A/N: You were getting nervous there, weren't you? Thought I'd just up and leave you with one chapter? Sorry about that – it's finals week, so after I submitted that first chapter, I quickly had to put away all recreational writing and focus solely on studying for three exams. Good news is that now I am DONE with classes FOREVER. Or actually, something like six weeks. But it feels like forever right now. I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I can be writing this and not feel even slightly guilty, because I HAVE NO HOMEWORK.
So anyway, you lot? Are amazing. And crazy (in the best way). Thank you so much for your encouraging reviews! I don't think I've ever gotten 30+ reviews for ONE chapter before, ever, period. And thanks to all of you who added this story as a favorite or put it on alert. You're adorable. I love you. It brightened up my whole day. I really, truly did not expect such a warm reception.
While writing this chapter, I ran into the problem that I always run into after I submit something for others to see – I freak out about making the subsequent chapters just as good, and I start to worry a ton about what you all want, and I think it makes my writing a little stilted. So if you notice that (and I'm sure you're all going to look for it now that I've said something, right?), please just stay with me – I usually get over it within a few chapters.
Also, the timeline is a little screwy, but hopefully it won't be too big of a deal. We just have to pretend that Puck and Rachel did it in early September, when it reality it was probably quite a bit later in the school year.
Telling Puck could wait. She knew that he needed to know, and she would tell him – eventually. It just seemed to her, when she thought about it (and she thought about it a lot), it made the most sense to first tell the people that she knew would always love her and do their best to support her, before dealing with the person who, let's face it, didn't have the best track record with personal responsibility.
So her parents would come first.
Rachel had given herself a week. She always does her best work when there are high expectations to be met, so she made herself promise that her parents would know about her Made-for-TV drama in seven days or less. She even went ahead a booked an appointment with an OB for the following weekend -- she was certain that by then, everything would be out in the open. Because when Rachel Barbara Berry decides to accomplish something, it is accomplished.
When she had six days left, Rachel wrote them a letter. She thought about all those old movies she'd seen, and how everyone was always sending telegraphs to deliver bad news, and it seemed like a reasonable way of getting things done, and it would certainly be easier than having to actually say the words, because she could hardly whisper them to herself without feeling out of breath. She carried the letter in her pocket for the greater part of a day, and then in a moment of weakness, tore it to shreds. And flushed the remnants down a toilet.
With three days to go, she made dinner. The key to any man's heart, including her two gay dads, is food, and nothing seems as bad when you've recently gorged yourself, thus making desert the perfect time to announce her newly procured status of Teenage Failure. Unfortunately, her parents had to go on and on about how proud they were of her, and what a good person she was, and how much they loved her. So when desert rolled around, she pretended that she didn't make anything, and then snuck an entire pan of brownies into her bedroom, where she ate and cried until the wee hours of the morning, which really only made things seem worse.
The night before her week was up, Rachel found herself sitting on their bed, sobbing uncontrollably. Her dad was on one side, trying to get the story out of her and figure out why she was so upset, and her daddy was on the other, simply comforting her and telling her that it would be okay, even though he wasn't exactly sure what it was. She tried several times to explain her situation, but she found herself unable to do anything but alternate between sobs and involuntary gasps for breath. They eventually put on West Side Story, and she fell asleep to them singing along to Gee, Officer Krupke.
And then the week was gone, and now she's sitting in Mr. Schuester car, and he's driving her to the appointment she had planned to attend with her parents. She didn't really want to ask him to take her, but her options are limited -- she knows that this pregnancy will shatter any small bit of social standing she had garnered, and she really doesn't want to rub salt in the wound by resorting to public transportation. It would be different if she were in New York City, of course, where there are lovely yellow taxis and subways, but in Lima, there's a single bus that comes through town around noon, and she's heard that sometimes people get stabbed.
The ride has been silent, for the most part. Mr. Schue keeps trying to bring up random topics of conversation, but they fizzle out quickly because they're both too busy thinking about the one thing they're not going to talk about. Rachel turns to him and thanks him again, for the millionth time, because she feels like she should. He smiles and tells her it's fine, for the millionth time, then it's silent again.
She spies their exit up ahead, and suddenly her stomach is in her throat, and if Mr. Schuester hadn't gotten up at seven on a Saturday morning to drive her to a clinic three towns over (under the guise of a Glee-related fieldtrip), she would be turning around right now and spending the rest of her day in her bedroom, listening to sad music and eating refined sugar.
She closes her eyes, just for a second, and by the time she opens them again, they're in the parking lot.
The waiting room is brimming with activity, and everywhere she looks, Rachel is visually assaulted by glimpses of her future. Across the room, a heavily pregnant woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and she really hopes that women is having triplets, because she is enormous, and just imagining herself at that size makes Rachel's brain explode. Next to her, a small baby lets out a cry that kind of sounds like a bleating goat, and it's driving her crazy, but mostly because it's actually making her heart flutter and she doesn't really know why, and then the baby's cries are drowned out by a shrieking toddler, and then an automatic air freshener goes off and fills the room with the most vile cinnamon scent she's ever smelled, and suddenly she feels hot and dizzy and claustrophobic.
Just as she begins to formulate an escape plan, they call her name.
Photos of brand new babies adorn the light blue walls of the small office, and while waiting for the doctor to arrive, Rachel studies every single one. They all look pretty similar, she thinks, though some have hair and some don't, and one in particular has the sweetest little lips. She starts to wonder whether hers will come out with hair, or if it will have her nose, or if you can even really tell what shape of nose a baby has when it's first born. She's trying to remember what color Puck's eyes are when a familiar voice snaps her out of her reverie.
She glances toward the open door that leads into the hallway, and for a brief second, she swears she's just seen…no, that's crazy. She knows it's crazy, and she reprimands herself harshly for being so hysterical. She pushes the paranoia out of her mind and returns her focus to the babies. She thinks Puck's eyes might be green.
The appointment went well, Rachel thinks. The doctor was nice enough and seemed to only note her age in passing (she had mentioned that her late May due date would work out well for her, as long as the baby didn't come before finals), which Rachel appreciated greatly.
When she checked for a heartbeat, Rachel wished she hadn't had Mr. Schuester stay in the waiting room, because the fuzzy woosh, woosh, woosh that filled the room was the most amazing thing she had ever heard, and she felt like she needed someone else to witness it, because she almost didn't believe it was real.
Walking down the hallway toward the waiting area with a stack of reading material the size of her math textbook and a prescription for prenatal vitamins, Rachel's mind drifts back to her minor hallucination before the appointment began, mainly because it's either happening again, or she wasn't hallucinating to begin with. She hangs her head low and picks up speed, but it's too late. When she glances up, they lock eyes, and a small smile spreads across Quinn Fabray's face.
It's 2 in the afternoon, and so far, no one has whispered or laughed or stared, which means that Quinn probably hasn't told anyone yet, and she wonders why. She came to school expecting the news to have already spread through text messaging circles, but things have been quiet. It's really quite suspicious. The cheerleader has no reason to keep her secret, and plenty of reasons to share it – the main one being that she can't stand her, and would love nothing more than to watch her high school career crumble.
She thinks about it for a few more minutes, then chooses not to question it, and instead tries to appreciate her fleeting moments of relative anonymity. For now, she's just Rachel Berry, that singing freak with more ugly sweaters than Bill fucking Cosby.
She makes her way to the bathroom behind the auditorium, which is almost always empty. When she is certain the coast is clear, she begins her mid-afternoon ritual, which starts with her unceremoniously puking her guts out. The morning sickness is becoming slightly easier to deal with, she's noticed, and she's not really sure if it's because she's almost out of her first trimester or if she's somehow managed to overcome it by sheer willpower (the former is more likely, but the latter makes her feel good about herself, which she realizes is totally sad). At any rate, she's learned what tends to set off her gag reflex (Dairy products are evil, body sprays of any kind should be classified as toxic waste, and she's finally glad that her school adheres to a strict No Gum policy, or else she'd be blowing chunks all day long), and she's only missed the toilet once this whole week, and that is success.
When her stomach has quelled, she grabs her makeup bag. She doesn't usually wear much, but she's been looking like death warmed over lately, and it's important to maintain a positive outward appearance, even (or perhaps especially) in times of stress and uncertainty.
She opens the stall door and is surprised (or rather, horrified) to find herself staring directly at the tall blonde who has haunted her dreams since Saturday. She's leaning against a sink, her arms crossed and her face fixed in a smirk. They have got to stop meeting like this.
Rachel takes a deep breath, then resumes her stride. She grabs the concealer from her bag and begins applying it around her eyes, and does her best to keep her gaze fixed on the mirror, and not the girl standing to her right.
Quinn clears her throat and Rachel cringes. This is it. She was hoping to keep up the stony silence for a bit longer, but now her eyes are watery (if there's one thing she hates about being pregnant, it's the never-ending crying) and her mind is swimming in things she feels like she needs to say, and she can't stop herself.
"Listen, Quinn, I know you saw me on Saturday and you're not a stupid person, so I'm sure you've got this all figured out by now, and I'm sure you're really proud of yourself, and I'm not sure why you haven't just announced it through the loudspeakers yet, but I know it's coming eventually, even though you and I both know that if the roles were reversed, I would never do this to you. I know you don't like me very much, but you're not evil, Quinn. Shallow and vapid, yes, but you've got to be a good enough person to realize when you're about to ruin someone, and if you tell anyone, you're going to ruin me. So please, just…don't."
She stares at her for a moment, trying to read Quinn's emotionless expression, then turns away and wipes her eyes. When she regains her composure, she turns back to the cheerleader.
"And also, one does have to wonder what you were doing at an OB/GYN's office on Saturday," she adds sharply. "So perhaps you shouldn't fire at someone unless you know they don't have the ammunition to shoot back."
She feels kind of awesome for a second there, until Quinn lets out a hollow laugh.
"Please. First, the Cheerios are due for annual physicals, and Coach Sylvester makes us see her creepy doctor because he's the only one she could find who would remove all her reproductive organs for no reason, and apparently that makes him the best. But good try. Second, the roles? Will never be reversed, and I think we both know that. Some of us have standards. Third, none of this is even why I'm here. Glee started ten minutes ago and Mr. Schue wanted someone to find you."
"Oh."
"Yeah. So, when you're done trying to hide those burst blood vessels around your eyes, which, by the way, will never happen if you keep using the wrong shade of concealer, you need to go to the choir room, because everyone is waiting on you, and some of us have better things to do then sing show tunes all day."
Quinn starts toward the door, then stops.
"I'm not going to tell anyone."
Rachel nearly jumps out of her skin. "W-why? I mean, thank you, I guess, but…"
"I know you haven't told Puck yet, and he shouldn't have find out from anyone but you."
"What does Puck have to do with any of this?" Rachel asks hotly.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb – it's unbecoming."
Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but Quinn is already answering her question. "Puck tells Finn everything because they're best friends, and Finn tells me everything because I force him to. I know you slept with him. And unless there's a coming apocalypse that I am unaware of, I highly doubt you've been with anyone else."
Rachel turns away to hide her burning cheeks.
"That's what I thought," Quinn says softly. "Tell him before someone else does."
Rachel tried to tell him after Glee, but lost her nerve (it was becoming a recurring theme in her life, it would appear) when he replied to her beckoning with a dismissive "What, Berry?"
It was better this way, she thought, as she watches him on football field. The school grounds were practically empty at this point, so there was already an exponentially better chance of him actually acknowledging her presence – when no one was around, he was actually a decent person. Well, a halfway decent person, anyway.
When the team gathers for their final group hug, or whatever it is they do in that big circle, Rachel gathers her things and begins down the bleachers. When she reaches the field, he's already walking toward the locker rooms.
"Puck!"
He doesn't react, not even slightly, and she knows it's not possible that he didn't hear her, because when Rachel wants to be heard, she is.
"Puck, wait!"
He tosses a quick glance over his shoulder, but doesn't stop.
She lets out an angry huff.
"Noah Puckerman," she screeches. "I am speaking to you!"
He stops now, and when his friends try to hang back as well, he waves them away. Rachel marches toward him with determination.
"God, Berry, I think you shattered a few windows."
"I don't take well to being ignored," she snaps.
"I've noticed. Now, what exactly do you want from me? Make it quick -- the guys and I are going to go skinny-dipping in that new koi pond downtown."
"Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from your after-school shenanigans, but we really need to talk."
For a thick-skulled football player, Puck picks up on Rachel's tone rather quickly. The color drains from his face, and his grip on his helmet loosens. Rachel wonders, rather bitterly, how many times he's had the conversation they're about to have. Never mind. She doesn't want to know.
"I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure," she mumbles. It's not really true – she didn't want to say anything at all, period, ever, but Quinn forced her hand, and even if she hadn't, she knew it would only be a matter of time before it came out some other way. "but I saw a doctor a few days ago, and…"
Her voice trails off, and she can't bring herself to finish the sentence, but she's not really sure if she even needs to. Puck lets out a shaky breath, and she thinks he might have just laughed, but surely only because the thought of this happening is so completely insane.
"Puck."
She inhales sharply.
"I'm pregnant."
A/N: Tonight is the first night of Hanukkuh. I'm not actually Jewish, but if you want to get me something anyway, I'd love a review. But then, I don't think I really even need to ask, 'cause you're all awesome.