So, originally, Listen was just going to be a super-depressing one-shot. BUT I re-read it, and after changing it from second person (because I've come to realize that a lot of people hate that perspective, now including me), I decided to write a second part and turn it into a two-shot. I highly, highly doubt that I will write anything more for this. Hope y'all enjoy. Please tell me what you think!


Her mouth feels like cotton, still. There's a beeping in the background, still. It's dark, still.

…How is there even a "still"?

The last Quinn can remember, Rachel was repeatedly crying out, "I love you," while Brittany apparently held her back and doctors did something with her machine. Something about needing space? Eight months… Oh, God.

She should be dead.

Why isn't she dead?

There's not a tube down her throat anymore. In fact, the heart monitor is speeding up like it should, since Quinn is kind of panicking. She knows this isn't heaven, and she's pretty sure Hell isn't just darkness and an incessant beeping.

But she still can't move.

The door opens, and Quinn is immediately greeted by Brittany's cheerful voice. "Day six of Miracle Quinn!" Miracle?

"Win!" Oh, Damian. My little nephew.

"That's right, D. It's Auntie Quinn. Careful, now, you don't wanna hurt her." She can feel the toddler—he turned three while I was asleep—hesitantly sit next to her on the bed. "You can hold her hand, D." And then his little fist is in Quinn's own, and she wishes so badly that she could smile right now.

"Miss you, Auntie Win," he says softly, conspiratorially in a way Quinn knows he learned from B.

"San will come by after work. D just hadn't gotten to see you since pre-Miracle and couldn't wait." What Miracle? Brittany's hand is on her arm, now. "I'm just—I'm really glad to know for sure that you're in there, Q."

You know? Quinn would cry if she could. Oh, thank God you guys know.

Brittany gently squeezes her arm. "All right, D, we gotta go get stuff for dinner. Say goodbye to Auntie Q."

She can feel Damian shifting on the bed, and then a weight beside her on the pillow, and then soft lips pressing gently to her forehead. "There. Now your brain'll get all better, Auntie Win."

God, so many would-be tears.


"I'm still pissed at Rachel, by the way." It's Puck. When did I fall asleep? "I mean, seriously, I kinda get why she didn't tell me they were gonna pull the plug on you—she's probably right when she says I wouldn't have let her do it—but you're so goddamn important to me, Q. It's a good thing she did, though. Kinda jump-started you into breathing and, you know, living on your own. Brittany calls it the Miracle." Oh, so that's what happened. "You were legally dead for, like, a minute, though. Pretty badass, Q.

"Since I found out you really are there, though, that you can most likely hear us and stuff… I haven't been to visit, 'cause I didn't know what to say—still don't, really—and I'm sorry it took me two months just to get up the courage, but… yeah. I'm here, now." He's crying a bit, and she knows that he's just a little bit glad she can't see him. "And no, I'm not fucking crying.

"…Okay, so maybe I am crying. I've been trying not to do that, you know. Not to act like crying isn't okay, like it's a sign of weakness or some shit. With Beth, and Damian, and now Melissa and I have Adam, you know…" Shit, I missed that, too? "I don't want any of them, 'specially the boys, to think you're a pussy just 'cause you cry when you're upset, sometimes. Mel totally got me into that feminist shit, and it actually makes sense, you know? So I'm trying to be better, instead of trying to be all tough and, uh, misogynistic all the time, 'cause that's bullshit, and the cycle may as well start with me, or whatever."

Quinn would laugh if she could. I'm proud of you, Puck. Although…

"Oh, shit, yeah, and 'pussy' isn't an insult because being a girl isn't an insult. Right. I got this, Q. I'm gonna raise my boy right. He's not gonna be like me."

Quinn really is so, so proud.


"Mommy?"

Oh, God. She doesn't know if she's ready for this, she really doesn't. All the previous times Rachel brought the children (and she knew it had happened at least three times since the supposed Miracle), Quinn hadn't been conscious. And now they were here, all three of them—Rachel and April and Cameron, she can just feel each of their presences.

"It's okay, Rain," Rachel says, using their daughter's middle name like she almost always does (because April Rain was just enough classic and drama mixed into a name for The Rachel Berry's Daughter), "she hears you. Just keep talking. You can go ahead and read your letter for her if you want."

"Okay," little April Rain says, and Quinn can just imagine the way her brown curls are probably bouncing as she nods. She feels her daughter shift on the bed before she speaks. "Mama helped me write it, 'cause I'm still learning to write, but I writed my name at the end! You'll see once you wake up. I can read all of it, though, we made sure, so I won't, uh, stumble too much. Okay." She clears her throat like Quinn knows she's seen Rachel do before she sings. "'Dear Mommy. I miss you a lot. It is one year today since I got to hear your voice, but I promise I visit all the time.'" One year? April is five, then, and Cameron is nine. She missed both of their birthdays and a Christmas and Thanksgiving and Hanukah and oh, God, I missed so much. "'I know you will wake up soon, and then we can talk about all the stuff that hap—happened when you were sleeping. I miss your hugs and your l…lullabies. I miss, uh, hearing you and Mama sing together. I really hope that you will wake up soon so that we will not have to come to the hose—hospital just to see you. I know you are strong and that you will wake up to see me soon. I love you very much. Love, April Rain Berry-Fabray.' That's it." April kisses Quinn on the cheek before climbing off of the bed, although she grabs ahold of Quinn's hand and doesn't let go.

Quinn wants nothing more than to cry and smile and hold her daughter and tell her that she loves her, too, so very much, but she knows that she can't—and it sucks.

"Cam? Do you want to read Mommy your letter, now?" My baby boy. Please, come here.

"No." Cam? He sounds so much older, and it's only been a year. But there is no "only" when it comes to children growing.

Rachel is discernibly surprised. "Cameron, why don't you want to read your letter? You worked so hard on it."

"Because it won't make her wake up," he says angrily, and Quinn's heart breaks even more at the tremble in his voice. Cam, baby, I promise I'm trying. I promise I am.

"Honey, you don't know that." Rachel is struggling to keep it together, she can tell. "Every little bit helps, Cam. Look at how far Mommy's come just this year." Cameron doesn't say anything. My baby boy, please speak to me. "I know she can hear us, baby. Please. You know she wants to hear your letter." I really do. Please, C.

"Fine," he mutters. He audibly shuffles closer to the bed, but he doesn't sit on it like his little sister did. He only leans against the side of the mattress, putting the barest pressure on it. Quinn wants to hold him so badly. "'Dear Mom,'" he starts, and Quinn's heart aches and Rachel sighs at the first time he doesn't call her Mommy, "'It's been a year since you got into that car crash. A lot has changed. I don't play soccer, anymore. I switched from kickboxing to karate. I'm in the third grade instead of the second. I have a new cousin named Adam, who isn't actually my cousin.

"'But a lot of things haven't changed, when they should have. Nobody's sad like they should be. I'm sad. I'm sad a lot,'" he nearly whispers. "'My friends don't care that my mom won't wake up. They just keep playing sports like nothing's wrong. Auntie San and Britt keep taking us to the park and bringing Damian over for movie night like nothing's wrong. A lot of things are the same, but they're actually different 'cause you're not there. They're too different.'" His voice cracks, and he leans heavier on the bed. "'It's not the same without you. And I just want it all to go back to how it was before you crashed. I—I miss you. A lot. And everybody else does, too. So you need to wake up.'" Quinn just wants to cry.

Wait a minute. There's something—something on her cheeks. I am crying. Her heart beats faster as her chest swells with hope. Maybe I can just…

"'You need to wake up so that'—Mommy?"

And Quinn opens her eyes.