatsoever, Rachel's steaming, yelling her head off about stuff I can't even comprehend. That's how fast she's going. I shake my head, trying to get my bearings. I've never seen her so worked up. Fat tears are rolling down her face and I can't help but to reach out for her.

"No," she bites out. She pushes my hand away and I recoil, backing up. It must look weird. This short girl in a mega ugly argyle sweater and a checkered skirt, complete with knee-high socks swatting at a taller girl dressed from head to toe in nothing but badass attire. Must be an image. If the situation weren't so serious, I'd probably be laughing my head off.

"You listen to me, Quinn Fabray. You think I'm the bitch? Look at you! You had to get a nose job and transfer schools just to feel good about yourself. You had to turn into someone you're not, just to have the will to live. You're constantly calling me and the rest of the glee club names. You sabotage people. Granted not as much as Santana, but you still do. You slushy people. Maybe not anymore; at least something good came out of your pregnancy."

This time it's my turn to be silent. I should be pissed right now, right? But I'm not. For some strange reason I'm not. Because she's right. She's absolutely freaking right. About everything.

"Rachel," I blubber and before I know it, her arms are wrapped around me.

"Shh," she coos into my ear. "It's going to be okay, it's all going to be okay."

"No. N-no it's n-not." I can hardly create words right now, let alone tangible sentences. It's weird. Here we are, having just yelled at each for the past twenty minutes or so, and now she's hugging me like there's no tomorrow. We certainly have an interesting relationship, I can tell you that.

"I can't be a part of her life, I just can't."

"What?" Rachel sounds genuinely confused and I reluctantly pull back, not letting go of her arms. I stare into her face to check for any hints of mocking but her expression is one-hundred percent honest.

"Shelby…your mom. She came back because she got a job; that you know." She nods and urges me to continue. It's hard to speak around my spluttering voice, my tear-stained face. I do though, and the words make my heart hurt and I feel like it's shattering all over again. I never thought I'd experience heartache through the form of someone other than a boy, but evidently a child can make you feel pain you never think you're going to feel.

"She…she wants me to be a part of Beth's life. But not like this. She w-wants me to clean up my act, go back to my old self." A thick sarcasm coats my voice and Rachel bows her head guiltily.

"So what's the problem with that? Don't you want to be in her life? Don't you want to meet her?" I can't answer her. Answers rise and fall in my throat and it takes all I have to not open my mouth in fear of saying the wrong thing. Of course I want to be a part of her life. Of course I want to meet her. But it's not that easy. Why doesn't anyone understand that? The only person that might understand me I shot down. And I don't know if I'll be able to impress Shelby anyway, not after her seeing me like I am. Damn Skank-Quinn. Why do you have to be so freaking stupid sometimes? I've probably lost any chance I have at ever meeting my daughter.

"Quinn." Rachel's gentle voice sounds and I'm snapped out of my thoughts. "You have to see her. You have to clean up, just so you can see her. You know that, right?"

I shove the picture of Beth in Rachel's face, the screen of Shelby's phone pressed right against her nose.

"This is her," I mumble out. I look down at the ground. For some reason I can't stand to look at Rachel's reaction.

"She's beautiful, Quinn. She looks just like you," Rachel breathes. I swear she's smiling; there's that way someone talks that you just know they're smiling the slightest of bits or grinning like a madman.

"Yeah, well, whatever."

Rachel reaches for the phone but I snatch it away. She lowers her hands. "I see Puck visited her."

I muffle something unclear and Rachel leans in to hear me better.

"Stop," I say, wanting to push her away again but not having the energy to do it. I don't think I've ever felt this emotionally exhausted and all I feel like doing is going home, taking a hot shower, and crawling in bed. I'll probably end up drowning myself in depressing music, full blast.

"You have to see her." Why is she doing this? She keeps pushing me. She doesn't get it, she just doesn't understand. I can't see her. It'll bring back to much emotion, too much regret and affliction and a whole bunch of other feelings that I can't bring myself to face.

"Why do you keep saying that, Rachel? Huh? How the hell would you know that I have to see her?"

"BECAUSE!" She all but nearly shouts it at the top of her lungs. She stomps her foot to the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. I wouldn't be surprised if a teacher burst his or her way in here to make sure no murder took place.

I cower back; sure Rachel's loud and isn't afraid to speak her mind, but I don't think I've ever seen her this mad. She's legitimately angry. I'm not exactly sure why, though.

"I know what it's like to grow up without a mother! I know what it's like to find out, sixteen years into your life, who she is. And let me tell you this; it's not fun. It hurts. It's as if you're finally realizing that you do have a mom but she doesn't care about you. It's hard to even look her in the eyes because you know she once gave you up. And you think this is easy for me? Comforting you? Your baby, Quinn, replaced me. Yet I'm still here, trying to get you to see her, so she doesn't grow up with the same confusion I did."

"Rachel…" I can't say anything. I just keep repeating her name. But really. What are you supposed to say in response to something like that?

She wipes a light sheen of sweat from her forehead and takes a few deep breaths. A few tears are growing at the corners of her eyes but she pushes them away.

"Look, Quinn. I'm sorry, okay? I don't want you to feel bad about yourself and I especially hope you don't go visit her just because I've guilted you into it. But…just think about it? Please? I may not ever meet Beth—especially because she is my mother's adoptive child and I'm not quite ready to brave that whole situation yet—but I want her to have the best life possible."

"Wow," I murmur under my breath.

"What was that?"

"I just…wow. I don't think anyone's ever shown that much concern for me before."

Rachel laughs lightly. I look up and give her a puzzled cock of my head; this hardly seems to be the time for laughter. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just, well, more people care about you than you think, Quinn. The whole glee club loves you and, even though you're not in glee anymore, I can guarantee you that they still care."

I scoff. "Yeah right. Why would they care? They probably hate me. All I've ever done to them is bitch out."

"Well…sure. That may be true, but that doesn't mean they don't care. We're a family, you know that. Families fight and argue but they still love each other, no matter what."

I take this into consideration. She does have a point. Mercedes was there for me when I was kicked out of my own home. Santana and Brittany, though I acted like a complete jerk towards them, still want me back. Puck wants me to clean up my act and not just because he wants to see Beth. He already got to. He cares, profoundly so. He wants what's best for me. And then there's Rachel, who's standing in front of the girl who made her life a living hell for the entirety of high school, trying to give me advice.

I sigh and slide to the ground, leaning against the piano. Rachel does the same, cautiously, and moves in closer to me. We sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence. It's not awkward at all, oddly enough.

"Quinn?" Rachel says suddenly, softly, though between the extended quiet and the stillness of the room it seems as if she's shouting.

"Yeah?"

"I-I hope you know that I'm here for you, whenever you need me."

I take a minute to breathe in and out. "Yeah, I know."

"Okay. Good. Because whether you want to believe it or not, I do care about you."

"Thank you," I whisper after another moment of peacefulness. And then, something that's been on my mind: "Rachel?" I start. She rests her head against my shoulder and I don't make her move. It's surprisingly relaxing, having her weight pressed upon me. I think I could get used to this. It's not often that I've had a friend that I've been able to talk to, to cuddle with. Santana, Brittany, and I didn't particularly open ourselves up to each other. It was more of an aggressive best friendship, just because I was the top cheerleader, the most popular girl in school, and Santana and Brittany were my minions of sorts.

"Hmm?" Rachel murmurs into my neck.

"Can…can I come back to glee?"

I feel her smile against me; her lips upturn and it makes my shoulder twitch pleasantly.

"Of course you can, Quinn. Of course you can."

I don't need to say thank you, she knows that I'm more grateful than I've probably ever been. We just sit there, Shelby's phone gripped tightly in my left hand, Rachel's head resting upon my shoulder. It's nice. And even though nothing is close to being alright, I know that today, this talk with Rachel, it was progress. And for that I'm happy. I smile a real smile and it feels like the first one since sophomore year, when I was pregnant. Rachel reciprocates the smile and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are closed and she seems content. Good. I want her to be happy. I've been such a bitch to her; she really does deserve this moment of calm.

Thank you, Rachel, I think to myself. And, as if she can read my mind, I hear a 'you're welcome' being whispered through the still air. This is good. This is perfect. This is just what I needed: a friend.

Note: Please review; getting input on my writing not only helps me write better, but it also gives me motivation to write more. Thanks for reading!