A/N: I know I am in the middle of a couple of in progress stories (which you should read -cough-) right now, but this wouldn't go away. So here it is.

Reviews make me immensely happy, and we'll both need some happy by the time you're done reading this.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or its affiliates. Nor do I profit from them.

Enjoy (sort of) and leave a review!

He sighs and can't stop, just like he can't stop swirling the whiskey in his glass. He can't even stop sipping it. Can't stop the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, swimming in his head. In his veins. So he does the only thing he can, he takes a sip. And then he's back. He's back and his breath is rasping and everything is all wrong.

Finn glances around self-consciously, noting all the buzzing and bustling people, engaged in meaningless conversation. He feels jittery; like his heart won't quite sit still. But then he thinks that and knows he deserves a facepalm. Of course he doesn't want his heart to stay still, but jeez. Okay, so it's more like his heart is beating too fast and his eyes are slightly out of focus and mostly he's just worried. He's so bent out of shape about it; he barely remembers why he's worried in the first place. But then he remembers. And it's the first time they've been to an event like this since she—since they, oh God. Oh shit. It's still too much to take in; he can't think. Doesn't want to. Are people staring? Do they know? He can't remember what Rachel is wearing. And he knows if he looks, another wave of nausea and fear will hit him. It will ruin the night and Rachel will hate him forever. This could be her big break, she had told him on the drive over. Their big break. Well…after. There isn't much she can do now, except publicize and gather support. That's what she says anyway, and Finn believes her because if he can't believe her, it's like not being able to believe in life.

He must be really wrapped up in his thoughts, he realizes, because Rachel's been with him the whole time, clinging on to his sweaty hand. Nervous sweaty. It's January. He can't just sweat in the middle of January without a catalyst. And this party, this situation is more than enough to have him on edge, his nerves sort of dangling uselessly from all the things he wants to think and feel. But it doesn't matter. All that matters is Rachel and her decision. He doesn't want to tell her how wrong people might think this is. She's only twenty-one, after all. They aren't married. And oh, God, have people noticed yet? He risks a glance down at his girlfriend; she looks fine. Of course she does. She always looks fine. "Relax," she whispers, gently skimming the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. Relax? How can he relax? Does she even know what she is asking him to do? But she wants this night and he wants to let her have it. He really does. So he tries. And he really is trying. But then a man in a suit offers her champagne and she accepts gracefully and now he's not relaxed at all. He doesn't get it.

"Rachel," he hisses near her ear. "What are you thinking?" And what is she thinking? What are both of them thinking? He reaches for the glass, but she moves her arm too quickly and he misses. Just like he misses almost everything.

"Relax," she repeats, this time a bit more sternly. "I don't plan to drink it. But it's rude to not accept gifts or offerings, especially at these kinds of events. I don't want any of my potential future agents to note me as ungrateful or aloof. And Finn," she adds, "don't worry so much. We'll be fine, all three of us."

He raises her hand to his lips and murmurs softly, but she doesn't catch it. He looks at her again. "Asking me not to worry is asking too much of me. It's my job."

He watches as her eyes soften and her lips part a little. Then she smiles, and maybe she's right. Maybe he should relax. No one has said anything yet, whether or not they've figured it out, he doesn't really know. "Your job is to love me, Finn. No matter what."

"I do." And he does. He knows whatever happens, especially in the next five months, he loves her. And that love will carry him through all the negatives, all the undesirables. That's one thing she doesn't have to worry about, he assures her. He loves her even though he's not sure how to feel about the fact that she keeps placing her hand tentatively on her stomach every few minutes. Is no one really observing this? She's starting to show. On some people, it wouldn't be so obvious. But Rachel's always been small and had a lithe and fluid body. Yes, she had chosen a dress that flowed around her flatteringly, obscuring the roundness now characterizing her belly. Of course it's not like it was in high school and not as humiliating. And even though he's mostly grown out of the tendencies he had back them, some insecurities remain. He's not sure what people will think; he just hopes people are more willing to look past the fact that their baby will be born out of wedlock. Because people can see that he and Rachel are in love, right? As in love as it gets. Shouldn't that be what matters?

She's still smiling, her lips pink and full and the look she gives him kind of says it all, he thinks. They can get through this; he's really starting to come around to that. They can get through anything. They've been through worse. Certainly this is new for her and mostly new for him, and he still has all these fears and doubts, but he's trying. It's just that, they're both still in school. He's still got two years to go on his MBA and she's still getting her name out there with two years of theatre and music concentrations to go. They have rent, utilities, food, loans, how can they afford a little girl? A beautiful baby girl, with Rachel's big brown eyes, he hopes. But neither of them have that great of jobs. She works at a small fashion boutique on their street, working the register from six to ten on week nights. He's in the camping department of an outdoor gear store, salvaging whatever hours he can manage. Together, they can manage to scrape together enough to just take care of everything each month and see a new performance of a Broadway show on Fridays. He's pretty sure they'll have to give up this tradition and he wonders idly if Rachel knows that. As it is, she'll have to start working on weekends too. And what if someone here tonight does notice her and does like her? What if she gets a role, even a minor one? Will she still be able to commit to taking care of the baby? Their baby? But she would get paid a lot better if she does, he acknowledges a little grudgingly. And then he's almost positive that's why she's so adamant about being here tonight.

She wants to catch a break. And he can relate; he lives for breaks. He doesn't know what to do now, but it seems like Rachel wants to mingle. And while all he wants to do is keep her close and keep her safe and keep her away from any potential prejudices about their situation, he knows he can't. Saying that will offend her and he wants her to be happy; he wants her dreams to come true. And if they do, then his own dreams will come true, because all he wants anymore is for her to get everything she's ever wanted. So he kisses her temple and goes to find himself a beer. He doesn't drink with her, out of respect. And he mostly doesn't drink at all for right now, at least not until she can. But right now he doesn't think he can get through the rest of the night unaided.

He doesn't know anyone here, he's sure of it. Besides, Rachel of course. He doesn't do fancy parties and his suit is so uncomfortable now. He pulls at the tie because it's restricting. He chokes and chokes and it's like all the humming voices and bright colors of dresses are messing with his head. He ditches the beer in favor of water. Leaving the still mostly full bottle on the table next to him, he searches for a bathroom. It's juvenile and probably unsanitary and he knows it, but he slurps water from the running faucet, reveling in the cool sensation. He cups the water in his hands and splashes it on his face; he needs to get it together. But he doesn't care. He's going to find Rachel. He'll just mingle with her, show all those agent guys that she's already got fans; a support base. He just hopes she won't mind.

She doesn't. In fact, she's delighted. She loves to make introductions. "Hello, I'm Rachel Berry and this is the love of my life, Finn Hudson," she greets every time before launching into conversation about theater roles and Finn can feel his palms getting sweaty again. The wife of the influential agent they're talking to keeps glancing disdainfully at Rachel's stomach and Finn's blood is boiling. And he's going to explode or implode or just collapse from all the pressure. But Rachel doesn't even notice; she's just chatting brightly and busily about her qualifications and being charming. And he's got ice in his eyes and venom in his mouth and he's tired of the judgments. These people don't know him or her or anything about their lives. It's not like they planned to get pregnant. At least not now. He always thought after she'd won her first Tony and he'd opened a small business, they could get married and start raising a family. But as they were wont to in his life, things hadn't gone as planned.

He had come home one day to a hysterical Rachel and he'd been just as floored to hear the news. She was on birth control; they'd been doing everything right. And he'd felt the familiarity of asking, "Are you gonna get a…?" And just like before, there was a tearful head shake no. And this time he isn't elated either, but he doesn't feel quite so helpless and at least he knows it's actually his. But even though he tries to take Rachel's advice or her orders, he still worries. He's connected to Rachel and in some ways to their baby, though he doesn't want to let that all the way in. If things don't or can't work out, losing her will be too much for him to bear. So he doesn't think about it.

They're on their fifth agent now. All the previous ones had said she had good chances, but since she was Rachel, she wants to be prepared. So they keep mingling and he's pretty sure his hand is clamping hard enough around Rachel's to bruise the delicate skin there, but she doesn't say anything. So neither does he. He's only got a tenuous grip on his emotions right now, so holding onto her provides some kind of balance. The kind of balance he needs. He thinks of how she'll be holding his hand just like this when their little girl is born, except there'll be more screaming and crying then. And blood. He'd seen the way Puck had looked at Quinn when Beth was born. And he does want that; he wants to look at Rachel and their little miracle, but he doesn't want a repeat of what happened last month. He doesn't think he can handle it.

They had gone to a wedding shower for a mutual friend and everything had seemed normal. Everyone brought gifts and congratulations and Finn felt awkward and girly because there were only like six other guys there. But he went anyway, for Rachel. And she was so happy, talking animatedly to Cheryl about how wonderful it was that she was getting married. But of course, all of Cheryl's exceedingly conservative family had been there. Finn had only been a little bit worried there, and pretty much all of it was about Rachel and the baby's safety. He didn't even consider how inappropriate some people would think of his and Rachel's ordeal. So he'd eaten the h'ordeuvres and kept up light conversation, giving his congrats to Cheryl and Dan. But the bride-to-be's mother, Marie, had made her way over to them. "How long have you two been married?" she had asked, seemingly polite, after the initial small talk. And it all went downhill from there.

Rachel had looked taken aback. "Oh, why, we're not married, Miss." Finn had stared stupidly, as he often did, and bit his tongue when Marie looked down her nose at them. He'd clutched Rachel's fingers, indicating his eternal support. His mom hadn't been this angry or angry at all, actually. And even Rachel's dads had accepted it.

"And don't you both feel atrocious living lives of depravity and sin?" she had sneered. Finn didn't know what some of that meant, but he knew how to pick up vibes. And he definitely wasn't sensing good ones. But before either he or his girlfriend could respond, Marie had called her husband over. He looked at his wife perplexedly, and Finn could feel Marie's consternation boring holes into his head. She gestured to the bump stretching the fabric of Rachel's shirt. Misunderstanding, John had given them a congratulatory smile. And then his face hardened as his wife whispered something that sounded suspiciously like "Note the lack of a band on her left ring finger" in his ear.

John sucked in a deep breath. "You're disgraceful!" he boomed. Everyone at the party turned and stared in their direction. "Both of you! Succumbing to eternal damnation!" He scanned the crowd, as if making sure he had an audience. " I will not have you influencing bad decisions on my daughter. You're not welcome here." Tears had gathered in Rachel's eyes and Finn had been flabbergasted. They turned to Cheryl in unison and, with her eyes downcast, she imparted her father's judgment.

"I'm sorry," their friend whispered before turning around to leave. With gritted teeth, Finn had led Rachel to his car, offering succor to soothe her. It had taken the next two weeks for her to return to her pert, perky self again. And Finn doesn't want to go through that again. He scoffs bitterly.

He knows New York is a big place and there's little chance he'll ever run into any of those people again, but it still annoys him. And it still strikes fear in his heart for the future. They aren't bad people. Marriage doesn't raise a kid successfully, loving and caring parents do. And he's confident they can be both of those things. Why does it matter so much to other people anyway, he wonders? What business is it of theirs? And how can it possibly affect them? Are people really that insistent upon their hypocritical morals? He knows no one ever fully practices what they preach, which is why he tries not to preach overmuch. Mistakes are common ground with him; they're a part of him. He wishes other people would hold a similar viewpoint.

Not that he thinks of their little girl as a mistake, necessarily. But unexpected, definitely. So when déjà vu hits and he hears "So, how long have you two been married?" in the conversation he's been failing to pay attention to, his eyes snap to Rachel. She doesn't hesitate. "Just over a year," she says, doing her best to smile proudly. Finn tries to mask his surprise at her white lie and covers it with a grin to match hers. The couple they're talking to smile in return and the woman asks if they've thought of baby names yet. And then Finn's head is pounding. This is wrong. All wrong. They're not married. They decided not to get married yet because it's too cliché and they didn't want to be one of those couples who got married because they thought it was right and conventional. They want to get married when the time is right and now he's more confused than ever because Rachel says no, no they haven't thought of any baby names yet. But they did. They talk about possibilities every night while they're lying in bed, watching the ceiling and circling their limbs around each other. He likes Ashlyn or Jade or Charisma. She always says she doesn't know, but she likes Nadia and Angela and Cecilia. In his head, Finn calls her Cecilia Jade, but he never says anything out loud. He will though, he promises himself. He likes the way it sounds, how pleasing it is to say. But here, now, she's telling these jackasses that they don't have names. Is she doubting him? Doubting baby Cecilia? But she's the one who wanted to keep her; she's the non-worrier. But before he can question her, she pulls him away.

Now they're standing near a corner and she looks up with a tear in her eye. And now he doesn't care that she lied; he only wants to take her away from her sadness and what caused it. "What's wrong, baby?" he asks, burying his head in her hair.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is soft, searching for underlying anger in Finn. He tells her not to worry, just as she had done hours ago. With a grateful smile, she plants Finn's hands on her belly. And just like it always does, his heart kicks wildly and his knees feel weak when he feels baby Cecilia thrashing inside Rachel's stomach. "Let's go home," she suggests.

He doesn't disagree. She wants to drive. He doesn't think it's a good idea and really, he hasn't had much to drink, but she insists. And he had learned long ago to give in to her. She doesn't turn on music and he doesn't push her to. But the silence is okay, he thinks. It's not an awkward or angry silence; it's a reflective silence and he doesn't want to break that. Besides, he needs the time to think. Were people forever going to be asking and judging and just generally intruding on their life? He loves Rachel and he knows they'll find a way to make it work with their child, because that's just how they are.

He figures she's deep in thought too because she doesn't see. She doesn't see the car, swerving dangerously, head on. He screams but she looks too late. She tries to maneuver the car around the rapidly approaching out-of-control vehicle. But it's dark and it's cold and the roads are icy with winter. She hits a patch of black ice and they're both panicking frenziedly as they spin. And now he can't tell if the car is still spinning or if it's just his head. But then he notices that the opposing headlights are gone and their car is smashed against the guardrail. And oh shit. No. No no no no. He looks at Rachel and can't tell if he can see her chest rising in falling in formation or if it's just the haze of tears blurring his vision. He needs to get out. Out. Now. He climbs achingly out the passenger window, amazed that he's still capable of coherent thought, even though his jaw is killing him. The air bag had failed him and he'd smashed his face against the dashboard. But it's secondary. What matters right now is Rachel. Limping over to the driver's side, he unsuccessfully tries to pry open the door. So he does the next best thing; he drags her through the smashed window.

Setting her tentatively on the pavement, he fails to notice that a car had stopped behind him. Ignoring (and not hearing) the calls to see if he's okay, he brings his head down to Rachel's chest, not feeling any movement. She's not breathing, she's not breathing, she's not—oh God. No. He shouldn't have agreed to go home. Or he should have driven. No. This can't be happening, his brain screams. It's not. It's not. He's home and in bed. He's lying next to Rachel, in the midst of a terrible nightmare. The worst. He can open his eyes and find her, breathing lightly beside him. He tries. And tries and tries. But it doesn't work. He always ends up back here, leaning over an unbreathing Rachel. He listens for a heartbeat; all he wants is a sign of hope. Just one. Just a little one. And before he even knows it, he's praying. He's not explicitly religious, but this is different. This is Rachel.

Maybe he's the one who's not breathing? Is he dead? He doubts it. It seems like if he were dead, he would hurt a lot less. Because all he can feel now is hurt, a dull ache in his legs and jaw, but a massive, wrenching hole when he tries to think of life without Rachel. Can life even exist without her? He doesn't think so. He doesn't want to think; he just wants to hear her voice. Just wants her to tell him that she's okay. She's okay, he tells himself, ignoring the fact that he can't feel her heartbeat. It's a fluke; it's God playing a trick on him for not being completely of faith. It has to be. Rachel doesn't die. She can't. Not until she's ninety-six and has collected over twenty-five Tony awards from numerous Broadway roles. And after their kids have kids who have kids and they're old and gray and fragile, but still very much in love. And then she'll just know when it's time to go, and she'll be rocking in her rocking chair and take his hand and he'll know. And then there will be peace. That's how it's got to happen. She'd told him that. And Rachel's plans were unarguable. So it's not real, it's not happening. Because he's still mostly fine and if he is, then she has to be. How would he even be able to go on without her?

She's not drunk, he knows that. No intoxication impairing her senses. But he sees blood on her face that he hadn't noticed before, notes the expression of shock contorting her beautiful facial features. Then he sees something else. Light. Lights? Angels? Are angels coming for Rachel? He had tried to pray. But he knows. He knows by the way her limbs are splayed unnaturally, the way red trickles from her mouth. It's over. She's gone. Rachel's gone. Love's gone and the lights are getting closer. He prays again, tells the Angels to bring her mercy, to take care of her. His head rests on her stomach, his tears effectively ruining her one expensive dress. If only that were the least of his worries.

God, why are Angels so noisy? Weren't they supposed to be delicate? Passionate? Empathetic? He doesn't find their incessant shrilling any of those. What's going on? But before he cranes his neck for a better look, he feels movement. A small kick, a beating under the stomach of the only girl he'd ever truly loved. Cecilia. And how wrong he'd been to be unsure. But he's sure now. Just as he loves Rachel, he loves Cecilia too. A broken smile stretches across his lips because she's perfect. Rachel is perfect, Cecilia is perfect. Their life could have been perfect. But as soon as the motions of life had come, they disappear again and he knows. Again. Baby Cecilia will never kick again. Never have a chance to grow into a fine young woman like her mother. Why, why had it taken him so long to realize this? Why is he just figuring out now, as the two people he loves more than anything fade out of existence, that this is all he could have ever asked for? He wants to hear Cecilia cry; wants to hear Rachel laugh as doctors bring in their baby, wrapped in warm cotton. But he never will.

He's been taking too much from Rachel since day one. She gave him everything; so he took everything. And as grateful as he'd been and as much as he'd thanked her, he'd never really understood. And Cecilia Jade Hudson-Berry had been the best thing Rachel had ever given to him, even if he'll never get to hold her. But he thinks that just because the two people he loves had died, the love hadn't. And he knows it never will. And the noise and the lights, they're getting closer and he wonders if maybe he's going to die too. But then he looks. Not Angels. Of course not. Ambulances. Finn leans over and feels his stomach wretch, so he gives in and empties the contents of his stomach onto a front tire of Rachel's car. And then he's sobbing into her stomach again, wishing that they could have known how much he loves them. The EMS technicians approach, questioning him frantically, but he doesn't hear. All he can hear is Rachel's clear voice telling it's his job to love her forever. And he knows it's the one job he'll actually be able to complete successfully. He hopes she's up watching and that she knows he loves their baby too. "Cecilia Jade," he whispers into her unmoving stomach.

He only leaves her side when the EMTs forcibly tear him away, but he ignores their queries, instead sinking into unconsciousness. He wakes up ten hours later in a hospital bed, every part of his body in pain. But it doesn't seem to matter. He'd had dreams last night, in his medicated sleep. And he believes now. The Lord had shown him dreams. Dreams of his daughter, the unborn daughter he will love unconditionally. And dreams of Rachel carrying her, both crying, whether in pain or in joy he couldn't tell. But all that matters iss that they were dreams of love. Love he will always, always feel. Because they will always be a part of him, he knows that now. Even as heartbroken and miserable as he is, at least he has something to hold on to.

Finn closes his eyes, forcing back the tears that are making their way into his glossy eyes. He's relived this before, but it feels more real now. More raw and his heart's wrenched open all over again. He needs to stop drinking. But it's just for now, he tells himself, unsure of whether or not it's possible to lie to yourself. Because this, this he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he'll end up dependent on alcohol to remember the revelations of the worst night of his life. He hopes not.

Sometimes he pretends to have Cecilia in his arms, pretends to rock her into deep slumber. And sometimes he pretends Rachel is still wrapped around him at night when he goes to bed. Mostly he pretends that he's not a disappointment to Rachel. Or their baby. Feeling love clutch his heart almost agonizingly, he remembers. He remembers what it was like to hold Rachel's lifeless form and to feel the baby kick from within. And he thinks that maybe it's not too late. Maybe he can still save himself. He has to try. He owes it to her and to baby Cecilia. So he does.

"Rachel," he murmurs brokenly, and closes the cap on the bottle.

Yes, I know. I KNOW. Trust me. I'm sorry for all the depressingness. I really am. But I hope you liked it anyway. Let me know. =)

And take care.
Ciao,
x