A/N: This will most likely be two chapters, I'm thinking...I was going to make it a one shot, but I think it will be more effective with a few chapters.
Basically, it's a "What if...." fic. As I said in my summary, it's an AU that takes place pre-Mattress/Sections.
She is intently scrubbing the surface of her desk when her phone rings. The sudden noise causes her to jump, and she blushes as she disposes of her Clorox wipe, pushing away the illicit day dream that has crept into her mind.
Will always finds his way into her musings, especially on these lonely afternoons she spends cleaning her office. She relishes each forbidden fantasy, though she tries ineffectively to chastise herself for these frivolous thoughts. Her flawless exterior is much cleaner the murky interior of her mind.
She tentatively picks up her phone, clearing her throat before she answers. "Emma Pillsbury here." She can still taste the guilt in throat, and she wonders if it spills out in her words.
"Yes, Emma, this is Gloria," the American History teacher answers, sounding slightly on edge as she says the words. "Right now, I have Quinn Fabray sobbing in my classroom. As soon as I handed out the test, she started crying hysterically. I thought it would be best if I sent her down to guidance."
"Yes, send her right away," Emma tells her, an air of confidence in her voice. She is pleased to have a distraction for the remainder of this afternoon, and she counts Quinn Fabray's meltdown, no matter how unfortunate it may be, as a small blessing in disguise.
Emma is pathetic.
She is well aware of that fact, and she tries desperately not to dwell too deeply on this. Her obsessive cleaning helps distract her—helps to keep her sane, as does her job, which is a constant mess of emotions and brokenness that Emma ardently tries to put neatly into order.
If Emma can't fix her own life, she can settle with fixing others'.
Quinn trudges into her doorway only minutes later, her face blotchy with the tears she is trying to hide. Like Emma, she is no good at covering up the fact that she has been crying, and Emma's heart is filled with empathy.
Quinn makes no move to enter the office as she leans on the door frame, staring down awkwardly at her swollen stomach.
Emma doesn't bother to smile as she welcomes Quinn to join her. There is no point in putting on a happy façade. Emma knows that teenagers do not wish to be treated as small children, and telling them that everything is going to be all right is no way to soothe them. They need honesty so that they will in turn be honest with her. They need to trust her and not write her off as another meddling adult if they are to accomplish anything. She must delve to the crux of the problem, allowing their mess to become her mess, and slowly they must work together to mend the brokenness.
Quinn enters, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chair across from Emma's desk. Emma smoothes her skirt, leaning forward as she rests her chin gently in the palm of her hand. She is silent as she allows Quinn to speak first. Often, she finds it best of the student address the problem before she does.
Sure enough, Quinn lifts her face, tears still edging her voice, as she tells Emma, "I really don't want to talk right now, Miss Pillsbury."
"You know, anything you tell me in here is kept just between the two of us…unless you tell me something that leads me to believe you are going to harm yourself or others. It can help a lot just to talk about what's on your mind without the fear that you're going to be judged." This line draws a lot of kids in. Knowing they have a safe place to spill their insecurities is often a relief.
"Well," Quinn thoughtfully skims her tongue across her lips, daring to catch Emma's gaze. She takes the bait, and Emma can tell that an immense burden has been lifted just at the mere thought of sharing her load. "It would be nice just to get it out…"
Again, Emma says nothing, only prodding Quinn with her wide doe eyes, which are filled with the utmost sympathy and concern.
Quinn sighs, playing with the chastity ring on her fourth finger, daring to glace up at the guidance counselor's face.
"Mrs. Schuester isn't really pregnant."