Authors's Note: As always, thank you so much for reviewing / following my story, it means a lot. Please don't hate Quinn (or me) for her actions in this chapter, remember that she's hurting... and when Quinn is hurting she does some really stupid things!
I wil try to get chapter 12 up later tonight, but for now, here is chapter 11...

Chapter Eleven: Choices

When Quinn came to she was lying in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm. Puck was sitting in a chair beside the bed but her mom and sister were nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" Quinn asked groggily. Her head hurt and when she raised her fingers to her temple she found a tender lump. She winced in pain.

"You blacked out," Puck explained. "You've been out of it for about an hour. Hey, what are you doing?"

Quinn was sitting up and trying to get out of bed but a wave of nausea struck and she doubled over.

"They said you shouldn't get up," Puck warned but Quinn flashed him a glare.

"Where are my clothes?" she demanded, realizing she was wearing a blue and white hospital gown.

"Geez, stop yelling," Puck grumbled but he pointed at a small locker next to the bed. "Seriously, Quinn, I think you should lie down."

"I'd say that's a very good idea." A doctor in his early forties had been attracted by Quinn's shouting and he strode over to take Quinn's pulse. She glared at him too, but he seemed unaffected by her animosity. "Tell me, Miss Fabray, when is the last time you ate anything?" He shone a light in her eyes as he spoke, and made her follow his finger as he waved it in front of her face.

"Um… the day before yesterday," Quinn admitted with a groan. She'd been determined to look good on her first date with Santana and she'd skipped a couple of meals, and then since she'd heard about her dad, she hadn't had an appetite.

"Well, that explains your blood sugar levels," the doctor told her, in the same unruffled tone, scribbling something on the chart at the foot of her bed. "You're going to need to stay here overnight."

"No," Quinn said simply.

The doctor and Puck both raised eyebrows. Puck, who recognised Quinn's stubborn streak rearing its head, scooted his chair back a couple of feet.

"Miss Fabray, your blood sugar level is through the floor and you've taken a nasty bump to the head," the doctor said reasonably. "I really think you should stay in for observation."

"My father has just died," Quinn's voice modulated dangerously and she fixed the doctor with an icy stare. "I want you to take this tube out of my arm and bring me whatever paperwork I need to sign to get out of here. I need to be at home."

The doctor must have had teenage daughters because he seemed unconcerned by her ultimatum.

"I'll make you a deal," he said, checking the flow of liquid from the IV. "I'll have someone bring you something to eat. If you can keep it down and you don't have any nausea or dizziness, you can go when the IV bag has run through. It'll be about four hours. Okay?"

Four hours later, true to his word, the doctor discharged Quinn, with a stern lecture about the signs of a concussion she'd need to look out for. Puck dropped her off at her house, and told her he'd call to check up on her later. She told him it wouldn't be necessary.

Quinn turned her key in the lock and opened the front door. Her mother and sister were in the living room and her mom jumped up when she saw her.

"Oh, Quinnie, your poor head," she said melodramatically, touching her fingers to the throbbing lump on her temple. Quinn jerked away from the contact and her mom looked anguished.

"Sorry," Quinn mumbled guiltily. "It hurts, Mom." She glanced over at her sister. "Thanks for staying at the hospital to make sure I was okay," she said sarcastically. Her sister shrugged.

"Don't be a baby, Lucy, it's just a bump."

Quinn shook her head, too tired to argue.

"I'm going to lie down," she said, giving her mother a perfunctory hug. "My head's killing me." As she moved past her mom she caught the familiar sweet smell of alcohol wafting around her but, as was her usual custom, she pretended she hadn't noticed. She sighed and picked up her bag before heading up the stairs.

When she got to her room, Quinn dug her phone out of her bag and glanced at the missed calls and texts from her friends. She scrolled through the messages, most of which were from an increasingly concerned Santana wondering why Quinn hadn't called her back. The last one was from Blaine.

Please call Santana asap – I'm not sure how much longer I can keep her from getting the next train to Ohio if she doesn't hear from you! Hope you're okay, we're all thinking of you xxxx

Quinn pressed the button to send a message to multiple contacts and selected Santana, Rachel, Kurt and Blaine.

My dad died today, she texted. I'm okay. Talk soon.

Before anyone had a chance to call or text her back, she turned off her phone, lay down on her cool, crisp bed-sheets and closed her aching eyes.

The next few days were a whirlwind of funeral arrangements and hosting friends of her parents who stopped by to pay their respects. Her sister had escaped home to her husband as soon as she could, finding their mother just as difficult to deal with as Quinn did. She'd be back for the funeral but Quinn was just glad not to have to spend any more time with her than absolutely necessary.

Then, it was the night before the funeral, and Quinn and her mother were sitting at the dinner table in silence, picking at a lasagne that one of her mom's acquaintances had dropped off. Her mom looked like she had something on her mind that she wanted to bring up, but wasn't sure how Quinn would respond. She started to say something several times before stopping and changing the subject to some piece of inane gossip in which Quinn had no interest. The longest conversation they'd had so far that evening was when her mom had told her that she'd made an appointment for Quinn with her hairstylist in the morning, before the funeral.

"You'll look very pretty with bangs, darling, and they'll cover up that nasty bruise. We don't want people staring at your forehead and asking questions, do we?"

Quinn had wanted to scream at her mother that it was her hair, her head, and her Goddamned bruise, but she'd simply smiled sweetly and thanked her mom for her thoughtfulness.

Eventually, as Quinn stood up to clear the table her mom finally spoke her mind. She broached the subject innocently enough.

"What are your plans for after the funeral, sweetheart?" she asked. Quinn sat back down warily.

"I'm going back to New York," she said cautiously. "Probably tomorrow night."

"Quinnie, I'm not sure that you should be staying with those sort of people," her mom said carefully. "Heaven only knows what sort of ideas they're putting into your head."

"Exactly what sort of people are they, Mom?" Quinn said, feeling her temper flare. She wasn't in the mood to deal with her mother's bigotry right now.

"Now, baby, don't be difficult," her mom chastized gently. "You know what I'm talking about. We have a reputation to uphold in this community…"

"Well, then I guess it's a good job I don't live in this community any more!" Quinn retorted. Leaving the dishes on the table, she stomped out of the dining room and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Quinn suddenly felt incredibly lonely. She picked up her cell phone and thought about calling Santana, but when they'd spoken earlier that afternoon they'd had a fight, and Quinn was afraid that she'd say the wrong thing and make it worse.

"I can still make it down for the funeral if I leave tonight," Santana had offered, after listening to Quinn complaining about her mother for several minutes. "I hate to think of you going through this on your own."

"No," Quinn told her, when what she really wanted to do was tell Santana to drop everything and get on the first train back to Ohio. "It's not necessary, really. I'll be running around sorting out caterers and the florist, and we've got family coming into town from all over. I probably wouldn't have any time to spend with you."

Santana wasn't buying Quinn's evasiveness. "I want to be there for you, Quinn, but it's not like I'd expect you to introduce me to everyone as your girlfriend," she'd said coldly, misconstruing Quinn's reluctance to have her there.

"It's not that," Quinn had tried to reassure her desperately, but when she couldn't tell her the real reason, Santana had remained unconvinced. Quinn had promised her that she'd see her the next night and they'd talk about it then.

At the end of the call, Quinn had told Santana that she missed her, but she'd heard the hesitation in Santana's voice before she responded in kind.

Quinn had ended the call wishing she could convey to Santana just how bigoted her mom was, without hurting her too badly. Santana's Abuela had disowned her for coming out, and Quinn had seen how devastated Santana had been, and still was. If Quinn told her how unwelcome Santana, and indeed Kurt and Blaine, and even Rachel due to her family background, would be at her father's funeral, she knew that Santana would be crushed.

After a couple of hours wallowing in her room, Quinn's conscience got the better of her and she went to check on her mother. She found her passed out on the couch, a half empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table beside her. Feeling considerably older and wearier than her nineteen years, Quinn pulled off her mom's shoes and covered her with a blanket. She took a long drink from the bottle of vodka, feeling the liquid burn her throat. It seemed to help her headache a little so she poured out a glass for herself before tipping the rest down the kitchen sink. Setting a glass of water on the coffee table for when her mom woke up, Quinn locked up the house and turned off the lights before heading back up to bed, swallowing the rest of the vodka as she went.

She took a long, hot shower and had just finished blow-drying her hair when a loud scraping sound outside her open second floor window made her jump. There was a face staring in at her.

"Puck! What the hell are you doing?" Quinn hissed, as he struggled to climb into the room, landed awkwardly on her bedroom floor. She didn't know whether to be furious or amused.

"I came to check if you were okay," Puck told her, dusting himself off and straightening his leather jacket. Quinn was incensed.

"We do have a front door, you know, with a doorbell! You could've gotten yourself killed." She hit him hard for good measure.

Puck snorted dismissively but rubbed his arm where Quinn's fist had made contact.

"Like your mom would've let me over the threshold," he chuckled. "She's not likely to come in and check on you, is she?" He glanced warily at Quinn's closed bedroom door.

Quinn thought about her mother passed out downstairs, and shook her head sadly. Then she thought about how desperately she missed Santana, about how her head still hurt, and about how much she just wanted to go home. In just a few weeks, she'd come to think of the loft in New York as her home. She didn't want to be here, in her teenaged bedroom, surrounded by memories that she'd been running away from for years.

Something in her expression touched Puck and he took her in his arms. It felt so good to be held and Quinn buried her head against his chest. Although they hadn't always been close over the last few years, the bond they shared over their daughter was always there in the background and she knew he cared for her. He planted a soft kiss on the top of her head and she looked up at him, her eyes shining as she began to cry.

Puck kissed the tender bruise on her forehead and kissed her wet cheeks. He kissed her lips and she tasted the salt water of her tears. More than anything, Quinn didn't want to be alone tonight.

She took him by the hand and led him over to her bed, lying back on her pillows as he settled himself over her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Puck asked her apprehensively. Quinn knew she had him right where she wanted him when his voice wavered. He would never turn her down, not like Santana had on her last night in New York. Feeling numb and disconnected, she kissed Puck hungrily, and guided his hands onto her body.

"I'm sure."

"Are you okay?" Puck asked her afterwards, trying to take her in his arms. Quinn pushed him away and rolled over to face the other way. "Quinn, talk to me."

"I want you to go." Her voice was cold and emotionless. "Leave. Now!"

She felt Puck get up and heard the rustle of his clothes as he dressed. He tried to speak to her again but she ignored him and after a minute he gave up and headed back out of the window where he'd entered an hour earlier.

Quinn pulled a sheet over her naked body and curled into a ball. Shaking, and burying her head in her pillow to muffle her sobs, she cried herself to sleep.