Author's Notes: No, this fic hasn't been abandoned. Credit goes to Mike Ownby for his unstinting support and feedback in making chapters out of nothing at all.
Whoever invented ice cream deserves a medal, Quinn thinks. Or some kind of award. She's already feeling exhilarated after confronting her mom, and the feeling is intensified by the double scoops of Rocky Road ice cream she ordered. Rachel is mostly quiet as she juggles Hiram's ice cream and her own (a vegan mixed-berry sorbet), as well as navigating the mall, leaving Quinn to trail contentedly behind.
"Are you sure you don't need help?" Quinn asks. Her attention isn't on Rachel, however; it's wholly focused on the dribble of ice cream making its way down the side of the cone.
"Positive, Quinn," says Rachel brightly. "After all the stress and trauma you have so impressively overcome, the least I can do is manage these on my own."
"If you're sure…"
"Absolutely." Rachel then proceeds to ruin it with a high-pitched whine of distress.
"Oh my god, what's wrong?" She quickens her step, scanning Rachel from head to toe. "What happened?"
Rachel rotates her left hand to show Quinn the ice cream making its way down her wrist.
Quinn resists the urge to say I told you so. "I did ask you if you needed help…"
"Quinn!"
"What!"
Rachel stares at her, wide-eyed. "This is not the time for the I told you so you are undoubtedly thinking."
Quinn blinks at her. "I wasn't thinking that," she lies smoothly. "I was thinking that you're overreacting. That's just ice cream; lick it off, you won't catch a fatal disease."
"It's not that! This has dairy in it and I'm a vegan!"
Quinn sighs. She swoops in, relieving Rachel of Hiram's ice cream, offering her a paper napkin to clean herself up with.
"Thank you," says Rachel. She furrows her brow in concentration as she focuses on wiping her hand clean. "Melting ice cream is a simple matter to ordinary people, but it's not cruelty-free; I couldn't possibly lick my hand and undo all my other efforts."
She looks so despondent that Quinn bites back her snide comment in favor of something with less sting: "You say cruelty-free, but isn't it cruel to the berries you're eating? Like, they were crushed and frozen to make your sorbet. And I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be eating your own kind," she adds, smiling at Rachel.
Rachel hesitates, brow furrowed. Quinn can practically see the gears turning in her head. "Don't think I didn't notice what you're trying to do, Quinn Fabray," she says at last, narrowing her eyes. "But I appreciate it. At this rate, I will be able to discern without fail all the times you tease me."
"Good for you."
Rachel inspects her hand critically; the used paper napkin already balled up and dropped into the nearest bin. "I'm ready," she announces, holding out her hand for Hiram's ice cream.
Once they're home, Quinn gets ready to bring Beth upstairs to her room. "You don't have to," says Hiram.
"Don't have to bring her upstairs?"
"You don't have to be in a rush to hide her in your room," he clarifies with a friendly smile. "We all enjoy having her around."
"It's fine. Her crib's upstairs," offers Quinn lamely.
"We can get another crib set up down here. It's no trouble at all, really. Besides, she seems to enjoy having people around, not just us."
She doesn't know what to make of that. "She does?"
"Mmhmm. Gladys tells me she's especially bubbly when people are talking around her."
Despite her knowing that Beth is still too young, that she can't possibly understand what speech is yet… Quinn can't help the small surge of pride. She opens her mouth to say something –
– but is startled when the doorbell rings, derailing the conversation. "Who could it be, at this hour?" Hiram says.
"It's probably for me," mumbles Quinn. It's probably Puck, drunk and looking to pick another fight. She isn't looking forward to seeing him.
"That's true. You've been pretty popular since you've moved in," he says with an uptick of an eyebrow. "So, let me rephrase: do you think it could be someone you would want to see at this hour?"
She pulls a face. "Probably not, but you should get it anyway." She glances at the door as the bell goes again.
"Fingers crossed it's someone welcome, like the strapping young man from Sal's Pizzeria."
She chokes, and quickly disguises it as a cough. Quinn absently runs her fingers over the soft fabric of Beth's romper.
Quinn has never believed in superstitions and old wives' tales. But now, she's starting to believe that bad things do come in threes, because it's Judy Fabray waiting on the doorstep.
"Oh," she says when she sees Hiram. "You must be Mr Berry? I'm – Quinnie!" she adds when she catches sight of Quinn standing behind him.
"Mom." The word tastes like ash on her tongue.
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs Fabray," says Hiram, stepping between the women. "Please, call me Hiram." He extends a hand, which Judy takes hesitantly.
"Call me Judy, please. I'm sorry to intrude, but… Quinn, may I speak to you? In private?" Her eyes linger on the baby in Quinn's arms.
Hiram hovers on the fringes; the exact same blend of hesitation and conflict readiness that Rachel has.
Quinn straightens her back. Life isn't going to wait for her to be ready, so… Dimly, she appreciates the irony of Fabray composure being used against her mother. "Hiram? Do you mind taking her for a little while?" she addresses him.
"No, of course not." He meets her halfway, takes Beth from her arms. Hiram gives her a small smile and disappears upstairs.
"Quinn…"
She turns back to face her mother. "Mom."
"I'm sorry."
"We've gone over this," replies Quinn wearily. "I don't know what you hoped to accomplish by showing up here – "
" – your car is parked outside," Judy interrupts. "The registration and insurance is in the glove compartment. I've packed some of your things inside; your father wanted to throw it all out."
"Dad wanted to throw my things away?"
Judy nods sharply. "I've been hiding your things when he leaves for work…"
"Leaves for work?" Quinn repeats shrilly. "You told me you'd kicked him out!"
Judy doesn't answer immediately. She swallows hard, looks down at her feet. "Quinnie…"
Quinn feels sick. "You lied to me?"
"Quinnie, I'm sorry. Seeing you today made me realize what a fool I've been. I know I made a mistake letting you leave the first time." Her voice cracks. "I'm hoping that I can make things right this time. Starting by getting you home first, and we could go from there."
"Maybe not lie to me at all?"
"Sweetheart, that's not fair. You know what your father's like..."
"I do." She clamps her lips together, unwilling and unable to elaborate; she feels foolish for believing that her mother would have dared to defy him, all because she'd wanted to go home so badly. "And because I do, I know that nothing's changed. Dad kicked me out," snaps Quinn. "He'll just do it again. Kick us out," she adds, glancing at the stairs.
Judy exhales softly. "I was under the impression you wouldn't keep the baby."
"Yeah, well, things change. I'm not planning on making parental rejection a family tradition."
Judy flinches.
Seeing her mother like this stiffens her resolve; Quinn takes a calming breath. "Look, Mom. I appreciate you bringing my stuff, but I'm not ready to talk to you right now. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
Judy struggles visibly. "Quinnie, please. You don't understand, I – "
"– you're right. I don't," snaps Quinn. "You stood by and let Dad kick me out. Months went by and you didn't even try to look for me. It wouldn't have been hard to find me, we live in a pretty small town." Quinn struggles to keep her voice even. "But you only came looking for me at Regionals, and you lied about kicking Dad out just so I'd go home with you. And here's the best part: you didn't come back after I'd given birth." She has to stop because her voice is getting wobbly. "You didn't even look for me the second time, you just happened on me at the mall. Did I leave anything out, Mom?"
Judy keeps her head bowed.
Quinn blinks back sudden hot tears. "You shouldn't have come here. I would like you to leave now, please."
Judy starts to sob.
Right on cue, Hiram sweeps in – thankfully without Beth – glancing between the two women. He searches for Quinn's gaze and holds it. She understands what he is asking; she nods, and immediately he is ushering Judy out, speaking to her in hushed tones.
Quinn turns blindly. She makes her way back upstairs to her room, locks the door, and bursts into tears.
A gentle knock at the door reminds Quinn that the outside world is waiting. "Give me a minute," she calls thickly, looking around for a towel to freshen up with. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror; she looks exactly like she imagined herself to be. Red-eyed, blotchy cheeks, swollen face.
The towel alone can't do much for her appearance, so she just dries her face the best she can.
"It's me," calls Rachel from outside. "I understand you would like to be alone, but I would like to have a quick word with you. Less than a minute, I promise."
Quinn, deciding her makeup is a lost cause, wipes it off. She opens the door and asks: "How are you so sure it'll be less than a minute?"
Rachel blinks at her, the proverbial deer in headlights. "... I may have rehearsed in my room and timed it."
"Why am I not surprised." Quinn makes an impatient gesture with one hand, the other still gripping the door knob. "Well? Go on. Less than a minute, remember."
"Daddy told me what happened. I'm sorry. I know that you want to be alone, but I want you to know that you have my unstinting support, so here's a small token of goodwill that I've prepared." Rachel holds out a CD; Quinn takes it automatically. "I have curated a selection of uplifting music that I hope will convey adequate and appropriate amounts of emotional support," she finishes in a rush.
"Oh." Rachel has exercised considerable restraint; there's only one gold star, lurking rather self-consciously in the top left corner of the jewel case. The back contains a track listing handwritten in neat cursive, similarly (sparingly) adorned with another gold star. "You made me a mix CD?"
"A curated selection of music with a specific purpose," Rachel corrects her.
"Right. Uh, thanks, Rachel."
Rachel beams at her. "You're very welcome, Quinn."
After Rachel leaves, Quinn flops on the bed to read the track list, curious despite herself. She rolls her eyes when she spots Leona Lewis' Better in Time because – really? While the sentiment is there, Quinn isn't sure that it applies to her current circumstances. But what really piques her curiosity is the sheer number of artists she doesn't recognize – and out of the few she does recognize, Quinn is certain they have no business being in a Rachel Berry playlist.
But despite it all, she's glad for the distraction. Quinn's tired of crying.
Her eye falls on the vintage combination radio/alarm clock/CD player on the nightstand that has been ignored up to this moment. Quinn slides the CD in, and holds her breath as she flicks the power switch.
A tiny red light goes on. She depresses the play button and settles down to listen.
Quinn wanders downstairs sometime later. It's still too early for dinner, but she's had enough of staring at the four walls of her room. The soft sounds of the television draw Quinn's attention towards the living room.
There's a brand-new crib sitting in the corner of the living room, its occupant sleeping soundly, unmoved by her mother's distress.
Quinn stands and stares, dumbfounded. Her stubborn prickly pride wants to whisk Beth out of the crib, to tell Hiram this isn't wanted or needed. It's unbelievable that people who aren't related to her seem to care more than the ones that are. Quinn isn't sure if that bothers her more than the fact that people think she is worthy of all this charity.
The other occupant of the living room is sitting on the couch, a bundle of sheet music in her hand. Judging from the pencil in her other hand, she was annotating the music, but her attention is clearly on the TV and the music reality show playing. Quinn doesn't recognize it.
She gets close enough to hear Rachel mutter, "Seriously? With that technique? Her breath control is appalling."
Suddenly shy, Quinn hesitates, feeling like she's intruding on some private aspect of Rachel's life hitherto unknown. Then Rachel's head swivels round and she catches sight of Quinn.
"Quinn! How wonderful of you to join me."
"I just…" stammers Quinn. "I wanted to thank you for the CD."
Rachel's smile, previously uncertain, blossoms. "It was no trouble at all. I'm glad that you found it enjoyable and uplifting as it was intended to be."
"I was surprised it wasn't all Broadway," says Quinn, having regained some of her composure at this point. She's been having a bad habit of being caught off-guard when talking to Rachel lately.
"Contrary to popular belief, I do enjoy many genres of music outside of Broadway," replies Rachel, her enthusiasm unflagging. "Speaking of music, would you and Beth like to join me? I was supposed to be annotating new songs for Glee, but The X Factor has just come on, and I confess my attention has been slipping."
"Annotating…?"
She is expecting Rachel to huff, but instead the other girl smiles. "Adding a few notes," she explains patiently. "There are some songs here which I feel would be perfect for some of our fellow Glee clubbers – albeit with minor alterations." Rachel holds out the bundle to Quinn; the top page has Santana's name scrawled across the top.
"Oh."
"The choir room has quite a remarkable collection of sheet music, even if it happens to be a little outdated. I was planning on gifting them to our fellow members as "thank-you-for-the-incredible-year" presents, but since Glee isn't going to end, I'll be continuing to assemble everyone's portfolios."
"Rachel, are you telling me you have a folder of annotated songs for each and every person in Glee?"
Rachel's smile falters a little. "I'm sensing some interesting vibes were I to say yes."
"Never mind." Quinn shuffles through the sheet music Rachel is holding until she finds one with her name on it. "'Oh, You Beautiful Doll'?"
Rachel flushes. "It's quite a lovely song. I do think the smoky timbre of your voice would be suited to a slowed-down, jazzy version. But!" she adds hastily, snatching at a loose piece of paper from the coffee table. "I have another task here that I would appreciate your help with."
Quinn decides not to pursue this line of questioning further. "What task?" she asks, letting Rachel take the sheet music back.
"I rather enjoyed being part of Glee this year," admits Rachel with surprising shyness. "I thought it would be a shame that we wouldn't be friends after it all ended, so… I planned a selection of Glee club gatherings over the summer. Even if we get another year, it would be a wonderful way to continue to bond."
Quinn scans the list. "I don't see any dedicated vocal coaching sessions here."
"... I know for certain that you are teasing me, because I know for a fact our peers would not appreciate those. Despite the varying vocal ability of some of our friends, they wouldn't take kindly to sacrificing their vacation time to develop their instrument."
Quinn ignores that last comment. "What about a pool party? S and Britt would show up for sure. And the guys would come if they're coming."
Rachel beams at her. "That is a wonderful idea! One I certainly wouldn't have come up with on my own." She scribbles a note on the list. "But… Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't have a pool."
"Right." Quinn purses her lips. "Is there anything cool here?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"S has a pool. It's part of the reason her parties are so popular."
Rachel nods earnestly. "I see. Well… Daddy recently converted our basement into a lounge, but I'm not sure how that would compete with a pool."
"Show me."
"Wow."
Rachel hovers on the stairs, smiling uncertainly. "Is that a good or bad wow?"
"Definitely good." Quinn glances around the space. "You have an entire dance floor down here." She chooses not to comment on the stage. "Would your dad be cool with us using it?"
"I'll ask." She smooths down her skirt. "Thank you for your help, Quinn. Now that's settled, if you'll excuse me…"
Quinn follows her out of the basement. "Where are you going?" she calls.
"It's Friday," Rachel says over her shoulder. "I need to post my weekly video." She makes a detour into the living room to gather up the sheet music.
"Oh."
Rachel suddenly pauses. "Oh, damn. I was so caught up planning for Glee this afternoon, I completely forgot to choose tonight's song." Then she brightens. "Would you mind helping me?"
Quinn doesn't really want to, for some strange reason. Trouble is, she also doesn't have a reason not to help; Beth is still asleep. So she nods, and follows Rachel into her room.
The bed is already blanketed with more sheet music; Rachel adds the pile in her arms to one corner. "I apologize for the mess." Rachel sweeps a corner of the bed clean to make a space for Quinn. "This month's theme is obscure oldies," she explains.
"Ah." She doesn't explain that these songs aren't as obscure as Rachel probably thinks they are to her; her father owns an impressive vinyl collection. "Didn't hear you singing last week."
"My dads had my room sound-proofed a couple of years ago," explains Rachel. "Too many complaints from the neighbors."
"The neighbors? How loud are you, Berry?"
Rachel pouts. "Vocal projection is an absolutely necessary skill for my chosen career, Quinn."
"Yeah, whatever you say." She's smiling as she says it, to let Rachel know she's joking; Rachel just huffs.
"If you're not here to help, Fabray…"
"What are you gonna do? Kick me out?"
The words hang heavy in the air, waiting to be acknowledged. Quinn keeps her face mask-like.
Rachel is nowhere as stoic. Her expression is painfully kind, filled with the pity Quinn loathes.
"... That was a terrible thing to say," mutters Quinn.
"Indisputably so." Rachel bristles, then adds in beseeching tones: "Quinn, you know that we would never… my dads would never kick you out, right?"
Quinn wants to say she doesn't know anything for sure now. That she has no more room in her for trust. But looking at Rachel's face, she can't bring herself to say it. "...yeah," she says thickly.
Rachel nods. "May I – "
" – no hugging," interrupts Quinn, because she's still raw and full of sharp edges.
Rachel looks mildly offended. "Fine. May I hold your hand, then?"
"Briefly," allows Quinn.
Rachel ignores her. She reaches out, her hand resting on the back of Quinn's, squeezing briefly.
Rachel's hand is small, just like the rest of her. She wonders how she could ever have called those hands manhands.
Then Rachel is pulling away after a final squeeze, shifting brusquely into her Glee mode; serious and focused. "If I may, I could use your input on my onscreen presence."
"Your – what now?"
"I realize that my choice of attire in my videos may not have been a priority up until now, but it would help if I project the image of a star. First appearances matter, after all."
Quinn blinks at her helplessly, completely lost by Rachel's latest foray into insanity, and – whatever – had transpired between them when Rachel's hand was on hers.
I'm looking for something classic, but not outdated," Rachel continues placidly. "Vintage, perhaps. I'm counting on your excellent sense of style to help me narrow down my options."
Quinn gives up. She's quickly grown to learn that figuring Rachel out would be the work of a lifetime. "Rachel, I'm certain the only reason you think I have an excellent sense of style is because your idea of fashion is a Catholic schoolgirl fantasy gone horribly wrong."
"I'm rescinding my request if you're not going to offer any constructive opinions," says Rachel archly.
Quinn snorts. "Talking to you is going to work wonders for my SAT scores."
"Only if you look up their meanings, and diligently use them in everyday conversation. Personally, I use flashcards."
"... it was a joke, Berry."
"Oh! Indeed! I confess I missed that one."
When Quinn has a free moment, she locks the door of her room, turning on her laptop. It's survived her absence rather well, only being in need of a charge.
Rachel looks oddly un-Rachel-like in the plain pastel cardigan Quinn picked out for her. But when she opens her mouth to sing, she is unmistakably Quinn's annoying, indefatigable, optimistic housemate.
It's like a child's first step
I have to learn to walk all, all over again
'Cause you were always there if I should fall
And now there's nobody else that I can call
Quinn rests her chin on her hand and listens.
Santana calls on a Tuesday afternoon. "Whatever you're doing this Friday, ditch it," she drawls. "I'm throwing a summer holiday bash and you're coming."
"Are you serious?" she barks. "I can't just go out and party. I have responsibilities. Besides, look what happened the last time I went to a party," she adds with a snort.
Santana snorts right back at her. "Ditch'em. Having responsibilities didn't bother you last time."
"I have a kid. Things are different now, S."
Santana snorts again. "Puckerman screws half the Cheerios and nothing happens. He pops your cherry, and boom! Walking poster children for lovin' without a glove. Fuck you both, by the way."
Quinn doesn't say anything.
Santana sighs, the rush of static filling Quinn's ear. "This doesn't define you," she says firmly.
"I know." Quinn answers. She doesn't like how her friends are acting differently around her; as much as she knows it isn't possible, Quinn wishes things could go back to the way they were before. Living with both her parents in her own home, baby-less, the top of the Cheerio hierarchy and high school food chain…
… but would she be able to go back to that life again? Knowing what her parents were really like? Was her life plan the same: to win prom queen, marry Finn Hudson after graduation, and settle in Lima forever?
"You say that, but you gotta work with me. Unless you had something planned, like getting Berry to babysit while you go out and live your life."
"First of all, fuck you for even saying that," barks Quinn, thinking of pages of densely-annotated sheet music, suddenly furious on Rachel's behalf. "You have no idea how hard she works, even when everyone hates her."
"Oh? Are you friends now?"
"You got a problem with that, Lopez?" Quinn's voice is as low and threatening as she can make it.
"Heck no. I don't own you. If you wanna pal around with the midget, that's your business. The only business I wanna stick my nose is in Britt's anyway."
"Gross."
Santana cackles. "Do you have the Berry landline number?"
"What?" The abrupt change of topic has Quinn reeling from the whiplash.
Santana repeats herself. Confused, Quinn gives it to her.
"Sweet. Bye, Preggo, smell ya later." And she hangs up before Quinn can get another word in.
Leroy pokes his head into her room later that evening. "I just got off the phone with a certain Miss Santana Lopez."
"Haven't you heard of knocking?" scowls Quinn. She's more or less used to having Hiram or even Rachel poke in, but Leroy is still her least favorite for a reason.
"I'll just be a minute," he says with a casual wave of his hand. "Miss Lopez called to make me and Hiram an offer we couldn't refuse."
She nods, not sure how to respond, feeling like she's watching an entire train fall off a cliff.
"She suggested – or perhaps that might be too mild a word – that Hiram and I have a little overnight getaway and bring baby Beth with us." He looks highly amused.
Quinn groans softly. "God, I am so sorry. She's crazy."
"Perhaps we can work something out." His expression grows stern. "I declined her offer. Beth is too young. Sometimes, I forget how young all of you are."
"And?" Quinn prompts, not liking the direction this conversation looks to be going, and the softness of his voice.
"Perhaps the party can be postponed to later in the summer," says Leroy.
"Whatever," grunts Quinn.
Leroy arches an eyebrow – which annoys Quinn to no end, that's her signature tic. "Hiram told me that Rachel asked him for permission to use the basement for Glee meetings," he says. "I think it might be a good idea to have the club over."
Quinn's very mature response is to lie on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, and ask God when her punishment is going to end.
She goes to Hiram the next morning. "I want to start working," she says without preamble.
He blinks at her over the rims of his spectacles. "So soon?"
"I'm fine. I should be taking care of my own kid, not Gladys. It's the summer holidays, I don't have anything better to do."
While this is all true, Quinn just wants to get out of the house. She's tired of looking at the ceiling of her room, feeling like she's trapped.
And if it means making a little money and thus becoming less dependent on Leroy? The plus points keep piling up.
Hiram appraises her. She's aware of Leroy at the other end of the breakfast table, appraising her just as closely, but she ignores him. Quinn hasn't forgiven him yet for that mortifying visit.
She is, of course, aware that he hasn't actually done anything to merit her response, but if she's going to be forced to act like an adult, she can damn well pick and choose her battles.
One step at a time.
(He's acting like her father, like her father would have if he'd actually acted like one.)
Hiram puts down his coffee mug. "I'll bring you in next Monday," he decides, "all right? We'll talk hours and pay in the office; Leroy has a thing for leaving work at work."
At the end of the table, Leroy grunts. Hiram smiles at him.
"I'm thinking we should have a trial period for about… say, a week? To see how you get along with the work."
Quinn bristles. "I assure you I won't have a problem."
"I'm quite certain of that. But between you and me, I'm not sure that Gladys would take too kindly to retrenchment." He winks, and Quinn smiles grudgingly.
"Thank you," she says stiffly.
"Oh, don't thank me yet, dear," he says. "You haven't seen the cases we get in the office. Far too much drama for a small town, I always say. I should've gone into the car business like Burt Hummel did."
Leroy scoffs. "Don't lie to Quinn, honey. You love the drama."
"Is this an interrogation, officer?" asks Hiram, arching an eyebrow at his husband.
Quinn squirms. "Right, uh… I'll be going then." She scuttles into the living room, where Rachel has already set up court on the sofa, sheet music fanned out around her.
Rachel pops out an earbud. "Just ignore them," she advises Quinn. "It's almost like they enjoy having an audience when they're being gross."
Quinn stares.
"What? Why are you staring at me like that?"
"You sound like a normal teenager," replies Quinn.
Rachel rolls her eyes and resumes her work.
She is restless the night before her first day of work. She's tired of staring at blank walls with no answers, of being alone with her jagged edges.
Perhaps a walk would do her some good. She was supposed to be working on getting her pre-baby body back, but Quinn has been feeling too sluggish and lethargic lately.
Mind made up, she shrugs on a jacket and heads downstairs.
"Quinn?"
She freezes on the stair. "Yeah?"
Rachel pokes her head out of her room, looking her up and down. "Are you going out?"
"I'm going for a walk."
"Would you like me to accompany you?"
"Sure. Why not. I certainly could use help getting back here in case I get lost in my wanderings," drawls Quinn.
Rachel frowns. "I don't think that would be a problem. I carry a personal locator beacon with me at all times."
"I'm guessing you've got pepper spray and a rape whistle too?"
"Naturally. One can never be over-prepared, Quinn."
"Fine. If you're not downstairs in two minutes, I'm leaving without you." She was getting better at this whole Rachel thing, thought Quinn. Once she stopped taking Rachel's existence as an affront to her own, it was easier to enjoy her company, to see how unlike everyone else Rachel was.
"Dads! We're going for a walk!" Rachel yells as they leave.
"Okay, pumpkin!" comes the muffled reply.
The weather outside is neither here nor there. It's not warm enough for summer, but there's a bite in the air that makes Quinn tuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket.
A few blocks pass without a word from Rachel. Quinn glances sideways, wondering if Rachel has been abducted by aliens while she wasn't looking, but the shorter girl is still there.
"You're quiet."
"As are you."
Quinn snorts involuntarily. "I'm quiet most of the time."
"That's true."
Quinn skips over a crack in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother's back, a small voice says in her ear. It makes her think of her childhood. "I don't feel like talking."
"Okay."
A girl on a tricycle barrels towards them, her harried father following close behind. Rachel neatly sidesteps to let them pass.
Quinn chews on her lower lip as she tries to imagine Puck chasing after a faceless kid. Truthfully, she has trouble placing him in any scene that requires some level of maturity.
And where is she in this scenario? Stuck at home, washing dishes and thinking about what to prepare for church luncheon? Working late? Are they even together in this domestic fantasy?
Someone grabs her arm. Quinn automatically wrenches free, momentarily furious, until she sees a car roll past.
"Are you okay?" asks Rachel. "You seemed rather preoccupied."
"What do you think?" she snarls, and immediately regrets it. "Sorry."
"Apology accepted."
Quinn sighs again. "I really am sorry, Rachel. You've done plenty, you don't deserve to have me biting your head off for every single thing that's happening. Especially if it's not your fault."
Rachel shrugs. "I understand. Sometimes, we need an outlet to vent."
"... Why are you like this?"
"I'm just being myself," answers Rachel frankly.
And Quinn doesn't have a response to that. "What if being yourself gets you into more trouble than it's worth?"
"Surely nothing is so important that one would have to live their life pretending to be someone else."
Quinn snorts derisively. "Or maybe you just haven't opened your eyes. The world is full of lies, and everybody's pretending to be someone they're not."
Rachel nods. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
"Shakespeare?"
"Indeed," says Rachel, looking impressed. "I didn't take you for a fan of the Bard."
"I'm not. I prefer prose."
Rachel carefully steps over a crack in the sidewalk, nodding thoughtfully. "What are you currently reading?"
Quinn frowns. "The Kite Runner. But that was before…" She trails off. "I haven't had time for anything since."
"I see."
"God, this is so hard," exclaims Quinn.
"What's hard?"
"Everything!" She throws up her hands. "I'm sick of everything being before and after Beth. It's not that simple. So I have a kid. So what? That shouldn't be the end of the world, right?" Even as Quinn says the words, she's horribly reminded of her conversation with Leroy. Santana telling her her life hasn't ended.
It has though, in a way: walking a few blocks has left her slightly winded. Her abs are a distant memory, and she can't remember the last time she exercised.
"It's not," Rachel reassures her. "Nothing's changed. Well, apart from the fairly obvious," she adds under Quinn's withering stare. "You're going to graduate from high school, be accepted to your dream college. Graduate with honors, get your dream job. I'm taking the liberty of assuming that you would want to get married and have more children eventually. It's nothing out of the ordinary. Unless you were planning on..." Rachel pauses to think. "... shaving your head and joining a nunnery in Nepal."
Quinn pulls a face. "God, no."
"See? Maybe things aren't as bad as you think they are."
"I guess you have a point," Quinn concedes. "But it's going to be harder. There's a reason kids shouldn't be having kids, y'know."
"That's true," says Rachel with a sigh. "But at the very least, you're not doing this alone. You have Santana and Brittany, and you have Mercedes. I know the rest of Glee club cares about you. And you've got my dads."
"And you, I suppose?" She spots a playground and quickens her step. The swing set is vacant and she perches on a seat, glad for the break.
"And me." Rachel takes the seat beside her. "We're friends. Friends are there for each other."
Quinn used to hate Rachel's earnestness, hated how she always seemed to brim with optimism. But it's hard to feel any resentment towards Rachel now. "You know… there was a time I would've tossed a slushie at you for saying something like that."
"I know." Rachel starts to swing back and forth gently, legs propelling herself. "But we're friends now, so I know for a fact you wouldn't."
A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. "You're something else," Quinn allows. She digs her heels into the dirt, pushing herself back, enjoying the soothing swinging motion. "I don't know if that's a good thing."
"I'll take that as a compliment. I've worked very hard to become a something, as opposed to a nothing," Rachel says proudly.
Quinn nods absently. Her attention falls on her black flats and the gritty feeling of dirt under them. She drags her right heel back and forth through the loose soil. "I take it you've never worried about the future."
"On the contrary, I think about it nightly. Despite my natural talent all but guaranteeing my stardom – "
Quinn snorts.
"– and my determination to succeed, I do worry," says Rachel, ignoring Quinn's reaction completely. "Stardom isn't a reliable career, and sometimes I fear that I will never realize my dreams."
"I used to loathe you because I knew you were getting out of Lima. I never doubted you'd be a star," says Quinn. "Sure, it was a long shot, but if anybody could do it, it'll be you."
"Thank you. You're very kind to say so."
"Isn't that what friends do?" Quinn says, and is rewarded with a wide smile – which suddenly morphs into a frown.
"Now I can't decide if you're saying it because you meant it, or you were simply being supportive."
"I guess you'll never know." Quinn stands, her smile impish. "We should go."
"Certainly." Rachel falls in step behind her. "Lead the way."
"You trust me to lead the way?"
"I trust you," answers Rachel simply, and it makes Quinn swallow her retort and look away.
It's late enough that the streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional flash of headlights. Quinn keeps her attention on the path ahead.
Outside the Berry home, she turns to Rachel. "Thanks for everything."
"You never have to thank me."
"I know. I'm just… It's a lot, y'know? And I'm tired of having these breakdowns." Quinn smiles weakly, gesticulating to herself. "I'm sick of feeling like shit, and crying all the time."
"Nobody made the rule you're not supposed to have a breakdown, Quinn. We're teenagers, I'm fairly certain we're expected to have at least one major breakdown per week."
"You have one major breakdown a week, usually to do with Glee," Quinn points out. "I think you've filled the quota for the club."
"That is patently untrue. There is plenty of drama occurring in the club on a regular basis that has nothing to do with me."
Quinn chuckles. "You have a point."
"I would like to make it known that I resent that based on principle."
Still bickering, they head up the stairs to their rooms.
Rachel hesitates. Quinn notices.
"Rachel?"
She turns on her heel. "I… I feel like we've had another moment," she says, expression earnest. "I know you don't like hugs, so may I touch you?"
"I don't understand how you continually make this weirder than it needs to be," grouses Quinn. Impulsively, she reaches out and grasps Rachel's hand. "There. Happy?"
Rachel beams at her, and their joined hands. "Very much so."
End Notes: The song used in this chapter is Diana Ross and the Supremes' Some Things You Never Get Used To.