Author's Notes: The editing and proofreading credit (note: writing on your phone creates a wealth of nasty typos that your beta will have to pick through) goes to Mike Ownby. Full author's notes, meta, and assorted thoughts can be found on my Tumblr, yumi-michiyo.
Earlier, before Glee, she'd been dreading the wait for Leroy – visions of endless piles of sheet music dancing in her head – but Rachel had rushed out early, and she'd followed. Much to Quinn's relief, however, Rachel doesn't seem keen on talking about Glee; instead, she finds herself drawn into a discussion of favorite movies, music, and books.
She doesn't mind at all; it's oddly refreshing, to say the least, knowing that the sum of Rachel's interests don't begin with B and end with Y.
Rachel catches her staring – and, amazingly, seems to know what Quinn is thinking. "I'd rather we talk about other things right now," she says, giving Quinn a quick, mirthless smile. "We've been having too many serious conversations lately, don't you think?"
Quinn's gaze falls back on her shoes as she ignores the heat in her cheeks. She wonders how Rachel was able to guess what was on her mind. "What are you talking about? I was just wondering why you aren't giving me the lecture on the ways Rent was a groundbreaking musical that profoundly redefined the genre," she deflects.
"That's a lecture that can be saved for another time," says Rachel, narrowing her eyes at Quinn. "Although I do admit that while your impression of me is rather lacking, your verbosity betrays your deeper interests."
Quinn scoffs. She'd rather die than admit to Rachel that she regularly listens to This American Life. "I'm not a dumb blonde cheerleader, Berry; I'm on the honor roll. I'm not sure you've noticed, but we share a couple of AP classes."
She is saved from Rachel's reply when the other girl's phone vibrates, and she brightens after checking the screen. "Oh! Dad's here, let's go!"
Quinn follows closely. She's eager to get out of the school for the weekend; two whole days without Puck, without the rest of McKinley.
In the car, Leroy gives Quinn a look in the rearview mirror that says, I've got my eye on you. Quinn tries not to gulp. He's a police officer, he's probably trained to sense fear. But then he turns to Rachel with a bright smile, and asks her how her day went. The detailed account lasts for the entirety of the car ride home, and Quinn is grateful for the reprieve.
Until Rachel turns in her seat to mouth we'll discuss the impact of Rent at a more appropriate time, Quinn at her, forcing Quinn to stifle her snort in the sleeve of her cardigan, disguising it as a cough.
Tonight's dinner is Chinese food. Quinn is mildly disturbed to note that both cuisine and takeout phone number are specified on the (bedazzled) list stuck to the fridge.
Leroy catches her looking (and the expression on her face); he shrugs, unabashed. "Hiram and I are decent cooks, but we're too busy to make dinner most of the time. It's a shame Rachel didn't inherit any of our cooking skills."
Rachel huffs her indignation. "It's not my fault spaghetti is such a fickle ingredient."
All Quinn's attention is now focused on Rachel. "... You just need to boil it, and reheat the sauce from the jar. How hard do you think it is to make spaghetti, Rachel?" Quinn asks incredulously.
"Clearly all my talent was allocated to my musical abilities," retorts Rachel. She looks a little pink, but Quinn could be wrong.
Leroy grins. "Tell Quinn about the time you burned water, sweetie."
"Dad!"
"Or the time you surprised your daddy and me with breakfast in bed on Fathers' Day. Crunchiest scrambled eggs I've ever eaten." He smacks his lips together noisily, much to Quinn's amusement and Rachel's obvious mortification.
"Honestly, Dad! How do you expect a vegan to know how to cook scrambled eggs?" Rachel is blushing furiously now, pointedly not looking in Quinn's direction. "You're dangerously close to being excluded from my Tony acceptance speech."
He snorts. "That serious?"
"Yes!"
Leroy laughs and relents, reaching out to ruffle Rachel's hair affectionately. "Alright, alright. I'm stopping now." He looks at Quinn, who quickly swallows her snicker. "Since you're our guest for the week, why don't you pick the menu?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Rachel, would you run Quinn through the basics, please?"
"Certainly, Dad." Rachel pulls out a large binder from under the coffee table, flipping to the color-coded subheading labelled Chinese. "We usually get our regular orders – vegetarian stir-fry for me, Dad gets the moo shu pork, and Daddy likes his black bean beef – plus a few assorted dishes, depending on our mood or the restaurant's special," she explains. "Take your time looking through the menu. My dads recommend their shrimp fried rice; or if you don't eat seafood, their pork dumplings are excellent – as excellent as eating dead animal flesh can be, of course," she adds in a dark undertone, before continuing in her usual cheery tones: "Naturally, you're free to order what you normally would."
Quinn feels color rise in her cheeks. "I… don't eat Asian food," she admits quietly.
"Don't eat, or won't eat?"
Quinn blushes harder. "I… I've never had Asian food before. My dad didn't approve of it."
Rachel's frown disappears. "Oh. I see. We can always order something else. Variety is the spice of life, after all… Dad!"
"Wait, wait," she hisses, tugging on Rachel's arm. "You don't have to accommodate me."
Rachel spares her an incredulous look. "What are you saying, Quinn? You're our guest; we want you to feel welcome here. That means accommodating your dietary preferences."
Leroy pokes his head in. "Did you call me, baby girl?" he asks, oblivious to Quinn's stricken expression, and her motioning for Rachel to shut up.
"Yes, Dad," says Rachel, undeterred. "Quinn has just informed me that she's never tried Chinese food before. I was wondering if we could switch our Friday cuisine to something else."
"You don't need to!" says Quinn indignantly, glaring at Rachel. "I'm fine with Chinese."
"Girls, girls," Leroy interjects, holding his hands out. "No need to panic. Quinn, do you have any allergies or dietary preferences we should take note of?"
"No, sir." She had learned not to be picky over the past year; the Hudson and Puckerman households subsisted mostly on TV dinners and takeout, and the Joneses were of the "take it or leave it" school of thought when it came to meals.
Leroy nods. "Alright. Why don't we order a few things for you to try? I can suggest a few dishes and you can tell me if you'd want to order them."
Rachel pouts. "Dad, I am more than happy to suggest some foods. I've already suggested some, for your information."
"Honey, you're vegan. The foods you've personally tried are rather limited."
Rachel pouts. Leroy winks at Quinn; she manages a weak smile for him. They're being so nice to her when she doesn't deserve it; the least she could do is to return the gesture, even now when she's so embarrassed she wants to disappear.
"You do have a point, Dad," Rachel concedes. "Since my help is neither required nor appreciated, I'll be in my room until further notice."
"Okay, honey." Leroy turns to Quinn with a kind smile, opening up the takeout binder between them.
"You don't have to," mumbles Quinn.
"I don't have to," he agrees, "but I will anyway."
With Leroy's help, she picks some dishes – and by picks, she just agrees with whatever Leroy suggests.
He doesn't seem to mind, though. Quinn has the sneaking suspicion he's just indulging her, but she's more interested in getting this ordeal over and done with.
Shortly after he disappears off to place their order, Rachel reappears in the living room and sits on the couch beside Quinn, sheet music in hand. The silence is a little awkward; Rachel appears to be pretending to be reading, judging by the numerous furtive glances she casts in Quinn's direction, though Quinn has no desire to entertain whatever questions Rachel is barely suppressing.
Quinn decides to change tactics and get it over with by going on the offensive. She clears her throat, the sound clearly startling Rachel, who clutches her sheet music so hard it rustles. "So… you can't cook?"
Rachel's expression changes. "No," she replies, looking like a kicked puppy.
"At all?"
"I believe my dad has provided compelling evidence of my complete lack of culinary ability," Rachel says dryly.
Quinn can't help it; she smiles. For once, she can relish the feeling of making Rachel squirm without having to feel guilty about it. "Can you even make coffee?"
"I was forbidden from even looking at the coffee machine ever since I destroyed Daddy's prized DeLonghi."
"How? It's not difficult, you just insert the coffee and press the button," exclaims Quinn.
Rachel sighs, her discomfort evident. "I'm not technologically savvy. Don't make fun of me."
"Rachel, there's a big difference between technologically savvy and Amish. Besides, it's not like you're a complete tech idiot. You post videos on MySpace, don't you? How is it possible that you can't operate a coffee machine, when you obviously have no problems filming, editing, and posting your videos online?"
"Yes. Well." Rachel purses her lips. "It seems to be some sort of seventh sense. My body detects I am attempting some endeavor to nourish myself and hinders that effort. I've long accepted it as a price I have to pay in exchange for my musical gift."
"You mean sixth sense?"
"No, I meant seventh," says Rachel very seriously. "I already have a sixth sense, Quinn; I believe I've informed you before that I'm a little bit psychic."
"Now I'm certain you meant psycho."
Rachel huffs, but she's smiling. "I confess myself rather impressed that you've noticed how much effort I put into my videos."
It's Quinn's turn to squirm; they both know about the nasty anonymous comments Quinn and the Cheerios are responsible for leaving on those videos. "Yeah, um. I'm sorry about that."
Rachel nods graciously.
"Rachel," Leroy's voice floats into the room, "your Daddy will be picking up the food on his way home. In the meantime, let's get some chores done, shall we?"
"Yes, Dad," says Rachel obediently. She hops off the couch, smoothing her skirt down.
Quinn is left awkwardly sitting on her own. "Uh, can I help?"
Rachel stares at her. "Quinn, didn't you receive your copy of the Berry chore schedule?"
"I – what?"
Rachel puts her hands on her hips. "I clearly recall emailing it to you yesterday. Had you opened that email and read the schedule, you would have noticed I've taken the liberty of penciling you in."
There's too much in that sentence to unpack. Quinn settles for an eloquent, "Oh."
"In any case, I'd prepared for this eventuality. A copy is affixed to the fridge for your convenience. But," adds Rachel in increasingly strident tones, "to save you the trouble of going to the kitchen, I believe you are to set the table for dinner."
Quinn nods, overwhelmed by the flow of words. "Okay. So… that's all?"
"You are our guest. We don't want you slaving away like Cinderella. Or should I say, Quinnderella," says Rachel, and giggles at her own joke until she notices Quinn looking at her. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make fun of your personal circumstances."
Quinn shakes her head, grateful for the levity. "Your dad was right. You need to spend more time talking to normal teenagers."
"Quinn, are you trying to tell me you aren't a normal teenager?"
Quinn snorts, loudly and derisively. "I had a baby, Berry. What part of that is normal?"
"Point taken."
Hiram pulls up in the driveway, baby and dinner in tow.
Unwilling to repeat last night's fiasco, Quinn makes sure the baby is fed and settled in her crib before Quinn heads downstairs for her own dinner.
The Berrys are already seated when she comes in. There is a veritable spread of food on the table; so much that she can barely see any table underneath.
Leroy waves at her good-naturedly. "Come on, take a seat and help yourself."
The containers are open but their plates are empty. "You didn't need to wait," Quinn mumbles, sliding into the empty seat.
"It's good manners, Quinn," says Rachel.
She had been expecting them to say grace, but thinks the better of it. Instead, Quinn is treated to the sight of all three Berrys enthusiastically digging into the food.
"Are you starving today, Lee?" asks Hiram as he serves everyone a portion of dumplings. "I had to get Tong to help me load up the car. Baby Fabray didn't seem to mind, though."
Quiunn holds her breath; Leroy simply shrugs. "Leftover Chinese is pretty tasty," he says, not even looking at Quinn.
The doorbell rings. Hiram frowns. "That can't be a salesperson? Not at this hour?" he asks, looking at his husband.
Leroy shrugs. "Well, we'll find out in a bit."
Rachel dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "It's okay, Dad, I'll get it." She's gone before anyone can respond.
Quinn focuses on her food until a hesitant "Quinn?" floats into the kitchen from the door.
"Yeah?"
"I know you're busy at the moment, but could you please come to the door? There's someone here for you."
Her heart leaps into her throat as the Berry men exchange significant glances. It's late, but – what if her mother's at the door? Or – amazingly – her father? What if they're here to take her back? Quinn's hands shake as she drops her fork. "I'm coming," she calls, smoothing down her dress and hair as she goes.
Quinn frowns when she sees someone wholly unwelcome standing in the hallway instead. "Puck," she says coldly. "What are you doing here?"
He has his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slumped. Rachel hovers behind them, looking anxious. "I heard you brought her back from the hospital," he says. "I wanna see her. You've been avoiding me all day."
"Don't you think there might be a good reason for that?" asks Quinn acidly.
Rachel, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, glances between them anxiously, but says nothing. Quinn ignores her.
Puck's ears go red. "You can't stop me from seeing her," he growls, screwing up his face, looking more like a boy than ever.
"Yes I can, dipshit," she hisses back.
"She's ours," he insists.
"No, she isn't."
Rachel clears her throat. "Why don't you talk in the kitchen," she says with forced cheer. "I'll show you there. Or perhaps you could do that, Quinn, so I can give you two some privacy."
"Don't bother, Rachel," says Quinn, still glaring at Puck. "Puck was just leaving."
He frowns. "She's my kid too."
"None of us are fit to be parents," spits Quinn. "She's nobody's kid, least of all ours."
"Then why – "
Quinn interrupts him. " – she's here because Rachel here insisted I think it over. Which is pointless, because I'm signing the adoption papers next week."
Puck's eyes go wide, as do Rachel's; Quinn keeps her attention on him even as her heartbeat hammers in her ears. She lifts her chin, steeling herself for the fallout.
Then his face darkens. "Fuck you, Quinn. She's mine, too. Don't I get a say in this?"
"You gave up any right to call yourself a father when you got me drunk just so you could take my virginity!" yells Quinn.
"You're just as responsible for that," he yells back. "Yeah, we didn't mean for this to happen but it did. So we're both in this together, like it or not, and it's up to us to make sure our kid gets the best!"
"Get out, Puckerman." Her eyes blaze; she's too angry to speak. She wants him gone before she loses her temper and says something else she'll regret.
Thankfully, he doesn't protest. Puck simply tightens his jaw, turns on his heel, and marches out. She stays put until his beat-up truck has puttered off into the night.
"Quinn? Are you okay?" Rachel asks tentatively.
"Save it for someone who cares, Manhands," snaps Quinn. She marches up to her room and locks the door behind her. Quinn throws herself down on the bed, her blood still boiling. The baby whimpers from the crib. Quinn feels her anger ebb away when she turns in the direction of the sound. Even though the baby is the point of contention, she can't bring herself to get angry at something so innocent.
Impulsively, she moves to the crib. "Sorry about that, baby. That was your dad," she says, the words clumsy and thick on her tongue. "He's a jerk."
The baby coos at her, staring with unfocused eyes. Quinn reaches out to touch one plump cheek, smiling when the infant turns its face in the direction of her hand.
"Quinn? May I come in?"
Quinn chews on her lip. It's not Rachel she's mad at. "Yeah. Hang on, lemme unlock it."
To her surprise, Rachel isn't empty-handed. There's a plate of cookies in her hands, which she immediately holds out to Quinn. "I thought this might be a prime opportunity for you to sample more of my baking," she says. "Not that I find this a good thing. I've been told that my cookies make people feel better, and I hope you'll feel better after eating them."
"There's like, a ton of Chinese downstairs," Quinn mumbles.
"It'll keep."
Quinn decides not to argue. "Thanks," she says shortly, taking the plate. "Do you wanna come in?"
"Only if I'm not intruding on your personal space."
"You're really not. This isn't even my house."
"It is your personal space for the time being. It counts."
"Just come in, Rachel."
Rachel does, seating herself at the desk. She stares meaningfully at Quinn until Quinn takes a bite of a cookie.
"It's really good."
"Thank you."
Rachel waits until Quinn's sitting on the bed, the plate of cookies balanced in her lap. "My dads asked me to tell you that they can send Noah away if he comes around again."
Quinn takes her time chewing on the cookie. "They really don't need to," says Quinn. "I can deal with him on my own. Today wasn't a good day, that's all," she lies, unwilling to admit she had been mad at herself for getting her hopes up, and had taken it out on Puck – and Rachel, to a lesser degree.
"You don't have to go through this alone," says Rachel quietly, and there's a look in her eyes that Quinn recognizes: pity. It's the same expression she saw in Puck's eyes earlier. But it's different with Rachel; Quinn's over wanting to claw Rachel's eyes out. She counts this as a win.
"I know." Quinn picks at the hem of her dress where the threads are coming loose. She's running out of clothes; there were only so many baby doll dresses and cardigans she wanted to take with her.
"My dad also says he'll be happy to babysit Baby Fabray tomorrow if you're not up to it."
"No, I should…" Her fingers twist in the fabric, unraveling more threads; Quinn pauses, distracted. "Tell him I appreciate the offer, but I think I should spend the time with her and really think about what I'm going to do."
Rachel frowns. "Didn't you say you were going to sign the papers?"
Quinn takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her nose. "That was a lie; I haven't decided on anything yet," she admits. "I only said that because Puck was getting on my nerves."
"I see." Rachel pats her knee. "I'm glad. I think I should go now; I have a few things to do, and I should leave you be. I'm quite certain you're tired of my company already."
"You're not that bad, Rachel. Honest." It's a white lie, but Rachel beams like she's won a Tony, and… yeah, Quinn doesn't like her, but she doesn't exactly hate Rachel either, especially now. Saying it was a gamble, though, because there's a chance that Rachel might just stay and talk her ear off.
But Rachel just smiles at her. "Take your time," she says, nodding at the plate of cookies. "I believe that you would prefer to be alone for that, so if you'll excuse me…"
"Rachel, wait."
She pauses. "Yes?"
Quinn hates the horrible curling sensation in her stomach that threatens to crawl into her throat she gets whenever she apologizes; one of her father's most pervasive lessons was never to apologize. She hopes it's something that gets better with practice. "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I shouldn't have. You didn't deserve any of it, it's not your fault."
"Think nothing of it, Quinn. We are friends, after all; and friends forgive each other, especially when it was the heat of the moment and I know you didn't mean it."
Like I didn't mean it back then? thinks Quinn bitterly. Out loud, she says: "Uh, that's good to hear."
"Enjoy the cookies," says Rachel – seemingly oblivious to the discomfort in Quinn's voice – and leaves.
When the baby cries at two AM, Quinn finds that she can't drag herself out of bed. She barely slept for four hours the previous night, and now… The tears prick at her eyes. She'd thought it would be all over when she gave birth. Quinn spends a good hour or so sitting on her bed, staring at the crib, just waiting on the infant.
"You know," she says aloud, "if You really want me to believe in You again, now's a really good time to send me a sign. A message. Anything, I'm not picky."
A part of her wonders if she'll be struck down for blasphemy. But Quinn thinks back to the early weeks of her pregnancy, when she'd begged, bargained, prayed for hours on end for God to make it go away. She's past caring about her eternal soul now, and it hurts more than she thought it would.
There's a knock on her door. "Quinn? It's me."
Quinn hastily wipes her face on her sleeve. "Coming."
Rachel stands there. Annoyingly, she doesn't look as exhausted as Quinn feels. "May I come in?"
"Didn't stop you last night," she remarks, temper frayed by exhaustion.
"You probably couldn't hear me knock last night," replies Rachel, unruffled. "I thought you might appreciate my help in getting her to calm down."
She's too tired to deny it. Quinn merely nods and lets Rachel in to swoop on the crib and work her Broadway magic on the baby.
When she wakes up, her first thought is to be glad that it's a Saturday, and there's no school.
But then she remembers: two whole days of being with the baby. Quinn groans softly.
The baby is sound asleep. "That makes one of us," Quinn growls without malice. By her reckoning, she'll be awake in a couple of hours, so Quinn figures that she'll go feed herself first.
The warm smells of breakfast and coffee greet her on the stairs, and she follows her nose to the kitchen. "Good morning, Quinn," says Leroy cheerfully. "Bacon and eggs?"
"Uh, good morning, sir," replies Quinn warily. "And yes, thank you."
"You can leave that in the sink," he says, nodding at the empty plate in her hand. "We'll get to that later. Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She accepts the mug from him – which has a photo of a gap-toothed young Rachel printed on the side – and starts adding milk and sugar.
"Ignore him," interjects Hiram. "He's just happy to finally have a normal teenager with a normal teenager's sleeping patterns in this house." Hiram smiles immediately afterwards at Rachel, who is pouring almond milk into her cereal and ignoring him.
"I resent that, Daddy. Especially when you are making that remark to endear yourself to Quinn at my expense."
Hiram laughs. "I'm sure you can't help being so teaseable, sweetie. Now hurry up with your breakfast, we have a busy day today."
Quinn chews on her breakfast in confusion, until she remembers the Berry family schedule on the fridge. Hiram and Rachel will be out of the house all morning, leaving herself and Leroy – and the baby – alone. She isn't quite sure how to react to that, apart from being grateful for some breathing room.
Thankfully, none of the Berrys speak to her until Hiram and Rachel are gone, and it's just Leroy and herself. "If you need me, I'll be in my study," Leroy informs her as they wash the breakfast things. "I assume you'll be in your room doing whatever teenaged girls do."
Quinn nods, opting not to respond verbally. She excuses herself up to her room once the dishes are done. So far, Saturday in the Berry household is surprisingly peaceful. Quinn thinks that may have more to do with Rachel being out of the house, but there's no one around to appreciate that quip.
When the doorbell rings, Quinn is instantly apprehensive. She doesn't want to answer it – what if it's Puck again? But Leroy is the only Berry home, and being her least favorite Berry, she isn't keen on getting him.
So, she steels herself. "I'll get it," she calls in the direction of the study, and receives a muffled acknowledgement from Leroy.
Quinn checks through the peephole and blinks in surprise, rushing to open the door. "S? Britt?"
"Hi Quinn," chirps Brittany. Santana, hands stuffed in the pockets of her Cheerios jacket, grunts.
"What are you guys doing here?" They're both impeccably dressed in Cheerio uniforms. Quinn remembers Saturday morning practices with more than a fraction of jealousy.
"We missed you," says Brittany at the same time Santana says: "Wrong door".
Brittany glances at Santana. "San, it's okay to miss people," she chides her.
"I don't miss Preggo. I miss my punching bag."
"It's wonderful to see you too, Lopez," says Quinn dryly. It really is, though she'd rather listen to a Rachel Berry lecture than to tell Santana; Quinn knows Santana feels the same way.
"Is RuPaul home?" asks Santana, deliberately and obnoxiously trying to peer over Quinn's shoulder.
Quinn winces. Any insult directed at Rachel feels personal, thanks to the healthy dose of guilt and shame that comes with it now. "No, and you shouldn't be calling her that."
Much to her surprise, Brittany pouts at Santana. "San, you promised to be nice."
"She's not here, what she doesn't know ain't gonna kill her."
As much as Quinn is enjoying the discomfort on Santana's face, she knows what it must have cost the other girl to come here. "Do you wanna come in?" asks Quinn.
"Quinn? Who is that at the door? If it's Mr Puckerman, tell him Hiram will have words with his Nana at Temple…" Leroy trails off. "Oh, hello ladies."
"Hi, Mr Berry," says Brittany. "I really like how both you and your husband are both Mr Berrys, it's really convenient, so I don't have to remember which is which."
Quinn can't help but hide a smirk behind her hand as she watches Leroy deal with the force of nature that is Brittany. But Leroy (much to Quinn's disappointment) recovers quickly. "Er… it's nice to meet you both."
"This is Brittany and Santana, Leroy," Quinn adds. "They're in Glee club." She ignores how Santana's eyebrow quirks up subtly.
"It's nice to meet you, Brittany and Santana," Leroy amends. "Would you like to come in?"
"Thanks but no thanks, Mr B –" Santana starts, but is cut off when Brittany says: "We wanted to see the baby."
"Right," says Leroy. "Well, that's up to Quinn..."
"Yeah, okay." She turns and walks into the house, knowing they're following her. Quinn realizes, belatedly, that Leroy didn't need to ask if they were looking for Rachel. She tries and fails to suppress the prick of guilt that follows.
The old Quinn Fabray would have hated how soft she's become with regards to Rachel. But this new Quinn opens the door to the Berrys' guest room and waves towards the crib containing her baby.
Brittany makes a beeline for the crib, leaning over to coo at the infant, wiggling her fingers over the crib. "She can't see you, Britt," says Quinn.
"I know. Rachel told me." Brittany resumes cooing. "I was just saying hi so she knows it's me."
Quinn disregards the rest of her words, focusing on the mention of Rachel. "How does Rachel know that?"
"Rachel has like, a ton of pregnancy books in her locker."
Santana wrinkles her nose. "That's creepy."
"She's just being nice."
"Still creepy."
Quinn ignores her. It figures, really, that even when Rachel isn't here, she would still manage to be part of the conversation. "What are you guys doing here?"
"What, we can't be concerned for you, oh former captain?" drawls Santana.
Quinn arches an eyebrow and waits.
Santana scowls. "Fine. Britt was worried about you, being all alone with the spawn of Puckerman, trapped in the Very Berry Mini Funhouse. She wouldn't let us get some hot action unless I promised to bring her here to reassure her you're not dead." She shifts her weight to her other foot. "... Also, your useless baby daddy may have accidentally slipped a few details about his visit last night."
Quinn groans. "Great. Who else knows?"
"Just us." She neglects to mention the context. Quinn is grateful for that.
Brittany bounds over to Quinn, throwing her arms around her friend. "We could totally beat him up if you want us to," she chirps.
"Uh… thanks for the offer, Britt, but it's okay."
"You know, you never mentioned if you're planning on making your stay in the Berry patch permanent," says Santana. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her Cheerio jacket.
"I… I've got a week here to decide what to do with the baby," says Quinn, deliberately not answering Santana's question.
"Your bitch parents still haven't showed up?"
Quinn's gaze drops to her shoes. "No."
Santana swears.
Quinn smiles, despite her mood. She knows that Santana has difficulty showing that she cares; it's a problem she shares. "Hey," she says.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
She manages to catch the quick grateful look in Santana's eyes, before it's gone. "Whatever."
Brittany sighs. "That sucks. I'm sorry your parents are mean, Q."
"Thanks, Britt."
"I'd offer you a place at mine, but Lord Tubbington established his Doomsday cult in our spare room."
"... I appreciate the offer anyway," says Quinn. "But I think I'll manage."
"That's my girl," says Santana, in a rare fit of affection.
Her friends leave shortly afterwards, which gives Quinn some time to herself before she's needed downstairs for dinner.
Her parents aren't coming for her. It stings, but Quinn forces herself to accept that as fact. And it's her own fault for even entertaining that; her father had thrown her out of her house, while her mother had watched him do it. Even if she had shown up to take her to the hospital, Quinn should've known that she wouldn't follow through.
Frannie? Quinn briefly considers, then dismisses, the thought of turning to her older sister. Frannie has always been their father's favorite; it was highly likely that she would take his side against Quinn.
That meant that she was alone. Quinn fights the growing lump in her throat; how the fuck is she going to raise a kid on her own?
Despite their assurances they would support whatever decision Quinn makes, it's fairly clear that the Berrys (especially Rachel) are hoping she'll keep the baby.
Which – God, she really shouldn't be considering, either. She's sixteen, she's barely an adult. Quinn knows she should be thinking about all the dreams she had before she got pregnant –
– like winning Prom Queen, marrying Finn Hudson after graduating high school, and settling in Lima to raise their kids. Just like her parents.
She cringes. Surely she should have had higher ambitions than that at some point in her life?
But even if she leaves, there's nowhere else to go. She's equally unwilling to depend on the Joneses, plus there's that deal she has with Leroy… Even though Rachel doesn't know about the deal, she's indebted to the Berrys for the foreseeable future.
The thought sits uneasy. Although that solves nearly all her practical problems – money, a place to stay – Quinn doesn't like the idea of being beholden to anybody. Especially when she had no choice in that matter.
She's preoccupied with that line of thinking all the way until Leroy calls her downstairs for dinner – Quinn picks at her leftover Chinese food because she doesn't have the appetite. She can feel the concerned eyes of the Berry family on her; before they can ask, she mumbles something about going to feed the baby (the first time she finds herself grateful for that excuse).
There's nothing to do but to lie on her bed, stare up at the ceiling, and think blasphemous thoughts. Which is what Quinn does until Rachel lets herself into the room.
"I know you're mad at me," she says without preamble.
The statement comes out of absolutely nowhere, slamming into Quinn like a car at a T-junction. "I'm sorry?" Quinn says, sitting upright so she can stare at Rachel, hoping to catch what she's missing.
"No, I'm sorry," replies Rachel firmly.
Quinn frowns, utterly baffled. "What for?"
"I did some thinking, and I realize now that I put you in a difficult situation," says Rachel. "I'm basically forcing you to keep the baby."
Even with the additional context, Quinn is still struggling to follow Rachel's logic. "Huh?" is her thoughtful, eloquent response.
"I anticipate this to be a long conversation, judging from your reaction. May I sit?"
"Yeah, go for it." She scoots over. "You're gonna have to start from the top, because I have no clue what's going on," Quinn starts.
Rachel sits, primly smoothing out her skirt over her knees. "I've been doing some thinking about what Noah said last night."
"It's been an entire day," says Quinn flatly, "and besides, it's really none of your business."
Rachel has the grace to blush. "Well – I wanted to be absolutely sure I'd considered all the factors, and I wasn't being impulsive, or wilfully ignorant, or overstepping my bounds," she explains, looking sheepish. "I'm aware I've frequently done all of these things."
"Noted."
"Thank you. But I digress. After much reflection – and perhaps a few visits to reputable Internet forums – I am beginning to think that I'm not much better than he is. I've essentially imprisoned you in my home and am forcing you to keep your baby."
Quinn blinks rapidly as she tries to absorb all of this. "Rachel…"
"Please, allow me to finish." Rachel clears her throat. "I can't imagine what you must have felt when I and my fathers barged into the hospital. At the time, I believed I was doing the right thing in giving you time and a safe space to make a decision, but from an outsider's point of view, it looks like we simply spirited you away and kept you prisoner."
Quinn frowns. "Yes, okay, but – "
"– And if you aren't giving Noah any say in the decision despite his status as your baby's father – "
" – Rachel – "
" – I fail to see why I would be any different from him," finishes Rachel in a rush.
"Are you quite done?" Quinn snaps.
"Yes."
"Okay." Quinn purses her lips, pondering over what Rachel has said. Rachel Berry is many things, but self-aware is typically not one of those things. "Honestly? Yes, you did overstep; I mean, yeah, I didn't get any say in whether I wanted to think about it. Or stay here."
Rachel's shoulders slump visibly.
"But I've been thinking, too," Quinn adds. "And I understand what you were thinking."
Rachel glances up.
"I know I didn't wanna think about what to do with the baby," continues Quinn, "but you were right that I needed to consider it carefully. If I had given her up straightaway at the hospital, it would've been for the wrong reasons."
Rachel doesn't ask, but Quinn elaborates anyway. "At that time, I just wanted to be rid of the baby, so that everything could go back to normal. I could go home. I could go back to school. It would be like the last year never happened." Quinn pauses to think over her next words. "But, she's a baby. She'll grow up into an entire person, and I owe it to her at least to take her existence seriously. I didn't want her, but she's here anyway, and I'm responsible for her. I don't know – I think I was so focused on getting her out of me that I never stopped to think about everything else."
"I don't want her to grow up hating me," admits Quinn. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life second-guessing whatever decision I make. Like, what if someone we know adopted her? Like, what if your mom adopted her, and then I'd have to watch her grow up calling another person Mom? Imagine how fucked up that would be?"
"That is an incredibly disturbing train of thought," says Rachel with a shudder. "That will never happen. Shelby Corcoran doesn't want kids; she was merely my fathers' surrogate and she has no interest in forming a parental relationship with me."
Quinn smiles in spite of herself. "I'm being serious, Rachel."
"Yes. Of course."
"So I'm gonna be honest and say what you did wasn't exactly the right thing, but it was something I needed. And I'm not gonna thank you for it, but I understand why you did it."
Rachel exhales, a noisy sigh of clear relief. "Okay. I'm really glad to hear you say that."
"Were you expecting me to yell at you?"
"No," she insists, though she looks away, suspiciously guilty. "Perhaps a little."
"I don't blame you," remarks Quinn. "If we had had this conversation a week ago, I would have."
Rachel nods, expression serious. "Okay," she says. "Good. I'm glad we had this talk. Thank you for being honest with me, Quinn."
"Uh – okay."
Once Rachel leaves, Quinn pulls out her phone and texts Puck.
we shld talk. Mcd tmr?
His reply comes barely minutes later.
cool ill pick u up 11
Quinn goes downstairs to inform the Berrys of her plans. She finds the family glued to the television watching MasterChef, loudly criticizing the dishes. "Um," she says.
"Yes, Quinn?" Hiram asks, although his attention is still focused on the souffle the chef on TV is making.
"I, uh, I'm gonna go out tomorrow morning. Puck and I need to talk."
Immediately, the family focuses their attention on her. "Do you want one of us there?" asks Leroy.
Quinn briefly entertains the thought of having Leroy, dressed in full uniform, stare Puck down. "I'll be fine," she assures him.
Leroy nods, even as his expression remains guarded.
"If you're sure – " Rachel starts, and then catches herself, biting her lip. Quinn knows she's thinking of their conversation earlier, and she acknowledges Rachel's restraint with a nod.
Hiram smiles warmly at her. "Alright."
That night, the baby wakes her with soft whimpering, instead of the full-blown wails Quinn has come to expect. "Oh, c'mon," she groans, hauling herself out of bed.
She refuses Quinn's attempts at placating her. Quinn tries everything; bouncing her gently, singing, even some of Rachel's Sondheim. The baby continues to fuss and whimper, restless in Quinn's arms.
"Maybe you're hungry," says Quinn, frowning. She goes down to the kitchen, furrowing her brow in concentration as she tries to remember the maternity ward nurse's instructions to reheat a bottle of breast milk while the baby babbles into her ear.
Before she'd been discharged, a nurse had given her a breast pump and taught her how to use it. That ranked as one of the most awkward conversation in Quinn's life – easily surpassing the time she was forced to sit through a talk about the birds and the bees by her mom when she was fourteen, and on par with when she had asked Hiram for a space in the fridge to store her expressed breast milk.
He'd been very understanding about it, much to Quinn's relief, and had provided a discreet corner for her use. More importantly, he'd never mentioned it again.
Quinn frowns in concentration, testing the milk's temperature before offering the bottle to the baby. Much to her surprise, the baby sucks greedily at the offered rubber teat and settles down. Quinn watches her eat.
It occurs to Quinn – now that the baby isn't crying or sleeping – she is rather cute. Chubby fingers attempt to grip the bottle as she sucks.
"Here…" Quinn steadies it. A small hand closes over one of her fingers. She stares, fascinated, by the juxtaposition of their hands.
Puck swings by right on time, his truck pulling up outside the Berry house. Quinn is already waiting for him on the porch; the Berrys have been antsy all morning, and she finds their nervous energy discomfiting.
She hops into the cabin of the truck. He drives off. They don't talk.
They stop for McDonald's on the way. Quinn smiles a little when he orders her coffee with one sugar and extra milk, and a sausage McMuffin with bacon without needing to ask. His own order is much larger and greasier, the brown paper bag so large the cashier grunts as he passes it to Puck.
"Do you mind?" he asks.
"No. Pass it here." She lets him ease the bag onto her lap, carefully balancing the tray of drinks on top of that. The smell brings back memories of when she was pregnant and living with Puck. Despite the kosher household, the baby had craved bacon – the greasier the better – and so it fell on the baby's father to make fast food runs. Sunday morning McDonalds had been somewhat of a habit until Quinn had moved in with the Joneses. Quinn finds herself missing those times. As grateful as she was to Aurelia and the Jones family for feeding her, sometimes all she wanted was a greasy breakfast sandwich.
They pull up in their usual spot. She hands him the bag, letting him fish the burgers out.
"It's been a while since we last did this," says Puck, unwrapping his double McMuffin and taking a monstrous bite.
She does the same, albeit in a more ladylike fashion. "Yeah."
"I was surprised when you texted me. Especially after everything," he mumbled around a mouthful of burger.
The awful roiling sensation in her stomach starts up again. "We needed to talk properly," says Quinn. "You were right; it's the least you deserve."
He doesn't say anything. The silence is punctuated by chewing, and the occasional slurp of his drink.
Quinn feels uncomfortable. The weight of everything she'd said weighs on her shoulders. "Puck?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry." She's been saying those words so often these days. She's got a lot to be sorry for. "I didn't mean to yell at you, or say those horrible things."
"Yes, you did." He crumples up his empty burger wrapper, lets it fall from his hands. He still doesn't look at her. "But it's okay. I kinda deserved it."
"Puck," protests Quinn.
"I'm serious." He lifts his head, stares into her eyes. He looks too young to be a father. "I shouldn't have said most of the shit I said. I kinda lost my temper too."
"I shouldn't have been such a bitch about it," says Quinn, "because you're right. We're both responsible for what happened that night."
"Yeah? Because s'far as I see it, all I did was contribute the swimmers, and the best night of your life."
"Puckerman!" Just like that, the tension falls away. It's hard to stay mad at him; harder still because he's an idiot who has never taken anything in his life seriously – until now.
Puck smiles weakly. "I get it. I'm not as dumb as you think I am."
"I've never thought you were stupid."
"Sure felt like it." The way he looks at her worries Quinn. "And us…?"
"There's no us, Puck. There never was." She takes a deep breath. "And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise."
"Forget it." Puck sighs. "I figured you didn't like me that way. No harm asking, though."
She presses forward before she loses her nerve. "We're responsible for her, but she's not ours. And, Puck… I don't think we can take care of her the way she deserves." Here, she lowers her eyes to the crumpled wrapper on the floor. "I lied about already deciding to sign the papers, but… I want to. I'm sorry."
He presses his lips into a thin line. "I get it."
"I'm sorry," she says again. "This should never have happened."
"I'm sorry too." He exhales softly. "I just didn't want to be like my dad, y'know? Some deadbeat who ups and leaves his kid."
"You're nothing like your dad, and you won't ever be."
Puck chuckles. "I sure hope so. But I'm not sorry this happened. I mean – we can't keep her. Which makes sense, 'cause we're sixteen, and you deserve to get out of this cow town, but it feels a lot like we're abandoning her. That stings."
"You don't know how much I wish things were different," says Quinn sharply.
"No, I do know. That's why it hurts that we don't actually have a choice in this." His shoulders slump. "We have to give her up. It's the best thing for her."
Quinn nods. She reaches for his arm and squeezes. "Thank you for understanding."
He just looks away from her, jaw tight.
Except it's not as simple as that.
Puck drops her off a short time later. She knows he needs time away from her, and she doesn't begrudge him that. As a peace offering, she's arranged for him to meet the baby after school the next day.
Quinn walks into the Berry house, head swimming with thoughts and is treated to the sight of all three Berrys in front of the TV. The baby is still in her crib, but the entire thing's been hauled downstairs to the living room.
"When I asked you to watch her while I talked to Puck…"
"We are watching her," says Rachel, eyes still glued to the television. She tears her eyes away to smile at Quinn. "How was it?"
"Uh… good," hedges Quinn. Her nervousness is exacerbated when Hiram mutes the TV, and their attention is on her. "Can we not talk about it now?"
"Of course," says Rachel quickly. "Come watch Project Runway with us!"
Quinn frowns, mildly disconcerted by Rachel's abrupt change of topic. "Okay?"
Beaming, Rachel pats the couch seat next to her. Quinn sits. She quickly finds herself filled in on the show and who the family is rooting for.
Something inside tugs at her, telling her to slow down and enjoy this. Sundays in the Fabray house were never like this; her Sunday mornings were spent in pews, dolled up in her starched best dress, and then home for a proper Sunday lunch cooked from scratch. Her father usually retired to his study with a bottle of whisky after that, her mother to the living room with her wine, leaving Quinn to her own devices.
It was lonely after Frannie left and never came back.
Quinn looks at the people in the living room. They aren't her family, not by a long shot, but it says a lot that she feels more at home here than with her own parents.
For the first time since she woke up in the hospital, she doesn't feel completely alone.