Once upon a time in Lima, Ohio, there lived a young, pretty girl with golden, flowing locks.
Her name was Quinn Fabray.
The Fabray residence was where Quinn grew up; big as it was, she knew (or, knows, she supposes) the place like the back of her hand, can maneuver from room to room with her eyes closed if need be.
The spacious hallways (the piercing silence), the grand foyer (the reverberating emptiness), the mahogany furniture (the liquor cabinet that always needed replenishing), the crucifix on the wall (the ever-present set of watchful eyes) – it was all so standard to her, so routine.
But she's not stupid; she realizes that you can't equate familiarity with intimacy, or even comfort.
She doesn't think she had a bad childhood. Her parents always provided her whatever necessities required; never did she lack material things.
She supposes her parents, although distant, were at least there. Both of them. And with herself and her older sister rounding off the quartet, they were the picture-perfect family, conventionally flawless in every way. Yes, she can now reflect in retrospect that their familial relationships were lacking something (authenticity, she concludes), but at the time, she knew no better. Plus, she always had a sort of pity for Finn, who only had only his mother (though she learned later on that he received from one parent more nurturing than she ever had from both of hers). And so, up until recently, she never saw anything wrong with her home life, with the big house that was cold due to lack of usage, and the inauthentic relationships that were frosty at best.
Then, of course, she went and got herself kicked out.
She was forced to take 16 years' worth of living, pack them in bags, and leave within thirty minutes, each critical second marked by the all too familiar beeps of the microwave (all those years of heating her food, and now even the inanimate appliance has turned its back on her).
But she's Quinn freaking Fabray; she's not supposed to be coerced into anything, nor does she beg or plead or whine (though she wants to, she really wants to, if it means it'll soften her father's cold, cold heart). So she tells herself that she's better off without her so-called parents- she can make it on her own.
It was too damn cold there, anyway.
Quinn is thankful that she had Finn, she really, truly is. One would be hard-pressed to find a guy so genuinely nice, even if he is lacking in the intellectual department by a tad (Drizzle? Really?) But mental capacity aside, Finn, Quinn concludes, has a big heart.
And it is this reason alone that made her stay at the Hudson residence both a dream and a nightmare- how can she be doing such a cruel thing to such a nice guy?
Finn's place was small, it was cozy, it had a knack for forcing its inhabitants to constantly interact, due to its lack of space – it's the opposite of her former residence, and she sortofmaybekinda liked it.
But the longer she stayed there, the more she felt out of place. In the back of her head, she always knew that the babygate scandal couldn't have been kept in the dark forever, and no, there was no microwave timer this time around to beep out its shrill countdown, but the explosive secret ticked away nonetheless, threatening to detonate.
Of course, even after the proverbial bomb exploded, leaving behind rubbles of relationships and smashed dreams, Finn had too much of a heart to have been able to exile her (nor could Carole – for a fleeting moment Quinn feels a pang of jealously at the thought of having such a kind parent, and being able to learn such things through example. Kindness. What a concept). Yes, Finn did break up with her, thereby extricating himself from the mess, but she knows him well enough to be certain that he wouldn't let a pregnant girl go homeless. But official banishment or no, she couldn't stay there anymore. She just couldn't. She hadn't broken Finn's chair, but she sure as hell broke his heart (she made her own bed and laid in it; the bears would have found her eventually).
So the day after the news broke out, after Finn announced that he was done with her, she ran over to the Hudson residence while he was out at football practice and packed her bags
She allowed herself one quick sweep of the room, one backwards glance at the Hudson residence – the place where she had known she would never quite belong (nor did she deserve to). She scrawled "I'm so sorry. Thanks for everything" on a post-it, tacked it onto the refrigerator, and then scurried out.
She finished in less than thirty minutes this time.
The place reeked too much of guilt, anyway.
Quinn had nowhere else to go, and desperate times called for desperate measures, or so she consoled herself, as she watched Puck move the last of her bags to what used to be his room.
Like the Hudson residence, the Puckerman home was small as well, but not in a comfortably cozy way. Whereas Carole Hudson had treated Quinn kindly (although… tinged with something akin to pity), the mother of Noah Puckerman took no precautions to disguise her disdain for the pregnant teenager, the personification of a mother's crushed hopes for a son, and a gentile to boot.
She couldn't stand it. But she's not the person she once was, doesn't have the influence or intimidation factor to command (she no longer has the power to facilitate change; instead, she just runs).
So she simply just took it, tolerated the Mario talk, the pursed lips, the (meant-to-be) subtle glares. 'Cause really, what else could she do?
She even tried telling herself that this was a good thing, 'cause really, Puck isn't such a bad guy. In his own way, he's been trying (but trying doesn't amount to much if he just doesn't have the disposition for it, the pessimism in her chides).
She had to tell herself to suck it up, to stop being so picky. But all the same, she caught herself fantasizing of other potential living arrangements numerous. Sure, Puck's place wasn't too cold, too big, or too empty. It didn't choke her with guilt and self-despair.
But it just wasn't right. The place left a sour taste in her mouth. Living with the father of her baby was a buffet forced upon her of acrid things of which she was not yet ready to digest - the night that fucked her over (literally and figuratively), the family she potentially could (never) have, the very critical decisions she would soon have to make – and the only seasoning she had to ward of the bitterness was the salt of her tears.
Nope, definitely not right.
That place tasted way too bitter.
Mercedes' offer took her by surprise, to say the least. But she readily accepted, if only to escape the suffocation of having to relentlessly stare her mistake in the face at Puck's (yeah, that was cowardly on her part, but how could she have said no?)
The Jones' house is… it's calming. That's the best word Quinn can come up with. Mr and Mrs Jones are both effervescent personalities, and their playful banter warms her once stone-cold heart (and makes her wonder if she'll ever find what they have). And of course, with a girl like Mercedes who speaks her mind, the entire Jones family seems to always be playfully arguing about something or other.
Quinn thinks she will eternally be grateful to Mercedes for taking her in, but still, she can't suppress the part of her that still feels homeless, that still can't quite settle on what she has.
I mean, with all those years of being queen under her belt, she has yet to fully grow accustomed to being at another's mercy, to have someone be nice to her just for sake of being nice.
And she's not going to lie, it's terrifying.
It's terrifying to see such a change in dynamic of familial relationships, and it's terrifying how often she finds herself jealous. Yes, the Joneses have reached out to her, but they're not hers to call her own; she's just an outsider invited to observe upon the inner workings.
And then, she naturally wonders whether she will ever find or create for herself such a family, and this train of thought always leaves her a broken incoherent mess (when she has her privacy, of course), so she tries not to think about such things. She's always prided herself in being realistic.
She's not going to pine over things she won't ever attain (not in public , anyway), and staying at Mercedes illuminates her deprivation, shines a blinding spotlight on the previously-obscured and out-of-sight desire she's always had but never confronted: the desire to be genuinely loved.
Damn. This place is way too bright.
So now Quinn's freaking exhausted and hell she aches all over, but she's managed to walk down to the NCIU. With her nose against the glass, she's watching her baby (Beth? Drizzle? Jackie?), and she doesn't think she's ever seen anything or anyone more lovely, more perfect.
The thought that something so overwhelmingly perfect and pure can come from such a tainted affair is mind-blowing to her and she almost, just almost, thinks that maybe it was all worth it.
And for a second, she allows herself to close her eyes, and she can see it, can see the vision of home she's been looking for and failing to find (she has a string of left behind houses trailing behind her as proof of her fruitless search).
It' not a white-picket fence, nor is it the epitome of perfection; it's her and her baby girl and Puck and happiness and smiles and laughter; a life not of luxury, but just satisfaction and contentedness with the fact that are intact as a familial unit. It wouldn't be easy, but if there's anything at all she's learned from Coach Sylvester, is the concept of no pain, no gain. And for a second, just a second, she sees it and the happiness is so powerful, its presence so vivid she thinks she can reach out and touch it.
And you know what?
It's just right.
It's the fairy tale ending that would conclude this story of hers grandly, complete with the take-home moral to never lose faith.
But then she opens her eyes and the blank bare walls of the hospital room are staring back at her, with the cool glass of the window against her palm and the ongoing beep beep beep of whirring machines and distant din of medical jargon.
It's so imperfectly perfect, she thinks.
But real life isn't a fairy tale; happy endings aren't guaranteed.
And that's when Quinn decides that now, as a mother, she is no longer the protagonist of the story.
Rather, she is now the supporting character, and her role is to support her daughter.
Her role now is to see to it that little Beth, her little perfect Beth, gets her shot at a happy ending. No, it's not guaranteed, but she realizes she would do anything to at least steer her baby in the right path.
For Beth to even have a semblance of a shot towards a good life, Quinn knows she has to give her up. She simply cannot, at this point in her life, provide for her daughter. She cannot even provide the bare minimum- a loving family- because she knows her track record with Puck and cannot assert what will become of it.
She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. So this is it; the decision is made. She's just going to have to give her baby up.
So it turns out that her life is not a fairy tale.
It's a cautionary one.
Once upon a time in Lima, Ohio, a beautiful baby girl was born.
Her name was Beth Corcoran.
.
.
AN: So I know that yeah, there are probably a lot of Quinn character studies out there, but here's my take? Thanks for your time :)