Disclaimer: All rights belong to Glee & its crew as well as the lovely people who wrote, directed, and produced The Proposal.

A/N: Sorry this took so long, I was on a spring break trip in NYC—so many one-shots could come from my time there, but I'll save them for later and finish this one up.

Thanks again for all the follows & favorites & reviews! They make my day (:

Previously:

I want to take the chance before she falls in waters that I can't reach. I want this.

She sighs against my collar bone. I just hope she feels the same way.

I press a light kiss on top her head. "It's okay, Rach."


Chapter Eight (Quinn POV)

I've got my arm wrapped around the brunette's shoulders, guiding her up the porch stairs so that she can go upstairs and take a warm bath to rid her bones of the cold, when my father steps out and blocks the doorway.

"Do you mind?" I ask, nodding to Rachel. "We're a little busy."

He doesn't move or acknowledge anything I've said. "I want to talk to both of you."

Rachel tenses beside me and I narrow my eyes at him. "Can you let Rachel go? We had a mishap coming home."

"No, both of you need to be present," he says, and shepherds us towards the barn. I tighten my grip on Rachel but decide it'll be more efficient to just humor him. Maybe it's last minute details for the wedding.

When we get to the barn, he pauses and looks back at me. "Your mother is never to hear about any of this."

He slides open the wooden door and reveals… well, shit. I had forgotten about this itty bitty detail.

Mr. Jacob Israel.

The immigration guy from New York.

How the hell did he even get here?

Rachel balls her fist in the back of my shirt, pressing her lips together in a tight smile.

Business boss is back, and my heart sinks a little while my stomach does a backflip around my liver and into my ribcage.

He smiles his smug little crooked grin at us, stepping closer. "Told you I'd check up on you."

Seriously, how is it that this guy gets creeper with each word he says?

I whirl around to face Dad. "What did you do?"

He rolls his eyes. "I got a phone call from Mr. Israel here, who told me that if you were lying, and he strongly believes that you are, he would send you to prison. So I flew him up here."

"Dad," I protest, but immigration guy interrupts.

"Luckily for you, your father negotiated a deal on your behalf," he says. "Now, this offer's gonna last for twenty seconds, so listen closely."

Rachel inches out from under my arm, uneasy. Looks like she isn't going to be her usual bitch boss, overconfident self after all. I grab her hand.

"You're gonna make a statement admitting this marriage is a sham," he pauses for dramatics, "or you're gonna go to prison. You tell the truth, you're off the hook, and she is going to go back to Canada."

I look at Rachel, and her eyes are wide and flighty. When I don't speak within the first few seconds, my father throws his hands up in frustration. "Well... take the deal, Quinn."

"I don't think so," I say, my eyes never leaving Rachel, whose gaze finally locks with mine in surprise.

"Don't be stupid, Quinn," he warns.

I squeeze Rachel's hand, giving her a small smile for support. Who knew I'd have to be the one to grow a pair of ovaries? From the start, Rachel had been wearing the pants and dealing with all the doubt and prodding and harassment we'd received from everyone—namely, creepy ass Israel.

She tilts her head at me, arching an eyebrow, looking at me for an answer. I puff out my chest a little, nodding at her, before taking a step forward to address the immigration worker.

"Here's your statement," I say, and he clicks on his little tape recorder. "I've worked for Rachel Berry for three years. Six months ago we started dating, we fell in love. I asked her to marry me, she said 'yes.' I'll see you at the wedding."

I storm out, dragging the tiny brunette behind me. She catches up to me and gives me a questioning glance.

When I don't respond, she sighs and follows me into our bedroom without a word.

I sit down on the bed and put my head in my hands, letting out a deep breath. I feel the mattress sink beside me, and then feel her hands kneading into my shoulders in an attempt to calm me down.

"So," she says after a while, and starts playing with the hair at the back of my neck. "You sure about this?"

I lean into her, resting my head on her shoulder. Her hair smells like the sea after a storm. "Not really."

She hums. "I mean, I am very appreciative of what you've done, but I think that—"

"You'd do the same for me. Right?"

Her hand pauses in its ministrations, but before she can answer me, there's a knock on the door. We both groan and sit up straighter, but neither of us makes a move to put space between us.

"Hope everyone is decent," Mom says, striding into the room, oblivious to the mood. Gammy follows her in, just as cheery. My mother taps me on the shoulder. "You need to come with me."

My family seriously owns the award for the worst timing.

When I don't move, Gammy puts her hands on her hips. "Now, tomorrow is your wedding day. You have to give the Baby Maker a rest tonight. It's tradition."

Rachel glances over at said blanket, crinkling her nose. I smile a little.

"Give your bride a kiss good night," Mom urges.

"We're not gonna use the Baby Maker," I argue.

"You've got your whole lives to be together," Gammy points out, gathering the Baby Maker in her arms.

How I wish that were true.

Rachel and I exchange a glance, before I sigh and stand up. "Okay."

"Now, come on. Come on," Gammy says, leading the way out of the room. I follow her but pause at the doorway, looking back. Rachel's still watching me.

I gesture at the hallway. "If I don't go with her, she's just gonna..."

"Come right back," Rachel finishes for me, offering a small smile. It has more sadness in it than I'd like to see.

"Yeah," I say, lamely. "See you in the morning?"

She nods. "Yeah."

When I shut the door behind me, Gammy is standing by the stairs, waiting. She gives me a knowing look, and I blush, though I'm not entirely sure why.

"Hey, Gammy," I say.

We walk down the stairs and around the corner to the main guest bedroom in silence, and she kisses my cheek goodnight before handing me the Baby Maker.

"Thanks, Gammy."

"Goodnight, dear."

I watch her head to her own room before closing the door behind me, wrapping the blanket around me and slipping into the bed.

Somehow, it seems less comfortable than the floor.


"Quinn."

It's a hazy whisper, so I ignore it.

"Quiiinn."

It sounds like Rachel. I hum, a lazy smile stretching out on my features.

It wouldn't be the first time the brunette showed up in my dreams.

Something pokes my cheek, and I swat at the air, grumbling and cracking open an eye. "Whoizzit?"

Then I see it.

Big, brown orbs staring into my soul. Shining in pitch blackness, like some sort of predatory cat.

I open my mouth to scream but all that comes out is a muffled squeak as a hand covers it, catching the shout before I wake the household. I manage to recognize Rachel, and immediately stop yelling.

When she's sure that I'm awake—well, awake enough to register that she's not some kind of murder or that immigration guy—she removes her hand.

We stare at each other, until I break the silence. "Rach?"

"Yeah," she says.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, uhm." She stands and begins pacing. I sit up in bed, knowing I'm not getting sleep anytime soon. "You know, your house is huge. Humongous. Enormous. I walked around opening and closing doors for almost a half hour before I finally found your room. I'm pretty sure I walked into Gammy's room."

"Rachel," I say, gently.

"But I don't think she woke up. Oh, god," she groans. "I hope she didn't wake up. She already thinks I'm a freak."

"Rach," I say, again.

"Why does your family have all these traditions anyway? Why do we have to get married here? What if I had a dream wedding, not in a barn? Why'd they have to split us up tonight? I mean, I know I'm supposed to be family, but—"

"Rachel."

"What?" She stops and turns to face me. "What?"

"Why are you here?"

Her shoulders sag. "I couldn't sleep."

I bite my lip, unsure of how to process this information. Hello, I'm half asleep here. Does she want to sleep in my room? Is she subtly admitting she has feelings for me? Does she just want to kill time? Is she nervous for the wedding? Does she have second thoughts, cold feet?

Why can't women just say what's on their fucking minds?

"Is this about earlier? With Israel?" I ask.

She frowns. "Who?"

"The immigration guy."

"Oh." She sits down on the bed next to me. "Well, we never did get to finish that conversation."

"Rachel," I say. "I'm not calling this off."

"I know," she says. "I know your position on this. But I'm giving you an opening. You should take it. Forget about the deal, Quinn."

"No," I protest.

She puts her hand on my thigh to quiet me. "Look, is it really worth it?"

"It's not just a career, Rach. It's my dream job. And like you said, without you, it's ruined. Nonexistent. I can't go back to work for Finn, he'll get rid of me on the first day and reject my manuscript out of spite."

"That won't happen, Quinn."

I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow. "Oh really? Because I distinctly remember you telling me something along those lines."

"Yes, but I didn't mean it!"

"Whether you meant it or not, it's true!"

Our voices have risen to a loud level, and we both freeze, listening to the suddenly deafening silence of the house. When nothing creaks or scuffles against the floor, we both let out our held breaths.

She scoots closer to me on the bed, taking my head in her hands, rubbing my cheeks with her thumbs. "Look, Quinn. Forget what I said, okay? I needed you. I needed you to marry me so that my job, all my hard work and investment in the company wouldn't be for nothing. And I left Canada for a reason. I can't go back."

I hum and her thumbs still. "Take the out, Quinn. I would have said anything to get you to stay, to commit to this… this sham. And so I did. You'll go back to the company, I'll put in a word for you. Maybe they'll even take you over Finn, to avoid complications or something."

I take her hands into mine and lower them, holding them on my lap. "Are you done?"

She nods.

"Trust me when I say I've thought about backing out before. Do you really think it hasn't crossed my mind? I'm facing jailtime. Who cares about the fine? While my father may disown me, Gammy and Mom would definitely help me out. So yeah, I've considered all this before. Believe me when I say I'm all in. We're in too deep."

Rachel's eyes remain on our entwined hands. "Quinn…"

"It'll be okay. Everything is going to be fine," I assure her. "Just let it drop, there's nothing more to say."

She sighs. "Fine."

I tip her chin up so she's looking at me and smile. "Okay, then. All right. Let's get some sleep, huh? Can't have my bride miss out on her beauty sleep before the big day."

She chuckles and stands, moving towards the door. I frown and catch her wrist.

"Wait, where are you going?"

Rachel looks back at me confused. "To bed?"

"Oh, right." I say.

"Yeah," Rachel says. "Uh, Quinn?"

"Hm?"

She smirks. "Aren't you going to let me go?"

"Oh." I bite my lip. "Uhm, well, I was thinking…"

"Don't hurt yourself."

I throw her a look and huff. "Look, I was just going to say rather than you wandering the house at an ungodly hour in the morning and getting lost yet again, risking waking everyone up, why don't you just stay here? The bed's big enough for, like, four people."

She looks amused. "Alright. But no funny business."

"You have my word," I say, holding up my hands innocently. "I'll even give you the warm side."

I scoot over and pull back the covers, motioning for her to get in. The brunette hesitates before sliding in beside me. "Such a gentlewoman."

"Well, you are my fiancée."

"Not for long," she says, chuckling, and lies down on her side. She must be tired, because she doesn't even say anything about the infamous blanket that is stretched out across the bed.

"Yeah, that's right." I snuggle into the blankets. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what?"

"Why don't you want to go back to Canada? It's not like you'll be stuck there forever. You'll get another visa and come right back in no time."

She's quiet. "I just can't."

"But why?"

"Quinn…"

"I'm sorry, you don't have to answer. But you can talk to me, y'know."

When she doesn't speak up, I assume she has shut down. But she surprises me by opening up again. "Remember what I told you about my tattoo?"

"Yeah. About your parents."

"Right. We travelled a lot—my fathers designed and remodeled homes before selling them again. I've been all across Canada. There's no part of it that doesn't remind me of them."

"Oh," I say.

"So, I can't go back."

"Gotcha." I find her hand in the bed and give it a quick squeeze before turning onto the opposite side. "Well, g'night, Rach."

She clears her throat. "Goodnight, Quinn."

I close my eyes, wondering how I'm going to sleep, with her sharing the bed and all. Who was the genius that invited her to stay? Right. Me. I mean, I can't control my subconscious. Plus, I'm a cuddler. Whenever I share a bed with someone, I always wake up closer to them, if not holding them, the next morning.

And I'd really rather not have Rachel chop off all my hair, like she threatened to a couple days ago.

Instead, I take a few slow, deep breaths, and start naming book titles in an attempt to clear my mind. But my attention quickly strays from titles to the rhythmic iambic beat of Rachel's evened breathing, a sure sign that she has already fallen asleep. Damn my generosity with the warm side of the bed.

Her quiet breathing works as a kind of white noise in the harsh silence of a large noiseless home, and I feel my eyelids closing without effort. It's the fastest I've relaxed in a long time.

When Rachel rolls over, I feel her nose bump into my shoulder. I hear her breathing pause, as if her body senses that we've breached the distance put between us. As if her mind is trying to sort out whether I'm a friend or foe—yeah, good luck, my conscious brain can't even accomplish that.

But it seems to reach a decision, because her arm winds around my waist and tugs me impossibly closer. My eyes flutter at the sensation, and I practically melt. It would definitely explain how our bodies seem to mold together.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little drained. Exhausted. But give me a break, today has been an emotional roller coaster.

I hum in appreciation for the cuddlefest warmth and comfort, falling asleep while thinking of white dresses, straw-covered floors, and a certain tiny brunette.


A/N: Also, since this story is coming to an end (only like 3 more chapters, tops!), what would you guys like to see next? I kinda like "Faberry-ing" movies, so shout out your favorites (: