A/N: There's a large time jump between this chapter and the last (about 2 ½ months), and I apologize if it seems abrupt. Originally, this was supposed to be chapter ten or possibly eleven, but things are getting dire around here. After this, there's one more chapter (before the epilogue which will happen, but I can't offer any sort of timeline as to when it will happen). It needs maybe another thousand words before it's ready to go. The end is nigh. Prepare yourselves.
I sincerely appreciate anyone who has stuck with me through this ridiculously long break between updates. You're great! I meant to update this yesterday, but then my grandmother died and ugh, that kind of made yesterday really difficult.
Also, I edited this to the very best of my abilities, but it's 2 AM. I'll go through it again sometime tomorrow, but for now, let me know if there are any insane errors.
For awhile, Rachel's predicament was the only thing she could think about. She was sixteen and pregnant and Puck was the father and they were dating or something, and maybe they actually liked each other a whole lot more than they planned, and it was just…bizarre, and the sheer insanity of the circumstances invaded all of her thoughts. Sometimes she was sure that she would wake up and find that it was all a strange dream, because what was happening her life couldn't possibly be reality.
With time, though, she's managed to move past the shock, and life seems almost normal.
Not that it's something she can just ignore – not even slightly. Even if she weren't being kicked from the inside every five minutes and looking as if she's swallowed a basketball, she's constantly reminded of her situation at school, usually via childish taunts from her classmates. She hasn't been slushied in weeks, thanks to Puck (the hockey player who threw the last offending frozen drink still can't eat solid food), but people talk. A lot. And she's not even sure why. It's not like she's the first girl in her school to get pregnant – she's pretty sure she's not even the first girl in her grade, but apparently, something about it happening to her is just so much more scandalous. So, there's really no ignoring it at school.
At home, however, things are good. She wouldn't go as far as to say that her fathers are excited, but they are as supportive as they can possibly be. She never imagined that her unborn child would be the topic of dinner table conversations while she was still in high school, but now it is, and they've all accepted that.
She also never imagined that Noah Puckerman would become a permanent fixture in her life, but he is. She can never quite grasp how their relationship works, and sometimes she worries that the miraculous force that keeps them from murdering each other will disappear – she tries not to think about that much, though, and instead focuses on the fact that for now, they're okay.
When she really thinks about all this, it occurs to her that it's actually not normal at all. She's gotten used to it, though, and she thinks that might be the best she can hope for.
It's early April, and Rachel is well into her third trimester, which she mostly considers to be a huge relief. She's not really sure if she's prepared to tackle parenthood, but she's excited anyway, and eight weeks doesn't seem like very far away at all.
Except when she tries to do anything except lie in her bed like a beached whale. Because then it feels very, very far away.
She knew that things would get hard eventually, but she mostly just imagined that she would need help tying her shoes (luckily, she was a fan of flats anyway) and carrying her bag, and maybe she'd have to modify some choreography in Glee, if dancing became too much trouble. She could live with that. Ideally, she'd rise above her physical limitations and maintain the capable, self-sufficient persona that those around her had come to expect, but if she couldn't, she had made peace with the idea of asking for some help.
Of course, this was back when she was still in her second trimester and actually feeling relatively good. Now she's enormous and can't even locate her shoes, because the only thing she sees when she looks down to her closet is her stomach, and she's not going to ask her dads for help getting dressed, because that's just ridiculous and a line has to be drawn somewhere.
Glee has, rather ironically, become depressing. It's not the dancing anymore – she gave up on that awhile ago – it's the singing. Her uterus is practically crushing her diaphragm and she can hardly talk without feeling out of breath, let alone hold a note for more than few seconds. She's been reduced to a glorified background singer, mostly of her own accord. She could still probably finagle a solo if she wanted one, but she knows that she couldn't do her best, and Rachel always does her best. She's not truly sure why she even goes anymore, except to brood about swollen ankles while watching them all dance and sing and have fun.
On this particular morning, she wakes up to find that she's slept funny during the night and can hardly move her neck, which really just cements the idea that she shouldn't bother leaving her bed today. It's a school day, and she can't even bring herself to care, which says a lot about her discomfort. She pulls the covers over her head and tries to go back to sleep, but soon realizes that she really needs to pee, and if she's going to exert the energy it takes to sit up, she might as well stay up.
It takes a great deal of time for her shower and get dressed (a large portion of that time includes the thirty minutes she spent sitting in the bottom of her closet, weeping and clutching her favorite, now-too-small argyle sweater, and then the ten minutes it took her to get up off the floor without any help) and she hardly has the chance to grab a granola bar before she hears a horn honking outside.
She's surprised that school is even in session, considering that northwestern Ohio is experiencing a record-breaking snowstorm. It's the largest accumulation of snow the area has seen in years, let alone in the middle of spring. Stepping onto the porch, she eyes the driveway warily. Her dad had tried to clear it before leaving for work, but it was a futile gesture – less than an hour later, it's already in worse condition than before. She's pretty sure it's up to her knees in some spots, and she spies a few patches of ice.
He honks again, then rolls the window down and sticks his head out. "What are you waiting for?"
"It's icy," she replies.
"You want me to carry you or something?"
"No, I don't want you to carry me," she scoffs. "But you may escort me to your vehicle, if you were planning on being a decent human being today."
That might not be the best way to get him to do what she wants, because it's clear that he's totally cool with not being a decent human being, but she hopes that maybe he's in a chivalrous mood. She's not particularly thrilled with the idea of needing help crossing the lawn, but her center of gravity has shifted and she's worried that she'll slip and break her back, because really, it would just be her luck.
"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles, getting out the truck and grudgingly making his way up the driveway. When he reaches her, he puts an arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. "Better, grandma?"
"Much," she replies, gladly leaning against his side.
They make it halfway down the driveway before she feels the ground slipping out from under her. Puck is quick and she really doesn't even come close to hitting the ground, but it still sends her heart flying into her chest. He won't readily admit this, of course, but she's certain it scared him too, because he practically flings her over his shoulder, caveman-style, a few seconds later.
"Guess I've had my work out for today." He pretends to struggle under her weight, which is not funny whatsoever.
"You're deplorable," she says, giving him a good shove when he enters the car, after depositing her in the passenger seat.
"I don't have my pocket thesaurus on me today. What's that one mean?"
"It means you're a huge asshole and a shitty boyfriend," she snaps, immediately blushing at her choice of words. She can count on one hand the amount of times she's cursed in her entire life – her fathers always told her that it was a sign of a poor vocabulary, and Rachel's vocabulary is anything but poor – she's just really uncomfortable and cranky, and it just kind of came out.
Puck looks pleased with himself. "Wow, Berry. Two in one sentence."
"You're a horrible influence."
"I try," he shrugs. "How's the spawn?"
"Maria is fine. All over the place, as per usual. I'm fairly certain one of her feet is lodged in my rib cage."
"She's probably getting back at you for calling her that."
Rachel sighs. Her hope is that if she just continues to casually refer to the baby as Maria, he'll eventually get used to the idea. So far, it's not working as she'd planned, and they're really no closer to naming the baby than they were two months ago. If anything, it's worse now. She won't even consider anything but Maria, and Puck won't even consider letting Rachel have her way. There's a good chance she may have to simply answer to, "Hey, you!" for the rest of her life.
"It's better than Elektra," she says, wrinkling her nose in contempt.
"You asked for suggestions!"
"Serious suggestions, Noah."
"That was my serious suggestion." Puck feigns hurt. "I've been having dreams about it," he says, his tone uncharacteristically airy.
"Do not mock me! I've had dreams about a little girl named Maria every night for the past month. It's a sign."
"You keep dreaming about that stupid name because you're obsessed with it, and you're obsessed with it because you keep dreaming about it. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, or whatever you call it," he says, looking quite proud of himself. "And besides, last week you had a dream that one of the puppets from Avenue Q was trying to break into your house. Is that a sign, too?"
Rachel scowls. She hates when he has a point.
The school clears out as soon as the last bell rings – most everyone is anxious to get home while the roads are still somewhat drivable. All the other clubs canceled their after-school activities, but Glee is going to meet anyway. They tell her it's because Regionals will be here in weeks and they need to stay sharp, and Rachel just beams with pride, because obviously her impeccable work ethic is finally starting to rub off on the rest of them.
She's trudging down the hallway toward the choir room when Artie suddenly appears in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. "Uh, hi, Rachel," he says, a goofy smile plastered across his face. "What are you doing?"
"Going to Glee." Rachel tilts her head as much as her sore neck will allow, wondering what's gotten into him. She steps to the side and resumes her stride, only to have him wheel backwards and block her path again. She notices him steal quick glances at his phone.
"Some weather we're having, eh?"
Glee is about to start and it will take her at least five minutes to waddle the short distance, and she's not in the mood for shenanigans. "Artie, move."
"Just wait, okay, please?" he pleads, suddenly panicked. He whips out his phone again and sends a quick text message, and within seconds, Santana exits the choir room and marches toward them.
"You had one job, Artie," she hisses, sending him cowering down the hall. Rachel starts to follow him, but then Santana's in front of her, putting her hands on her shoulders and guiding her in the other direction.
"Unhand me!" Rachel cries, trying to pull against Santana's strong grip.
"Chill, Preggers," Santana scoffs. She stops in front of a bench and lets Rachel go. "Sit here. Do not get up until one of us comes for you. If you go anywhere near the choir room, I'll kick your ass – when you're not knocked up anymore."
Rachel blinks, then does as she's told. She doesn't doubt Santana's threat.
Santana turns, muttering something about working too hard on this shit to have it all screwed up, and starts back down the corridor.
Rachel sits on the bench for ages (approximately twelve minutes), trying to figure out what they could possibly be doing in there that she's not allowed to see, when Puck finally peeks his head out the door and gestures for her to enter the room.
"Did Santana say it was okay?" she asks, pushing herself off the bench with a great deal of effort. "Because I'll have you know, she threatened to do me bodily harm."
"I told her to do that. Hurry up."
"Don't rush me," she huffs indignantly, slowly making her way to the door, pausing midway to catch her breath. "Your child is invading my lung space."
"Eh, you had more than enough to begin with," he replies, glancing inside the room again before propping the door open.
When she finally enters the room, it takes her a few moments to really understand what she's seeing. There's a table with a cake and a small pile of gifts, light pink streamers hang from the ceiling, and purple balloons cover nearly every surface. The whole group is standing together, smiling brightly.
"Wh…what is this?" she finally manages.
"What's it look like?" Santana says, sighing impatiently. When she is met with disapproving glances, she attempts to smile (it's really more of a sneer) and flatly adds, "It's a baby shower. Surprise."
Puck leads her to a chair near the gift table, and after sitting, she's quickly fitted with a tiara ("It's from my hope chest," Kurt says. "I'll need it back.") and a really tacky sash, which she thinks must have been Mercedes' idea, because she seems way too excited about it.
Rachel tries not to get emotional about it, but it's useless because all she does anymore is get emotional about things. "I…I don't even know what to say. This is an incredibly kind gesture, and I'm just…" She tries to recall the speech she's practiced for when she wins her Emmy/Grammy/Oscar/Tony award, because it would probably work here, too, but her mind is blank and her eyes are watery, so she just sputters a quick "thank you" before gladly accepting a box of tissues from Artie.
"It was Quinn's idea," he says cheerfully. "She planned the whole thing."
Quinn shoots a pointed glare at the oblivious boy, then shrugs. "Everyone deserves a baby shower. Even you. And anyways, I had help."
"I tied balloons for five hours straight yesterday," Finn says proudly, showing off the blisters on his thumbs to prove it.
"And me and Santana picked out all the games," Brittany adds with a great deal of delight. Santana just looks pained.
The gathering begins like most baby showers Rachel's been to, with all of the guests playing silly games (though Rachel immediately puts a stop to the toilet paper game – no one needs to know how many sheets it would take to stretch across her stomach, and she doesn't care for anyone speculating, either) and ooing and aahing as she opens gifts (most of which are ridiculously expensive and impractical baby outfits from Kurt). Eventually, though, it turns into less of a baby shower and more of just a regular party, which is fine. It's not all that often that they engage in anything other than Glee-related activities, and Rachel is just pleased that they're all together, even if they've kind of forgotten that she's supposed to be the guest of honor.
She's eating cake (she's lost track of how many pieces she's had and is pretty sure she doesn't really want to know) and watching Kurt and Mercedes square off next to the karaoke machine, arguing over which one of them is more suited to sing I Will Survive, when Puck sits next to her.
"Having fun?"
"It's a great party," she replies. "I can't believe you knew about it and didn't tell me, though. Had I known, I would have prepared a thank-you speech."
"Which is exactly why I didn't tell you."
She scowls, but it's hard for her to look really upset, especially after he pulls out a gift and places it in her lap.
"What's this?" she asks, eyeing the package curiously. She was sure that she had opened everything.
"Just open it," he says, and she really doesn't need to be told twice. She hands him her cake and warns him not to eat it (he wouldn't dare), then carefully removes each strip of tape and pulls the wrappings away, revealing a beautifully knit, pink blanket.
"My mom made it. I think it's a peace offering or something."
Rachel smiles. "It's beautiful." She unfolds it to admire the skillful stitching (her grandmother tried to teach her how to knit in seventh grade, but she lacked the patience and gave it up, since it probably wouldn't help her get into Juilliard anyway) and her breath catches in her throat when she notices the embroidered M in the middle of the blanket.
She looks inquisitively to Puck while slowly tracing the letter with her finger. "Does this mean…?"
"Hope you're still set on Maria. My mom is going to be pissed if she has to redo it. We'll just have to name her Moonrock or something."
"But, I thought…I mean, just this morning, you were…"
"I like giving you shit, Berry. You should know that by now."
Rachel blinks a few times as her mouth opens and closes ineffectually. She can't decide if she's more thrilled that he's conceded or more enraged that he has been stringing her along for God knows how long.
"Now, before you get all victorious, I was kind of hoping that we could come to a compromise on the name thing," he says. "I was looking through the books again…the one with a list of Jewish names in the back? I saw one that I kind of liked, I guess, so maybe you can give her whatever weird first name you want, and I can pick the middle name?"
"I think that's a great idea, Noah," she says, and she really does mean it. The middle name place is where she had hoped to pass on her own middle name and continue paying homage to Barbra Streisand, but she's more than willing to make a sacrifice at this point – she just wants the baby to have a name, period. "What name do you like?"
"This is a unconditional offer, Berry. The name doesn't matter."
Rachel rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to rescind my approval, Noah. I just want to know what name I've just agreed to bestow upon my child."
"It's not a big deal."
"I'm going to find out, unless you were planning on hiding the birth certificate?"
At this, Puck grumbles and pulls a small paper from his pocket. He avoids eye contact as he hands it to her.
Rachel's confused frown gives way to a smile as she unfolds the paper. "Shira?"
"It means 'song'. I thought it was kind of fitting. Plus, it's in my family and I think it would make my mom happy."
"Noah," she says softly. "That is extremely thoughtful."
"It's cool with you, then?"
"Of course," she replies, scooting her chair closer to his. "You big softy, you."
"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
Rachel generally doesn't like to engage in public displays of affection (she prepared a PowerPoint presentation about the appropriate times and places to touch one's girlfriend after he goosed her in front of the entire Glee club one afternoon), but he's just caved on one of the most epic disagreements they've ever had, and he deserves something, so she places a quick kiss on his cheek before intertwining her fingers in his.
"Oh my God, get a room," Santana groans from across the room. Rachel blushes slightly at this, but then turns a deep shade of red when Puck suggests that they actually do.
"The school's empty, Berry," he whispers, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Could be fun."
"That is completely inappropriate," she gasps. "and I'm offended that you think I would ever have relations with you in a janitor's closet."
"Who said anything about a closet? I was thinking the locker room showers."
Rachel freezes for a moment, inwardly cursing the hormones that are making his proposition sound thoroughly enjoyable, then snatches her paper plate out of Puck's hand. "Let me finish my cake first."
Rachel wakes up the next morning to a deafening crash coming from somewhere nearby, followed by an intense string of expletives. She'd recognize his voice anywhere, and she briefly thinks that she must be dreaming, because why else would Puck be in her house at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, breaking things and cursing? She stays still, waiting to see if it happens again – for a second, she believes that she really did imagine it, because the house is quiet again.
And then a very loud, very clear, "Goddamn motherfucking IKEA!" sends her clambering out of bed as quickly as she can manage.
She's not even slightly prepared for the scene unfolding in the spare bedroom across the hall. Puck is sitting on the floor, surrounded by a maze of unassembled furniture, empty boxes, and paint cans, with a look of frustration on his face that is so pitiful, she'd laugh if not for the fact that then he'd probably kill her.
"Noah? What are you doing?" she asks, slowly advancing toward him.
"Trying to put together this piece of shit crib," he grumbles, glaring at the heaps of wood as if they had personally slighted him.
"It's kind of early in the morning for this kind of stuff, don't you think? How long have you been here?"
"A few hours, I guess – your dads let me in," he replies vaguely, looking closely at an instruction manual on the floor. "There are no words in these instructions! It's all pictures. What kind of bullshit is that?"
It's early and she's going on four collective hours of sleep, and Rachel is sure this is all a hallucination. "You…what? You've been here for…why?"
"You've been freaking out about getting this done for weeks. I'm doing it. Is that a problem?"
"No, it's just that I'm surprised by your sudden initiative. What's gotten into you?"
Puck shrugs. "I couldn't sleep last night – I kept thinking about all the stuff we still have to do and how fast she'll be here. It's weeks now, you know? Like, eight weeks. I just wanted to get started as soon as I could," he says indifferently.
"You're nesting! That's really interesting – it's usually just women, but I have read that it happens to expectant fathers on occasion."
"What? No. I'm not nesting," Puck snorts. "I'm just getting crap ready for when the kid shows up. She can't sleep in a shoebox."
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about – it's a good thing!"
Suddenly, Rachel is wide awake and extremely excited. They can get so many things done now! After they finish with the nursery, she's going to see if he'll help her reorganize her closet (there's stuff on the top shelves that she can't reach), and she was also thinking about moving her bed to the other side of the room. "Let me take a shower and then I'll come help you."
"No, just go back to bed. I'm almost done."
"Then I'll help you get done faster." Rachel says, surveying the disarray surrounding them with skepticism. "Do you think we'll need a ladder for stenciling I wanted over the window frame? I'll get it, just in case."
He only groans in response.
It's ten o'clock in the evening, and they're sitting on the floor in the center of the room, admiring their handiwork. They've worked all day long, with occasional breaks for arguing and eating (and in Rachel's case, napping and peeing), and the nursery has come along quite nicely. It's still missing a couple small touches, but they've got a few weeks before they really have to worry about it. And really, even if they don't get around to putting up the framed Barbra Streisand lyrics (or if Puck accidentally-on-purpose sets them on fire), it's already a perfectly acceptable room for the baby to come home to.
It's getting kind of late, and Puck knows that he should probably get home (his mom will start calling soon, but probably not before Rachel's dads come up and kick him out), but they're both completely spent and he really doesn't want to move. Rachel is sitting between his legs, her back against his chest, and both of their hands are resting on her stomach. It's ridiculously matrimonial and far more natural and comfortable than either wants to admit.
The baby is kicking up a storm, like she does most nights. The novelty has worn off a bit for Rachel (she loves it during the day, but it's frustrating when she's trying to sleep), but Puck is still entertained by the little movements. Originally, it freaked him the fuck out, but now it's pretty much the coolest thing ever. Sometimes they can actually see the baby rolling around in there, though, and that's still pretty weird.
The kicks cease momentarily, so Puck presses gently on Rachel's stomach, where the baby's feet are currently located. A triumphant grin spreads across his face when there's a quick thump in response.
"You really shouldn't encourage this behavior. I've had several stern discussions with her about the appropriate times to kick, and now she's going to come out of the womb thinking that you can veto my rulings," she says, stifling a yawn.
"You ready to call it a night?"
Rachel nods. "I want to finish this song first, though."
Puck hadn't really been paying attention to the music in the background, but listening closer, he recognizes it as a song from Wicked. He finds it kind of ridiculous that her iPod has been playing on shuffle for the past fifteen hours and they have still yet to hear the same song twice. How much crappy music can one person own? He voices this concern and suggests that they blast some Nine Inch Nails up in here, but Rachel shushes him.
"This is our song, Noah. I want to hear it."
"This is our song? No. No show tunes."
"Have you ever even listened to the lyrics? It's beautiful, tender love song."
Puck looks confused. He hasn't seen the musical (Rachel swears that one day she'll take him – he sees it as more of a threat than a promise), but she's described it multiple times, in great detail. "Wait, isn't this the one that the two girls sing at the end?"
"Yes, but it's still a love song."
"So they were lesbians! I knew the green girl was a freak."
"No! They were just…I mean, it's a theory, and I've read some very convincing fanfiction, but they both had relationships with Fiyero. It's a…platonic love song."
"I have a general idea of what that word means, Berry, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't really describe our relationship, if you know what I'm saying," he smirks, poking her stomach (like she could possibly not know what he's saying).
"You are so difficult," she grumbles, slapping his hand away before attempting to stand up. She ends up having to take his hand again so she can steady herself as she rises, but then she slaps it away again for good measure. She makes her way to the iPod dock on the other side of the room and restarts the song. The first few notes play before Rachel hits pause. "Be quiet, okay?"
He rolls his eyes. She's not really one to talk when it comes to being quiet. She's starting to get huffy, though, so he raises his hands in surrender. "Play the song."
She regards him suspiciously before pressing play. The music fills the room again and Rachel crosses her arms and cocks her head slightly, listening to the song as if she hasn't heard the cast recording a million times before. Puck actually does try to pay attention, and aside from the music coming from the speakers the room is still.
And then they get to the part about the other girl being with the green girl like a handprint on her heart, and he snorts a bit because that's so gay. "You really don't think these two were bumping uglies?"
Rachel pauses the song and gives him a steely glare. "Please refrain from sexual innuendo until after the song is over," she says, sounding vaguely like a flight attendant. The music starts again and though she is frowning, it doesn't take long for her to start softly singing along again.
When the song ends, she looks to him expectantly. Puck kind of gets where she's coming from, but he's so not into this sappy stuff, so he just shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. This can be our song, as long as I don't have to, like, call radio stations and have them dedicate it to you."
Rachel smiles lightly. "It's a deal."
A/N: I do realize that I didn't actually accomplish anything in this chapter. I just really needed to write the fluff to counteract the drama that is my life. I promise that STUFF WILL HAPPEN in the next chapter.
Also, sorry for the random burst of Santana. I realized while editing that she's got an awkward amount of mentions in this chapter, and I just couldn't remove any of it. I have a deep, unbridled love for that girl.
Also also, in case anyone is insane and hasn't seen Wicked, the song mentioned is For Good. Clever, right? I know. If you haven't heard it, God, seriously, go listen to it.