A/N: I wrote a fic in one day! I never do that. Woo. For Faberry Week 2014 - Meeting Frannie. Title from "Sister" by Mumford & Sons.

"Okay, how does this one look?"

"Great." Quinn flicks to the next page in the magazine she's perusing.

Rachel stomps her foot. "You didn't even look."

Quinn glances up, one eyebrow raised, and then returns to the magazine. "Great."

"But you said that about all of them," Rachel huffs. "Well, except the white one."

"It had geese on it, Rachel," Quinn says, moving her magazine to the side and sitting up more fully. "Geese. Where do you even find a dress with geese on it?"

"The Internet," Rachel grumbles, turning to Quinn's full-length mirror and smoothing the front of her blue flowered dress. It's her sixth change, the five rejects folded neatly in the small suitcase—yes, a suitcase—she had brought with her to the Fabrays'.

Quinn appears behind her and wraps her arms around Rachel, resting her chin on the shorter girl's shoulder. "It doesn't matter what you wear, Rach. You don't need to be so nervous."

"Of course I need to be nervous! She's your sister," Rachel says, turning in Quinn's arms to place a chaste kiss on her lips before rummaging through the suitcase once more. She returns to the mirror with a hairbrush in hand. "While I think it is safe to say that I have undoubtedly made my way into your mother's good graces with what my dad refers to as the 'Berry charm,' with which he wooed my daddy and—"

"Rambling," Quinn interjects, playing with the ends of Rachel's hair.

"Right." Rachel turns to Quinn with wide, worried eyes. "What if she doesn't approve of me?"

"Approve of you in particular or approve of the fact that this is a very gay relationship?"

"Well, both."

Quinn swipes the brush and runs it through her own hair. "Rachel, she lives in Massachusetts."

"So?" Rachel moves to play with her earrings. "There are plenty of bigots who live in Massachusetts."

"Stop worrying," Quinn says, tossing the brush in the suitcase. Rachel shoots her a look and moves the brush back to its original position next to her makeup bag.

"But—"

"Quinnie!"

"Coming!" Quinn shouts and half-drags Rachel to the door. "Seriously, stop worrying."

Rachel takes a deep breath. "Okay."

Quinn gives her a last quick peck on the lips, then flicks a lock of Rachel's hair out of its place just to annoy her.

Frannie looks about the same as the last time Quinn had seen her two years ago when Quinn graduated from high school. Her hair—blond, like her mother's—is a bit longer, and she's wearing her glasses instead of contacts; otherwise, she hasn't much changed.

They've never been terribly close, mostly due to the six-year age difference between them and the fact that Russell blatantly favored Frannie over Quinn. Frannie had gone to college in Boston and then moved to Massachusetts permanently, so Quinn has only seen her on the occasional holiday or family event since age twelve.

It hits her, suddenly, that they've been living only about two and a half hours apart for the past two years and it never occurred to either of them to get together.

Maybe it's because Quinn had been spending every free weekend in New York City.

"Hi, Quinn," Frannie says warmly, pulling Quinn in for a hug.

"Hi," Quinn says, suddenly feeling a little bit of Rachel's apprehensions. "Frannie, this is Rachel. My, um, girlfriend." (It's not like Frannie doesn't know—it's on Quinn's Facebook, at Rachel's insistence. Frannie "liked" it, if Quinn remembers correctly.)

Rachel steps forward, smoothing her dress. "Hello," she says, extending her hand formally. "I'm Rachel Berry, and it is delightful to make your acquaintance."

Frannie looks at Rachel a little strangely for a moment, then pulls her in for a hug, too, chuckling at Rachel's "Oh!" of surprise.

Quinn and her mother exchange smiles.

"Rachel, did you know that when Quinn was four, she insisted that we call her 'Babar, King of the Elephants'?"

Rachel turns to Quinn with an eyebrow quirked—something Quinn totally taught her, thank you very much—and asks, "Really?"

"Yep," Frannie says, smirking wickedly at Quinn over her glass of water. "She had a crown made out of yellow construction paper and everything."

"Frannie, how is this story relevant?" Quinn says through gritted teeth.

"Didn't he marry his cousin?" Rachel asks.

Judy chuckles. "Yes."

Quinn shoots her a look. "Mom. Don't encourage her."

"I'm sure there's a picture in an album somewhere—"

"Rachel!" Quinn forces a smile, eager to steer the conversation in another direction. "Why don't we talk about you?"

"I—well..." Rachel gives her an odd look. "If you insist."

"Rachel sings," Quinn says. "Very well. She's amazing."

Rachel shrugs one shoulder. "In the name of modestly, I'm not going to confirm that, but I certainly cannot deny it."

"And she's a vegan," Quinn continues.

Frannie laughs. "Rachel, you have seen Quinn eat bacon, right? She's like a vacuum."
"I'm right here," Quinn reminds her sister, crossing her arms. Rachel places a reassuring hand on her arm.

"While I don't necessarily agree with some of Quinn's... lifestyle choices, I accept that not everybody shares my views," Rachel says.

"That's what my aunt said to me when I came out to her," Quinn mutters.

"When we were younger and stayed in hotels with breakfast buffets, Quinn would fill her plate with bacon. That's it—just bacon," Frannie says, and Rachel wrinkles her nose a little bit.

"Who wants dessert?" Quinn says a little bit louder than necessary, standing up. "I made a vegan carrot cake."

Rachel squeezes her hand. "I'd love some, thank you." Quinn smiles at her affectionately and turns toward the kitchen.

"Rachel, did Quinn ever tell you about the time she almost burned the house down?"

"You know," Rachel says as she slides into bed beside Quinn, "you were right."

"I'm always right," Quinn mumbles, wrapping her arms around Rachel and nuzzling into her shoulder.

Rachel ignores her. "I needn't have been worried about meeting Frannie at all. She's lovely."

"She's evil," Quinn grumbles. "This is why I can't have nice things."

"You have plenty of nice things. You have me," Rachel says, smiling.

"Mhm, I have you," Quinn agrees, kissing her softly.

Rachel pulls back, trying (and failing) to suppress a smile. "But really, Quinn? King of the Elephants?"

Rachel's indignant squeal is muffled by the pillow Quinn thumps over her face.

A/N 2: The Babar story may or may not be a true chapter of my childhood—and there may or may not be pictures.