Author's Notes: Without Mike Ownby, much of this would not exist, simply because I would be off in my Fabrose world and neglecting my multichapter works. Who knew Americanizers also kept one honest?
Detailed story notes, meta, background trivia, and more can be found on my Tumblr, yumi-michiyo.
"Then? What happened?"
Quinn pretends not to hear the question. She focuses her attention on the Lima Bean's (limited) menu until an elegant finger taps her arm.
"I know you heard Mercedes," says Kurt. "The ice queen facade doesn't work on us anymore."
Quinn shrugs. "Darn," she says easily, drawing out the sound because she knows it'll piss him off.
As predicted, he narrows his eyes; Quinn smiles angelically at him.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you enjoyed it."
Quinn snorts. "Enjoyed it? A walk in the park with Rachel Berry?" She hadn't told them about holding Rachel's hand; she hadn't processed it fully herself, let alone tell someone about it. There was only so much she could deal with at one time. "So I did, what of it?"
Mercedes chooses this moment to step in. "It's no big," she says firmly, her tone as authoritative as her mom's. "Rachel's alright; we already established that when she and her dads took you in."
"You and your family also took me in," points out Quinn.
"Yeah, but my mom told me the Berrys are legit making plans for your college fund, and Beth's." She sounds awed. "Like, damn."
"... You're joking."
Mercedes holds up her hands. "Would I joke about something like that?"
Shit. She'll have to speak to Leroy about that. Aurelia may have the tendency to exaggerate, but it also sounds like something Hiram or Leroy (or both) might do. "How did you know?"
"He comes over for coffee every now and then. Mr Berry – Hiram – that is." Mercedes laughs nervously. "Guess we know where Rachel gets her intensity from, huh?"
"I'll say," Quinn mutters, distracted.
"Yes, yes. Can we get back to the matter at hand?" Kurt says, flicking his fingers dismissively.
"Like getting to order my coffee?" Quinn asks, glancing between him and the annoyed-looking barista behind the register.
Kurt purses his lips. "Come on, girl," he says, patting Mercedes' arm, "we can ambush her later."
Rolling her eyes, Quinn orders her drink and moves to the side to wait. She's missed spending time with Kurt and Mercedes, enough to gloss over their incurable gossip.
And frankly? She has no reputation left to preserve, and she needs to talk about what she's going through. Preferably with someone who doesn't stare at her so intensely, who makes Quinn feel like someone cares.
Quinn brings her coffee to their table, passing other McKinley students on her way. Quinn holds her head high and ignores the passing glances and murmurs that break out around her.
It's not like she hasn't heard worse. Quinn has been at the top and bottom of the school's social hierarchy, and she knows there will always be whispering behind her back no matter which social tier she occupies.
The whispers pause briefly when Kurt and Mercedes join her. "Spill," Kurt commands as soon as she sits down. "You went for a walk in the park with Rachel Berry, and you liked it?"
"Do you know you sound like a bad Katy Perry song?"
Mercedes snorts. Kurt purses his lips.
Quinn sips her coffee serenely. "Honestly, I don't get why you're making a big deal of it, Kurt. We live together. Her dads didn't just take me and Beth in, they're allegedly planning a college fund for us. It would be pretty bad if I didn't try and get along with Rachel."
"That statement implies that you've had difficulty getting along," he points out.
"Of course we had difficulty getting along, she's Rachel Berry. She has a soundproofed room and, like, a million performance classes scheduled this summer. She's insane."
"But?" Mercedes prompts.
"But… she's not as bad as everybody thinks. As I thought," Quinn allows, and it's liberating to say that out loud to other people. "She genuinely cares about Beth and me, and she can be nice. In her own way."
Kurt sighs. It's obvious by the tension bleeding from his shoulders that he was expecting some juicy drama or gossip, but Quinn won't give him that. It's one thing to stand up for Rachel to Santana, and another to defend her to everyone else. "Okay," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Okay?"
Mercedes shrugs. "Okay. Like, it's one thing to be gossiping about Rachel if she does weird stuff like – I dunno – drink boiled pig foot soup and dance naked in the woods to preserve her voice."
Kurt's expression goes pinched, presumably from trying not to think about a naked Rachel. Quinn has the same thought, however, and has a very different reaction.
"But," says Mercedes, as though sensing she's lost her audience, "if you're happy, Quinn, that's all that really matters. Right?"
"In all honesty, we're glad you and Rachel seem to be getting along," Kurt says as though Mercedes hasn't spoken and gets a sharp look for it."'Cedes and I thought she might have killed you by the end of the first week."
"Hang on, why is it Rachel killing me and not the other way round? I'm way more athletic and ruthless than she is."
"She's insane. I've read stories about crazy people having superhuman strength." Kurt frowns. "Also, please? There's no way you can be more ruthless than someone who made herself over to snag one – albeit very hot – teenage dreamboat."
"Shut up, Hummel. We already know you're a raging jealous bitch," she says in a deadpan voice.
He places a hand on his chest, feigning shock. "Quinn Fabray. I'd have thought new motherhood would've thawed out the ice queen."
"You wish."
They grin at each other.
Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Guys? Not to be interrupting your lovefest but can we get a move on? I called you both here today for an important mission."
"Yes, yes; finding that perfect pair of sneakers to complete your ensemble." Kurt links arms with Mercedes. "Don't worry, 'Cedes, between the three of us, the soccer moms never stood a chance."
Quinn nods. "We got this."
After a week of missteps and adjustments Quinn's life manages to settle into a routine: waking up early to feed Beth. Help Hiram make breakfast, then to the law offices for work. Lunch is a salad packed from home (despite Hiram's best efforts). Dinner follows their takeout schedule (the special summer holidays edition). Quinn's weekends are spent with her friends, or working out, or with Beth.
She could get used to this… predictability. This stability that she can't remember ever truly having.
However, Rachel isn't around for the next few weeks to provoke her into voicing her inner thoughts. Hiram says something about summer camps and workshops in Columbus, and Quinn nods along as though she cares.
(She does, a little.)
It doesn't matter to her what Rachel does with her summer. In fact, she's happier because it means less co-existing with Rachel.
Right?
At the very least, the rest of her life is progressing nicely. Her bankbook doesn't look so dire anymore, her abs are almost back, and she doesn't have to interact with unwanted Glee clubbers. So Quinn can finally relax.
They've run out of black olives at home and it falls to Quinn to be the errand girl in Rachel's absence. A task she doesn't mind, until she spots a familiar person while leaving the store.
"Finn?"
He turns. "Hey," he says awkwardly. He's gotten taller again, somehow, Quinn notes with annoyance. There's a blond boy next to him.
"Uh, this is Sam."
The other boy – Sam – grins at her. He has floppy blond hair that keeps falling into his eyes, like a cross between Justin Bieber and a Californian surfer. "S'up. Nice to meet you."
"Hello," says Quinn politely.
"So… how're you?" Finn interjects.
"I'm fine," she says, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. Finn can't help sounding like he's two buns short of a baker's dozen, and he's a genuinely nice guy. Not to mention he's not-dating Rachel at the moment and Quinn doesn't want to touch that hot mess with a ten-foot pole. "How's your summer going?"
He brightens up. "Pretty awesome. I went to football camp. The coaches said I could be a college prospect if I kept up with training seriously over the summer. That's how I met Sam." Finn pats Sam's shoulder. "He works at Dunham's; he was helping me get new cleats."
Quinn nods, trying not to seem too bored.
"He's going to McKinley too, he just moved here from Tennessee."
"That's nice." Quinn desperately wants a way out from the conversation, so the universe answers her prayer in the worst way possible.
Puck slouches around the corner and stops short at the sight of them.
"Hey, man!" Finn calls, oblivious to the sudden tension.
"S'up." Puck nods at Finn. He doesn't look at Quinn.
Quinn stiffens. While Finn is introducing Sam, she clears her throat. "I should go."
Finn starts saying something but she doesn't wait for him to finish. She parked pretty close to the entrance, so –
"Hey, Quinn, wait up."
She curses her luck. "Not now, Puck."
"Hey, hey. Don't walk away from me."
"We have nothing to talk about," says Quinn tightly.
"You can't keep avoiding me," he growls.
"Watch me."
Too late, she realizes he recognizes her car. Puck beats her to it, standing against the driver's side with his arms folded across his chest. "We have two years of school left. We both have fucking Glee together. You need to get over whatever you have, and – "
"Excuse me? I need to get over whatever I have?" She pokes his chest with a finger. "You need to get over yourself, 'cause the last time we talked, I wasn't the one throwing a fucking toddler tantrum."
Puck scowls. "Look, first you were saying we're in this, then you cut me out of the whole thing. You're fuckin' crazy."
"You can't be trusted!"
"I never wanted to be a dad. I'm not cut out for that." He runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry if I needed time and space to get my fucking head around all this!"
"You've had a whole year to get used to it, like I got used to the idea of being a teen mom," Quinn sneers.
"Look, you can't keep putting all the blame on me for that. It takes two people to have sex and it wasn't all me."
"You got me drunk first!" Her voice goes louder in her agitation; around them, people are starting to take notice. Puck makes shushing noises. "I can't believe you, Puck."
"Hey, it's not like we were dating or whatever. I did my best, remember? I got you money for the doctor and shit."
"Out of guilt," snaps Quinn. "Don't pretend to care because you don't. You've never cared for me. I would've been just a notch on your bedpost if I hadn't gotten pregnant. You used me."
"Oh yeah? I was the one telling you you're not fat the whole time we were doing it! I wouldn't have done it if I didn't care at all, right?"
Quinn scoffs.
"It's not like you were in love with me or whatever. We both used each other."
Quinn glares at him. "You didn't want to be a dad? Tough. I didn't ask to be a mom, but here we are."
"I thought we were good! We had that talk, and everything seemed like it was back to normal. Then you went back to doing this bullshit. You're a fucking mess, Quinn." He throws up his hands.
"You don't get to say that to me."
"Hey, hey." To Quinn's surprise, Finn's jogged up to them, a hand on Puck's shoulder. "Yo, dude. You left before I could ask if you wanted to come over and play Call of Duty with me and Sam."
Puck shrugs off Finn's hand. "I'm good. Later, man." He leaves, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.
Quinn exhales softly, leaning against her car.
Finn stays put. "Everything cool?"
"Yeah. Thank you."
"I thought things were cool between you guys," says Finn, shaking his head.
"Are you kidding me? You saw the last time we talked," she says, spitting out the last word like it's something poisonous.
"Oh."
Quinn sighs. "It doesn't matter. That's not your problem. Puck and I… I don't see us working things out for a long, long time, if at all. There was just too much that happened between us, and a lot of it is my fault." She forces a smile. "But you don't need to worry about that. He's your best friend."
"And you're my ex-girlfriend," argues Finn stubbornly.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
Finn shrugs. "Rachel's been doing a lot of talking at me. Normally it's stuff that I can tune out like Broadway and all, but lately she's been really fussy about me being sensitive to you and stuff. Since she and I are… something, and you're staying at her house, she said she wouldn't let me come over until she was sure that I could be nice to you and not trigger something," he recites dutifully.
"And you listened?" Quinn asks, incredulous.
Finn shoves his hands into his pockets. "I was the guy who thought it was a great idea to sing to your dad at dinner. I think from now on, it's best I follow Rachel's lead on this."
She smiles involuntarily. Finn grins back, clearly pleased to have gotten a smile out of her.
"Thanks, Finn," Quinn says, and means it.
"Anytime."
Looking at his earnest expression, the way he looks so solid and safe in his letterman jacket, Quinn can't help but wish things had gone differently between them. "Really. I know things between us weren't always the best, and I'm sorry for the shitty things I did to you."
"It's cool."
"Rough evening?"
"You have no idea."
Leroy glances at her over the top of his book. "It was just a jar of olives."
Quinn scoffs loudly. "I wish."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really, no."
He shrugs. "Worth a try."
"That's it?"
His book goes down again. "What's it?"
"No interrogation? No third degree?"
"I try and make it a point to leave work at work," says Leroy placidly. "Hiram would have my head otherwise."
Quinn nods slowly. She surprises herself, however, by not disappearing to her room, but by taking a seat on the plush armchair opposite him. "What are you reading?"
"The Lovely Bones."
"Is it good?" She finds her curiosity piqued despite the original attempt to change the subject.
"Very. Would you like to read it after I'm done?"
"Yes, thank you."
Leroy doesn't return to his book, but slides a decorated monstrosity of a bookmark inside before shutting it. "It's hideous, I know," he says.
"Where did you get that from?"
"Rachel loves her Bedazzler." Leroy makes a face. "The things we parents do for our children."
"I wouldn't know," responds Quinn. "They always preferred my older sister to me."
He looks grave. "I'm sorry."
"You and me both." Quinn wraps both arms around her middle. "I ran into Puck at the store."
"Hmm," says Leroy. "I take it that Mr Puckerman is still not handling things very well."
She laughs incredulously. "Absolutely not. I don't know how much more worse it could've been if not for Finn."
"Finn was there?"
"Yeah. He helped me get Puck off my back."
He nods. "I suppose I should reevaluate my opinion of Finn. Not easy, considering."
Quinn smiles. "Same here, honestly."
"You used to date him, Miss Quinn." Leroy's tone is light, teasing. Quinn finds that she doesn't mind it at all.
"Used to. That's history now."
"Not for me, unfortunately." Leroy chuckles.
Something's different about the house when Quinn gets back from her jog with Beth. She can't quite put her finger on it until she walks inside and sees Rachel.
"Oh, hey. You're back."
She's surprised by how much she actually missed having Rachel around.
"Hello, Quinn! I trust you're well." Rachel holds out her arms. Quinn allows the hug without protest, even patting Rachel's back. "I've missed you."
It's true that Rachel's grown on her, but… "Beth missed you too," deflects Quinn, nodding down at the stroller.
"And I've missed you!" declares Rachel without missing a beat, cooing at baby Beth.
Quinn smiles, watching Rachel interact with the baby.
She's been sleeping fine lately, tired out by work and chores and Beth –
– but it seems she's spoken too soon, when she wakes from a dream she can't remember, face wet and shoulders heaving. It takes Quinn a while until she can get her breathing under control.
"Fuck."
She isn't a noisy person. Beth sleeps on. It's probably too early for the baby's scheduled midnight feeding.
Quinn doesn't bother with slippers; she just needs to get down and back up as quietly as possible. At the last minute, she shrugs on a sweater. She makes her way downstairs cautiously, careful to avoid the center of the stairs. They tend to creak.
She fills a glass from the tap.
"Quinn?"
"Fuck," she hisses. The glass slips out of her hand and shatters in the sink, prompting another curse.
Rachel is at her side in an instant. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?"
"I'm fine. Don't sneak up on me like that."
"I called your name." Rachel kneels and rummages in the supply cupboard. She produces a small dustpan and brush.
"You still scared me." Quinn accepts it and starts sweeping up. "It's the middle of the night. I wasn't expecting anyone else to be up."
Rachel shrugs. "I was thirsty. Would you rather I appeared beside you without making a sound? I think that would have been more terrifying."
"You're awfully snappy for this time of night," grumbles Quinn.
"Pot, meet kettle."
Quinn sighs, accepting the mild rebuke. She empties the broken glass shards into the bin.
"What's wrong?"
She doesn't want to talk; she never wants to talk. But she knows that Rachel will simply annoy her until she talks. "I've been having nightmares," Quinn admits.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
No. "I don't really remember them."
Rachel nods. "I'm sorry you're having bad dreams."
She can't resist a snide answer. "Thanks. Me too."
Rachel purses her lips. Quinn folds like a house of cards.
"Sorry. I'm tired, and the damn dreams don't stop."
"Apology accepted. If you don't want to talk, I could sit with you until you feel better," Rachel offers.
"Thanks but no thanks." Quinn washes her hands, drying them on the kitchen towel. "I should be getting back to bed, and so should you. You just got back from camp."
"It's alright. I happen to be incredibly stubborn," says Rachel cheerfully, and it makes Quinn laugh in spite of herself.
"It's a family trait, I think."
"Oh?"
Quinn decides that talking about her latest run-in with Puck is preferable to talking about her nightmares. "I ran into Finn and Puck at the store. Your dad was also pretty persistent in asking me if I wanted to talk about it."
"I'm assuming that didn't go well," says Rachel.
"Talking to Puck? Or not talking to your dad?"
"Both?"
Quinn shakes her head. "Puck and I haven't been able to sort out our issues… well, big issue." She gestures with one hand. "It got a little ugly." It's abundantly clear at this point that Rachel is determined to talk, and so Quinn admits defeat, sitting at the kitchen table.
Rachel inclines her head in recognition of Quinn's concession. "I'll make us some tea," she says, filling the kettle with water. "Would you believe that the camp wouldn't let me bring my special organic chamomile tea? Something about no special treatment allowed."
"How inconsiderate of them not to recognize a future superstar," says Quinn.
"Exactly. Thank you, Quinn." Rachel takes the seat next to Quinn, propping her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm. "Did my dad behave himself, at least?"
Quinn makes a face. Rachel laughs.
"I anticipated so. My dads are firm believers in talking things out," says Rachel with a nod, "and you are… not."
"Wow, thanks for that ringing endorsement."
Rachel shrugs, unapologetic.
"It's different for me, Rachel. When I was five, I asked my dad why there were men kissing on TV and he yelled at me for daring to speak to him about immoral sins." Quinn focuses on her hands, clasped together on the table. "Fabrays are brought up to repress our feelings."
"I think my views on your parents are rather clear… but I know that moving in with us wasn't going to trigger an instant change in your behavior." Rachel smiles at her.
Quinn scoffs and doesn't smile back. "Yeah."
"What about you?"
"What about me, what?" asks Quinn warily.
"What did you think about the men kissing on TV?"
"Really, Rachel?" Quinn can't believe her ears. "Are you asking if I have a problem with gay men? Because if I did, I would much rather be sleeping in my car than staying here."
Rachel opens her mouth to speak, and then pauses. "I… you're right. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
The kettle whistles, making them both jump. Rachel stands up.
"No, don't bother." Quinn stands up as well. "It's late. We should go to bed."
Rachel appears to struggle with herself for a long moment – but to Quinn's immense relief, she finally nods. "Yes. You're right. Good night, Quinn."
The next night finds Quinn waking up, clammy with sweat, terrified by something she doesn't even want to remember.
She needs to be out of her room; the four walls feel like they're closing in on her.
This time, the sweater doesn't help with the chill that feels like it's sunk into her bones. Quinn decides that some tea would help and starts rummaging around in the cupboard.
"Quinn?"
"Rachel," she replies, not even surprised anymore.
"Top right shelf, in the wooden box." Rachel, clad in her fluffy pink dressing gown, shuffles into the kitchen and takes the chair next to Quinn. She's wearing matching pink bunny slippers, notes Quinn with a sneer.
Quinn follows the direction and finds a stash of chamomile tea. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to make me a mug as well."
"Okay."
She's not thirsty, but the simple feeling of having something warm in her hands and breathing in the sweet herbal aromas soothe her like nothing else.
"It's not getting better, is it?"
"Jesus, Rachel." Quinn opens her eyes.
"You can't go on like this. When's the last time you had a good night's rest?"
"Does it matter?" Quinn asks, her temper frayed by the lack of uninterrupted sleep. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"
"No. It matters because I care about you."
"Do you?" And Quinn wishes she hadn't said that, because the hurt that flickers over Rachel's face seems to hurt her just as much. "... I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. You're not sorry." The matter-of-fact tone, added to the cool mask Quinn remembers from their earliest days of bullying, starts to eat Quinn from the inside out.
"I'm sorry I said it," replies Quinn stubbornly.
Much to her surprise, Rachel smiles a little. "I accept that apology. But I'm never going to apologize for asking about you. I do care about you, Quinn; but even if I didn't, I'd still ask you."
"I got that."
"So will you tell me about your dreams?"
Quinn is silent for a long moment as she tries to gather her thoughts. She's tired, her defences eroded. At this rate, she'll try anything if it means getting some rest. "I… it doesn't make sense…"
"I don't think dreams are supposed to make sense," says Rachel nonchalantly. "Last week, I had a dream that Santana and I were both cast as Fanny Brice in a Funny Girl revival and we were singing Every Breath You Take as we competed for the spotlight."
Quinn snorts. "Santana on Broadway sounds like a hate crime, especially for Santana herself."
Rachel giggles.
Quinn takes a breath. "I don't know… I dreamt I was in this giant half-sunken palace. I wanted to – " Her breath catches on the words, and she tries again: "– I was supposed to die. Every single piece of jewelry in the palace was supposed to be tied to me to weigh me down in the water. Someone was holding my hand and helping attach all these necklaces and bangles and bracelets to me, and the whole time… they were begging me to save myself. To say "I'm not doing this" or "I don't want to die". But I didn't."
"Eventually, every piece was attached to me, and I was let go to sink. Then I'd be pulled back out because they found another piece, and another, and another… it went on a few times, and every time that person holding me would beg me to fight back."
Rachel shakes her head slowly. "Quinn, I don't think that's healthy."
"What part of my life is healthy, Rachel?" Quinn can't resist asking.
"What you have with Beth," she says promptly, and Quinn hasn't got an answer for that. "But I really, really think you should see a therapist."
"I'm not crazy."
"No, you're not," Rachel agrees. "But –"
"– there's always a but."
"– you're going through a lot right now, and I think you need professional help."
Quinn scoffs. "Whatever."
Rachel looks like she wants to say something cutting. Quinn can see it in the way her body tenses, and the way her mouth opens. Her temper – always so close to the surface these days – rears its ugly head.
But then Rachel sighs, all the tension bleeding out of her. "I thought everything was fine with you. You weren't having those breakdowns anymore, but now they seem to have manifested as these bad dreams. I'm sorry you're hurting."
The burning-hot surge of Quinn's temper goes cold. She shrugs. "I can't control these things."
"Yes, I'm aware," says Rachel dryly, "but what I'm saying is these things have an underlying basis."
"I get it, my life's a mess."
"I'm not attacking you, Quinn."
She looks away, her anger now directed at herself. Quinn hates how Rachel is saying all these things, but most of all she hates how Rachel's right. She hates how hot and prickly and defensive she feels whenever someone forces her to face the truth – usually Rachel.
So Quinn nods sharply, forcing a smile. "Okay," she says. "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for?"
"Lashing out at you?"
Rachel nods. "I think at this point, I've accepted that as an inevitable part of our friendship, Quinn."
"But," says Quinn, "it doesn't have to be."
"I think you're the only one who decides that." Rachel sips her tea. "You already know what I feel and think about… everything, I believe."
"... Yeah."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the colloquialism would be, the ball's in your court?"
Quinn purses her lips, but has nothing to say to that. Rachel's right; lashing out at anyone attempting to help (namely, Rachel) isn't helping her situation.
"Quinn?"
"What, Rachel."
Rachel has a box in her hand. Quinn lowers her metaphorical hackles when she sees the brightly-colored words Chutes and Ladders written on it.
"I thought you might be up for a game," says Rachel, smiling nervously. Quinn is unsettled; she's rarely seen Rachel like this. Uncertain, hesitant, shy, yes; but never nervous. "I'm an only child, and my dads didn't really have time for me outside of designated Family Game Nights."
Quinn stares bleakly at her. "My dad got drunk on scotch and yelled at the TV. Mom went up to her room to drink her wine. Frannie was out of the house the second she turned eighteen."
"Then maybe we could make memories together."
"You're nuts, Berry." Quinn eyes the box.
"I have been told much worse," says Rachel loftily. "I am rubber and you're glue; whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you."
"... Really?"
"My persistence will be the stuff of legends, Quinn."
Quinn shakes her head. "What are the rules?" she asks, nodding at the game.
"Minimal, according to my research." Rachel leads the way to the kitchen. She eagerly opens the box and unfolds the game board, making a ta-da gesture like she's Vanna White on the Wheel of Fortune. "We'll pick a counter each, set them on the starting point, and take turns rolling a die to determine how many steps we move forward. Landing at the foot of a ladder lets you go up, landing at the top of a chute the opposite. Rolling a six grants another turn. The first to reach the final square wins." She taps the blue ribbon printed on the square marked 100.
Quinn nods. "Sounds simple enough."
"Excellent! We should roll to determine who goes first." Rachel tosses the die hard enough that it rolls off the table and makes a sharp clack as it bounces off the kitchen tiles. "Oops."
"Don't lose the pieces before we start the game, Rachel," says Quinn, not bothering to hide her amusement.
"It was unintentional!" Rachel dives to retrieve the die. "A five. A most respectable score, and well worth the risk of loss," she says as she hands it to Quinn.
Quinn lets the die fall from her outstretched palm into the box. "Six."
Rachel makes an aggrieved noise. "You appear to be fairly skilled at this. Now, pick a counter and we can begin."
Quinn takes the closest piece, which happens to be red. Rachel (unsurprisingly) picks the yellow one. They place their counters on the starting square.
Quinn rolls. "Three." She moves her counter four spaces.
Rachel rolls a four – and is unable to hide her glee when she lands on the foot of a ladder. "See you at the top," she gloats as she rockets her counter up the printed ladder.
Quinn tries – and fails – to glare at her. It's difficult pretending she doesn't care about the game as it progresses, especially when Rachel is a good ten spaces ahead, and gets out of her chair to do a little victory dance whenever she rolls a six.
"Really?"
"The odds of a six are one in six, plus it offers another roll, which in turn means further advancement." She rolls a five, moves her counter forward, and –
"Oh, wow," says Quinn, looking at the top of the chute Rachel's counter has just landed on.
Rachel's expression is spectacularly sour, the face she normally wears when denied solos, forming a marked contrast with the cheerful cartoon children printed on the board. "Please don't say anything."
"I won't." Quinn's lip twitches when Rachel glumly drops her counter at the bottom of the chute, putting Quinn comfortably in the lead. "Rachel, it's just a game."
"That it may be, but you know me, Quinn, and I always apply myself fully to any competition. Rachel Berry is not a quitter." says Rachel as she stares disconsolately at the board.
"But is Rachel Berry a sore loser?" Quinn teases.
"I refuse to answer that."
On Quinn's next turn, she lands on a small ladder, causing Rachel's pout to intensify. She handily wins the game soon after.
"Good game," says Rachel, sticking out her hand.
"Uh, thanks?" Quinn shakes it. "It's a game of luck. You'll have better luck next time. It's got nothing to do with skill or talent."
"Which is why I rarely play games that rely so heavily on luck," says Rachel with a sigh.
"Did you even have fun?"
Rachel brightens. "Of course! Admittedly, I would have liked to win, but I enjoyed the game and your company. I haven't played Chutes and Ladders since I was in grade school following an unfortunate incident involving Richie Peters' left nostril and the die."
Quinn looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. "Don't make it weird, Berry."
Rachel frowns. "You asked and I answered. Was there something wrong?"
"No," replies Quinn, immediately feeling bad for saying anything. "I shouldn't have said that. Sorry, Rach. I just meant…" She trails off, at a loss to describe what exactly she meant.
If either Hiram or Leroy had been a woman, she probably wouldn't have given much thought to Rachel's home life. But somehow Rachel's stable home life with two happily-married dads was less valid than her own dysfunctional upbringing by her controlling father and alcoholic mother. Dysfunctional being the key word, given how uncomfortable playing a children's board game made her.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned Richie," says Rachel, clearly mistaking Quinn's silent thought process for something else. "My dads have often told me that I tend to overload people with unnecessary information."
"I could've done without ever knowing about him," agrees Quinn, "but you're solid on the rest."
"So you say."
Quinn clears her throat. "So, uh… did you want a rematch? Or would you rather play something else?"
The uncertain expression on Rachel's face gives way to a smile that Quinn finds terribly reminiscent of a shark.
By the time she makes her excuses and successfully gets away, Rachel's won three out of five games of Chutes and Ladders (which she attributes to the special double-handed die-rolling technique she invented). Quinn further surprises herself by not heading to her room, but Hiram's home office.
She's always liked Hiram out of the Berrys; he is quiet and non-threatening and happy to listen to her. The complete opposite of Russell Fabray. But she senses he's different when he's in the office. Hiram seems to harden the minute he walks through the door, his quiet becoming a facade for something more sinister.
Perfect for a lawyer, really.
Quinn hovers nervously outside his door. It takes a while before she knocks.
"Come in," he calls.
Hiram has a thick manila folder in his hands, which gets put to one side when he sees Quinn. "Hey. What's up? Is it time for dinner already?"
"Not yet. I was wondering if we could talk?" She hates that it comes out as a nervous question, rather than the casual statement she'd intended.
"Sure. Anytime." He nods at the plush chair in front of his desk.
"Mercedes told me that her mom said you were talking about college funds for me and Beth."
Hiram blinks owlishly from behind his spectacles. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"It's not a secret," he says. Hiram removes his spectacles, taking a cloth from a desk drawer to clean them. "We started a college fund for Rachel when she was a baby, even before she told us she wanted to be on Broadway. We've even got an emergency fund for her because God knows the performing arts business is tough."
Quinn doesn't smile. "I don't need your charity."
Hiram's affable smile disappears. "It's not charity," he says, his words clipped, sounding exactly like Leroy. "You need help. We can help. You and Beth aren't eating us out of house and home. We should be helping when we're able to."
And Quinn is stuck. She's tired of pretending she hates this. She can't feed herself and Beth on pride (and her minute paycheck) alone, after all. "I can't do anything about it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"And I wouldn't have it any other way," he responds, too earnest for Quinn's liking.
"Fine."
"Fine," says Hiram.
Quinn rubs her upper arm. "Actually… there's something else I wanted to talk about with you today."
Hiram nods, serious again. "Yes?"
She's nervous.
Quinn knows it's silly of her to be nervous, not when she's done so many other scary things.
Then the voice from inside calls her name, and Quinn gets to her feet. Beside her, Rachel mouths it's okay, Quinn and squeezes her hand.
Quinn squeezes back. She can do this. Quinn knocks on the door once and lets herself in.
Inside the modest office, the woman seated behind the desk looks up from her large blue notepad. "You must be Quinn," she says, smiling widely. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Lydia Chambers. You can call me Lydia."
"Hello," replies Quinn.
"Have a seat, please." Lydia pushes the bowl on her desk towards Quinn. "Candy? They're sugar-free."
Somehow, the remark reminds her of Rachel; Quinn smiles and takes a piece.
Lydia leaves the chair behind her desk and takes the seat beside Quinn. "How's your day been?"
"Not much to talk about. Being here is the highlight of my day," responds Quinn dryly.
The older woman smiles, seemingly indifferent to the sarcasm in Quinn's voice. "I see."
Quinn fights the urge to fidget, keeping her head up and her gaze fixed on Lydia's face. She was brought up to be comfortable in all social situations.
The silence stretches on, too long for Quinn to bear. "So, uh. When are you gonna start fixing me?"
The smile disappears from Lydia's face. "We don't do that here. You're not broken. There's nothing wrong with needing a little outside help to manage the things going on in your life."
"Normal people don't go to therapy."
Lydia is silent for a long moment. "If you saw a man who couldn't walk, would you tell him to man up and deal with it? Or give him a wheelchair? What about a shortsighted woman? Would you tell her she should just try to see the world like everyone else?"
Quinn frowns. "Okay, I get your point."
"I'm not here to fix you or cure you or work miracles," says Lydia firmly. "I'm here to help you help yourself. Sometimes, we need a little outside perspective to help us work through our issues."
Quinn sighs.
Lydia smiles back at her. "Why don't we start by telling me a little more about yourself?"