the game is over over over
Their second year together is when he proposes. The year after that is the ceremony. Two years after that is when they finally get a house. And it goes on and on and on. Everything happening so fast, he doesn't even realize just how crazy it seems.
When Quinn says yes after he proposes during Beth's seventh birthday, he's so blinded by relief that everything seems like a blur from there, from the thumbs up to Beth during an embrace with a trembling Quinn, to sitting in their silent kitchen staring at Quinn's wedding ring and drinking a beer.
x
He likes to believe he's a family man now that he's older. He's always known that family is the number one priority no matter what kind of bullshit he pulls. But Ohio and Chicago are so far, and there are way too many vacationing families visiting the beaches these days.
His perpetual moping is reaching Quinn-level territories, and that scares the shit out of him.
x
His eyes dart around, zipping from his food, to the kitchen table, to her, to the wall behind her, to her again. He's a suicidal man, he knows it.
He's asking for his death, he's asking to be sliced open and have all his organs removed one by one while he's still alive. He's asking for his spine to be ripped out with her bare hands. He's scared shitless, but he needs to tell her, whether or not he's going to an early grave (alive he's betting on).
"I want a kid."
The silence is deafening, Quinn stills mid-chew and stares at her plate, swallowing heavily.
He feels his palms grow sweaty and his hands tremble; nevertheless, he squares his shoulders and waits as she ever so slowly looks up from her plate of food to stare at him.
(He pictures anvils the size of cars falling on his head.)
"What?" The sound of her voice fills the room like a gunshot.
"I – ahem – I want a kid."
She slowly blinks at him. "We already have a kid," she says, her voice clipped and low, and he winces internally.
(He pictures Quinn and his baseball bat and his skull caving in under her wrath.)
"Yeah, I know but that's Beth and – and Beth's Shelby's and they live in Chicago so…"
"And what spurned this on?"
He pauses; he knows he shouldn't be feeling like the most selfish asshole in the world. There wasn't anything wrong with his developing – albeit uncomfortable – need for a family, right?
"Did it…ever occur to you that I wanted another kid?"
"Did it ever occur to you that I don't."
"What?"
Quinn has a wild look about her now, "I'm not replacing Beth, Noah."
He blinks in surprise, "Replace? Quinn, I just want another mini me of us running around, not replace Beth."
(He pictures hazel eyes, olive skin, mousy brown hair and a mischievous smile running around with pitter patter feet.)
She glares at him, her unblinking eyes filling with tears and he braces himself. "I love you Noah, I do. But the last thing I want is another baby. This family is enough for me."
He clenches his jaw and fights against the angry burn in his eyes, "And what about me? Don't I get a fucking say in this?"
She gives him a sad smile, "You already did."
(He pictures Quinn ripping him into shreds with her bare hands.)
x
She apologizes to him later, which he silently and grudgingly commends her for, because he can't remember the last time she genuinely apologized to him for something.
She apologizes and says it's simple – she just didn't want any more kids. She can't bear going through the process again without thinking about Beth and missed opportunities.
Shecan'tshecan'tshecan't.
Excusesexcusesexcuses – that's all he can hear. She loves kids, he knows that. She works with them, from all ages up to eighteen. She listens, she talks, and she helps them. She's a child psychiatrist and social worker, that's what they do. That's what people who love kids do.
He always thought kids made her happy, he thought kids of her own would make her the happiest woman alive. But then she tells him, "I don't want to fuck up, Noah. I listen to those kids talk about their lives and their parents and they're all me. I don't – I can't do that to one of my own."
Things like that weren't simple, but then he remembers Quinn is never simple.
x
He's not gonna lie, he sort of expected Quinn to bail out on him at the last second on their wedding day. She full on glared at him the moment he bent his knee, and yet still amongst the people around them, she said yes.
And then she says with a wavering voice, "I Do," and he still can't believe this is happening. He's barefoot, there's sand between his toes, and he's breathless as the sunset behind Quinn casts a halo around her, her trembling hands in his.
"I do," he returns with a smile.
x
Okay, he's not that stupid to not realize something was wrong. When Quinn has trouble getting out of bed, he has to constantly convince her to get up and out of the house. Work, church, and exercise were her only incentives for getting out the house, and when she left, she would be away for hours.
It's mindfucking, and it only got progressively worse after their reunions happened and the holidays rolled around.
He figures that with Christmakkuh and New Years, kids were just having a more fucked up time with their lives and just needed a bit more of her attention. It was like that every year. But then the holidays came and went, and everything is still as messed up as ever and he's completely had enough.
It comes to a point when on a Friday night he comes home from a show at 1:30am to find a dark and empty house. He almost wants to fling his guitar case at the wall. Instead he places it in its usual spot, and gets ready for bed.
It's 2am and he's lying wide awake in bed when Quinn finally stumbles in. He's tired and frustrated, and thinks about sitting up and scaring the shit out of her for getting home so late. But he hears her sigh and slowly change her clothes in the darkness of their room, not even bothering to put her work clothes away. He decides then to just let her collapse into bed without any fuss.
She slides under the covers and settles in, with her back to him and lets out another slow, shaky sigh. He silently watches her, and wonders if he's gonna have to beg her to get up and eat something tomorrow morning.
Slowly, he reaches over, wraps an arm around her waist and she faintly jumps in his arms. "Hey, babe," he sighs, burying his face in her neck.
"Hey," she whispers back.
He swallows heavily, "What took you so long?"
"Emergency case; suicidal," she says, her tone flat.
He blinks and exhales heavily at that. He closes his eyes, smelling in the coconut shampoo in her hair.
"Babe?" He whispers.
"Yeah?"
He's silent for a moment, frowning, and finally says, "You don't look at me anymore."
She stills, she's stopped breathing. "Well…barely at least."
"Noah –"
"I'm-I'm not saying you don't love me anymore, it's just…it's just…I don't know what I'm saying. You know how bad I am at this shit."
"Then get to the point," she rasps out, and he hears the pain in her voice, the exhaustion.
He sighs, "I love you, I love you a shitton. But…you're masochistic. You can't keep talking to these kids – these younger versions of yourself. You're turning into a zombie."
She trembles, "What do you want me to do? These kids need me."
"No they don't, I need you," he says, pulling her closer, hating how exposed he sounds and hating how he's exposing her. "You need help, babe. It's gonna be too late unless you don't start taking care of yourself…"
She sniffs and she says, "It isn't too late. They don't have to be me."
"Quinn…you're killing yourself."
She lets out a choked sob he knows she's been holding back, and he holds on to her as tight as he can.
x
He finds it hidden on the bottom of her drawer. He wasn't sneaking or anything; he's not the kind of person to do that sort of shit, no.
He was changing after coming home from the beach and was looking for his favorite t-shirt that Quinn loved to steal – he opens one of the drawers containing her t-shirts and moves them around, searching, when he feels it, cool and smooth to the touch.
He feels something twist in his stomach. He grasps it and pulls it out, the small gold band glinting in his palm. His breath caught in his chest, he feels like he's back on the beach and those waves were crashing down on him again and again, drowning him.
He mindlessly tugs on an old t-shirt and wanders downstairs into the kitchen, collapsing in a chair. He watches the ring glint in his palm for a moment. Watches and remembers the day he asked Beth how to propose, remembers the day he slipped it on Quinn's finger.
He lets the ring drop on the table and watches as it spins and spins and spins and spins and remembers…
x
They spent their honeymoon in an expensive hotel in Chicago. They had gotten married in late October. They missed the cold, the snow.
After a day of walking around the city with Beth, they dropped her off at Shelby's and collapsed on their hotel bed in a heap. He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he huddled closer to Quinn, the both of them still wearing their jackets and the light of dusk painting the room.
He remembers the wonder in Quinn's eyes as she stares at the gold band around her finger. "I'm never going to take it off," she says.
x
"Do you love me?"
Four little words and a question mark. That's all it takes for his brain to short circuit.
It's their second month living in Hawaii and they're walking home hand in hand from the bar late at night after making some friends. They stop walking and she looks at him with a stony expression. It's a question he doesn't expect, not at that exact moment.
He knew it had been coming though, he knows Quinn would never be the first one to expose herself first.
"Way to take a dude off guard," he says, with the taste of beer still in his mouth.
Her eyes turn down, "Noah…"
He doesn't remember when she begins calling him by his first name, but he remembers what that tone in her voice means and he sobers at the sound of it.
It's not the way he imagined admitting it. Frankly, it's not actually something he'd ever admit to imagining. And yet, he lightly squeezes her hand for her to look up at him and he gives her a smile and says, "I do."
Her shoulders sag and a mystifying smile catches her lips, "You fuckin' idiot."
He smiles, giving her an exaggerated shrug with a wink and tugs her closer, "Hey, do you love me?"
Sober Puck would have probably smacked Tipsy Puck in the back of the head for doing that, because hey man you gotta fuckin' ease into those kind of Q n' A's, not dive bomb.
And yet, she shakes her head faintly and huffs out, "I do, you numbnut."
x
When he isn't able to look at the ring anymore, sitting there in the middle of their kitchen table, he turns his gaze to the hole he left in the kitchen wall. He drinks his beer and wonders how everything can come crashing down in an instant.
He suddenly hears the key in the door. Oh right, its errand day. He clenches his jaw, staring harder at the opening, hoping it could just suck him up like a black hole.
The door opens and closes. He hears the ruffle of bags and her taking off her jacket. He wants to get up then – get up and confront her. Shake her and ask her why. But he couldn't, because he doesn't know for sure. He could just be making this all up and Quinn could have a believable excuse. His chest hurt just by the ideas in his head and the fact that he would even think that.
He hears the click of her heels on the floor, and he breathes a little harder.
Louder and louder they got, until –
"Noah?"
He takes his time to tear his eyes away from the hole to meet her confused gaze, glancing back and forth between the puncture and his eyes. Slowly, he finishes his beer and places the can purposely on the table with a loud clang. He levels her with a hard stare as her eyes track the movement of his hand and watches as piece by piece, the wide array of her emotions are walled up behind her mask – that's when he knows she saw it.
This was it, the moment of truth. He swears he can feel his heart in his throat as blood rushes to his head, watching as her eyes move from the ring to the wall again and again.
x
He remembers a few years ago, the day when Quinn read the letter her father had left her before putting a pistol in his mouth.
When she hears the news, she automatically shut down and didn't speak to him or anyone for days until after the funeral in Lima.
Not until she finally read his letter, lock herself in their bedroom and proceed to destroy it, screaming and crying her voice hoarse. He had never felt so scared for her in his life. When she allows him back in hours later, her hands are bruised, and her face distraught and wet with tears. Some things just didn't need to be explained.
He holds her tight, doesn't say a word, and makes a mental note to store away his gun in a safe.
It might be his paranoia talking, but he's not taking any chances.
x
Without a word, she drops the grocery bags on the floor and slowly sits down across the table from him.
His hands gripped into white knuckled fists, he silently urges her to speak. The room is dead silent and still, it's suffocating him just to hear how loud both of their breathing is.
And then finally, she says in that soft way of hers, "You haven't done that since your mom died."
His slowly squeezes his eyes shut and stops breathing.
He knew she'd understand.
x
He remembers how Quinn repays the favour when his sister calls to tell him their mom passed from a stroke.
They're cleaning the house after having a barbeque that day. He remembers how Quinn was gathering trash from the backyard, and he was in the kitchen packing away leftovers when he gets the call.
He's deathly still when the call ends after a definite promise to go back to Lima as soon as possible for the funeral.
He doesn't exactly remember punching his fist bloody against the wall, but he does remember how he collapses into Quinn's arms as he cries.
She holds him all night that night and never let go throughout the funeral.
x
When it felt like his lungs are about to burst, he exhales slowly, opens his eyes and jumps up from his chair. He can't look at her, not yet. He can feel the rage bubbling under his skin. He snatches the empty beer can from the table and slams it into the sink with an echoing clang.
He wants to kick the cupboards, slam his fist against the marble.
(He pictures Quinn and his gun and his chest weeping red.)
Instead, he runs a rough hand over his hair, and opens the fridge. He takes out two cans of beers and then opens the freezer, taking out Quinn's freezer mug. He places her drink and mug in front of her, collapses into his chair, opens his can and gulps almost half of it down. Somehow, he feels overwhelmingly exhausted already and he hasn't even spoken yet.
Clenching his teeth, he looks at her to see that she hasn't even moved since she sat down. With her chest heaving, she stares at the hole in the wall and he wonders if she felt like disappearing into it just like he did.
"So," he chokes out, his voice rough. "I'm not making things up then."
"No," she replied, her voice listless.
"All of-all of those late nights, the working out...all that is bullshit, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"What about church?"
"Church is church."
"…So you've been…"
"Yes, Noah."
She sounds defeated, she looks defeated. With the slow way she moves to open the can and pour the beer into her mug. He glares as she takes a long sip.
"I don't understand," he chokes out.
"What isn't there to understand?"
"That-that this is bullshit! This came out of nowhere!"
"Stop fooling yourself, Noah. You knew something was wrong," she says, shutting her eyes in exhaustion.
He's seething, he wants to flip the table and wreck the room. But he can't. He isn't his father, he is not his father.
"You vindictive bitch," he snarls.
He knows old Quinn, high school Quinn would have smirked at that. He knows she would have been amused at his anger. He knows…he…he knows that old Quinn would never just slowly open her dead eyes to stare blankly at nothing.
"I…I don't know anything about you anymore," he says, and feels his chest cave in with an exhale.
She's silent, lost in that vast head of hers and then says, "You never did."
He looks away at that, a sting behind his eyes.
(He pictures waves crashing down on him, pulling him down, down, down…)
He rubs his eyes and sinks further into the chair, with one question burning him, "Who is it?"
She looks at him then, settling the mug back on the table, her face void of anything.
He looks at her and stares her down, "Who is it, Quinn?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me. I'm the one who's been married to you for six fucking years, I deserve to know."
She's still for a long moment, and he can finally see the pain and regret behind that mask of hers. Finally, she retrieves her iPhone from her blazer pocket and fiddles with it for a moment.
She hesitates a moment, but then she slowly slides the phone across the table to him.
He eyes her, "You seriously need help."
"You think I don't know that?" She says softly, taking another long gulp of her beer.
He picks up the phone and watches as she looks back at the hole, and he almost wants to laugh at her cowardice before looking down at the phone.
He laughs then. He laughs hard – almost doubling over as tears fills his eyes and stares at those big brown eyes, long brown hair, and that smile that could light up the world.
"She doesn't look a thing like Jesus," is the first thing out of his mouth.