.
I don't need a trophy for all the games I've played
.

She can remember certain parts of her childhood were actually pretty happy. Like dance class. A requirement of all Fabray women, sure, but Quinn really enjoyed the classes, back when she was a cute kid with a little bit of baby fat and light auburn hair: Lucy. Before that baby fat multiplied and made her so she was one of the kids weeded out by the natural selection of the dance culture.

Back then she had actually been a very sweet kid. A strong sense of empathy. And when the process first began, and one little girl who was the chubbiest in the class started getting bullied until she quit, little Lucy ached for that girl. And not because she thought she'd be next; Lucy was friends with everyone and never believed for a second that they would treat her the way they treated that girl. Still, keeping all those other friends became the bigger priority than losing the one friend that was being driven out: a decision Lucy systematically made each time. She'd seen her mother socialize with other women, had seen the way she'd simply smile and agree to keep the peace. So that's what Lucy did, too, until it wasn't enough to stand silently by. She had to toss the barbs herself, because, didn't she look a little bit more like the girls they were forcing out? Especially since she'd had to get glasses, and her parents were talking about braces…

But when it became clear that Lucy's body just wasn't going to be thin like the other girls—perhaps it was because she was not a very active child outside of weekly dance classes, because running around outside was unladylike—the teasing and cruelty began, and ten-year-old Lucy quit dance class and lost all her friends in one fell swoop. The cruel nicknames and taunts at school started soon after, and it was all Lucy could do to just read and pretend her life was anything but this. Which didn't help her weight.

She was no angel, though. The kind of pain inflicted on her by others completely dulled her sense of empathy until she couldn't feel any pain outside her own. But the part of empathy that gave her the ability to see into other people still existed, and when Lucy would see the few kids below her on the social ladder, she would keenly pick out the things they were most afraid of. She would see herself as them and, through their eyes, pick out their faults and shames. She called the young girl with a unibrow who preferred her hair short—a girl so low no one generally even bothered to talk to her—a cave man and a lumberjack, and when the girl started plucking her eyebrows and wearing makeup, trying to get Lucy's taunts to end, Lucy kept on, telling her she would never make any money being a lumberjack hooker and she should just give up. The girl eventually transferred schools and, ironically, it was probably entirely due to the torment of Lucy Caboosey, who transferred schools herself only months later.

She wonders, now, if what her empathetic instincts perceived in that girl was a bit too frightening for her to confront, and that's why she was absolutely unable to leave that girl alone.

Because between the times that Lucy—no longer that sweet kid, as if shedding her cute childhood physique for this fat, hideous adolescent one had replaced her personality as well—tormented her downtrodden peers, she couldn't help but realize that she felt…funny around girls.

It wasn't entirely new. She even remembers it a few times in dance class. The time there was a new student—a very graceful, tall for her age redhead—and Lucy felt herself blushing every time she spoke her name. Watching the way her teacher's legs flexed and bent and feeling weird every time her gaze rose and locked on the crotch of her leotard. Even her first day of dance class, at age five, how she distinctly felt prickly as they all changed into their tights and leotards, and how she knew it was so wrong for girls to show their bare top halves, but she wanted to look, even with nothing to see.

She'd never been anything close to a tomboy—even if she'd wanted to be, which she can't be sure about, it never would have been allowed in her house—but she thought, at the time, that she felt a little bit "boy-ish" around some girls.

But it got worse, the older she got. She'd look at the most popular girls in school—not realizing that they were awkward, gawky, half-formed messes of incomplete adolescent persons—and feel a low twisting in her gut that was half envy and half…something else. And during gym class, she'd find the most secluded corner she could to change her clothes—knowing someone would point at her, or grab a roll of flesh at her waist, or smack her sizeable rear end and laugh and laugh—but she would always find her eyes drifting up and around. She told herself she was keeping an eye out for possible attacks, but she also knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was hoping to see something. Once, one of the semi-popular girls caught her eye, and she endured over a week of teasing about trying to "sneak a peek" before they moved on. Somehow, it was the most miserable week of Lucy's middle school life.

But the way Lucy's natural empathy had morphed into insight of weakness that made her bullying more effective turned out to be exactly what Quinn needed, or felt she needed. She had attended cheer camp the summer before ninth grade, before she'd even stepped foot in McKinley High. When her sister had been in high school, she had been a cheerleader. Not only did she know the kind of status that warranted—status she craved, because being Lucy, that fat little nobody, had been hell—she also knew how many boys had wanted Frannie. And Quinn needed that. Boys to want her.

And at first, it was so strange. There she was, surrounded by the same types of girls who had been so awful to her, and she felt as though she had no idea what to say to them. Even though they looked at her with more curiosity than criticism—with the exception of the Hispanic girl, who seemed to look at everything with criticism—Quinn was inwardly terrified to be around them.

The first person to speak to her was a charming, friendly blonde, a little taller than her, who asked her what shade of lip gloss she was wearing. Quinn had stumbled over her words slightly at first before standing taller—she'd been working on her posture, like everything else—and answering her with her best attempt at affected boredom. The blonde her nodded and they'd talked about makeup for a few moments more before she introduced herself as Brittany and pointed to the Hispanic girl standing nearby and glaring and introduced her as her best friend Santana. Quinn had merely nodded coolly, stoically told Brittany it was nice to meet her, and as unobtrusively as possible, began to stand close to the two of them at practice. They were going to be freshmen, like her, and, from what she could tell, they were the best freshmen there.

She had been right. Every day the first week, Sue Sylvester would send other girls home crying. Mostly incoming freshmen, hoping to make the squad, but a few older girls, some even on the squad the previous year, who Sylvester was convinced had gotten "lazy" and "fat" over the summer. To her relief, Quinn, Santana and Brittany lasted the first week. Quinn went home that weekend and stared at her naked body in the mirror for hours, noting stretch marks on her thighs and the size of her ass, gripping the love handles at her hips, and spent the weekend running. Like she'd done every day of the summer so far.

Back at cheer camp for week two, she continued to spend time near Santana and Brittany, listening to them and otherwise mostly just smiling at Brittany and exchanging brief words. She would listen as Santana would hiss in Brittany's ear, "Jodi can't do a split to save her life, and have you seen the flab on her arms? No way is Coach keeping her." Or "with as much cock as Lindsay swallowed this summer I'm surprised she hasn't gained more weight." Brittany would generally giggle, sometimes tell Santana not to be so loud, and every once in awhile, tell Santana not to be so mean.

At one point, they were watching some of the older girls already on the squad go through a routine and Quinn heard Santana murmur, "Oh holy fuck, I think I saw a flash of bush. What is up with Danielle's pubes?" And Quinn, despite blushing furiously because trying to remove that had been something new she'd begun before cheer camp, and it unnerved her greatly, thought, go big or go home. And leaned over to murmur, loud enough for the to the two of them to hear, "I think she's hoping they'll hide that hickey on her thigh." Not that she'd been looking.

Santana's mouth had dropped open and then twisted into a delighted snicker and her eyes flashed from Quinn to Danielle. Brittany had glanced at Quinn in surprise.

What they had failed to notice was that Sue Sylvester was right behind them, and merely seconds later, called a halt to the routine.

"As Fabray noted," Sylvester had lectured; Quinn blushed hotly, "Carpenter, your inner thigh."

The second in command to the Head Cheerio had gaped, her mouth flopping, before showing one thigh. Sylvester ordered her head Cheerio to slap that thigh hard and then demanded to see the other one where, just as Quinn had noticed, there was a hickey, just below the apex of thigh and pelvis.

Coach Sylvester had removed Danielle Carpenter on the spot and then turned to Quinn herself, with a gleam in her eye. "I like your style, Fabray," she'd drawled, "You have an eye for detail, and you have no hesitation about voicing your distaste. You're ruthless. Not everyone would dare to criticize the second in command to the head Cheerio, especially a lowly incoming freshman like yourself." Quinn had attempted to hold her head high and hoped she wasn't blushing, "Let's see you perform the routine, then. Choose two girls to do it with you. Let's see if you act as well as you talk."

Quinn had turned her gaze to Brittany and Santana, the former looking impressed, the latter somewhat incredulous and jealous. But both nodded and walked with her to the patch of grass where they would perform.

As they huddled together, Santana seemed about ready to snarl, but Quinn spoke first, "Do not screw this up for me," she'd growled, "And we will all benefit. I could get us all onto the Cheerios right now. Work with me, please?"

The girls had nodded. They had, somehow, executed the routine flawlessly. Coach Sylvester had looked awestruck—not a common look for her—and immediately promoted Quinn to second in command herself, and promised Brittany and Santana spots on the squad as well. And for the first time, Quinn heard the phrase, "You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester."

Having earned this position (by doing what Santana always did and getting caught), and even earning a higher one halfway through her freshman year when the Head Cheerio had an accident and broke her leg—at least, Santana still claimed to this day that it was an accident—cemented how Quinn would approach high school before she even set foot in the building. Ruthlessly. Flanked by Brittany and Santana. Clad in a Cheerios uniform the very first day, so that every student could take a good, long look at the new girl—the new Cheerios second in command. She watched Santana and Brittany unobtrusively, learned who it was okay to speak to—though, that was fairly obvious, as like her middle school, it tended to be attractive people who dressed well.

Watching Santana and Brittany, though, showed her quickly that one of their tactics to gain popularity was…well…sex. That horrifying thing that Quinn was positive she had no interest in doing until she was married to a man she would love and want to sacrifice for. And that was where she put her foot down. She joined Celibacy Club. Brittany and Santana had howled with laughter until Quinn convinced the head Cheerio (pre-broken leg) to join with her, pointing out that she really wouldn't want a mistake like Danielle Carpenter's to ruin their chances at the championships. And after that, all the Cheerios joined, and more or less pushed out the awkward, mousy girls who had run the club before.

It was for that reason, perhaps, that Quinn really didn't get a boyfriend until school was almost over. Once the boys heard she joined the club, they tended to chase the other girls—who, it became rapidly obvious, didn't take their celibacy vows so seriously. But Finn Hudson, whose size gave him advantages on the football field and basketball court other freshmen lacked and who therefore made both teams, wanted her, and, it seemed, was too ignorant to actually know what celibacy meant.

It was convenient that he asked her out before school was over. She had time to "think about it," and when he was selected as quarterback during summer football tryouts, she accepted. And then proceeded to ignore him for most of the summer, which seemed to suit them both fine, because it became rapidly obvious that they had almost nothing in common. Though despite not a whole lot of contact that summer, she at least was able to convince him that watching him and Puck play video games was not considered a "date," and that he could earn the right to make out with her if he bought her dinner.

But through all this, and especially when she became head Cheerio, Quinn fought to maintain her position of power in the only way she knew how: tormenting those lower than her.

Like Rachel Berry. The girl that just…she has to admit that the first time she saw her, it made her heart ache. But by then, she knew to interpret that kind of empathetic response as prey. This girl, more than anyone else for God knew what reason, reminded her of Lucy. Maybe it was the nose, the one Quinn had traded in with the name Lucy (the surgery that had made her father smile fully at her for the first time in years). Maybe the vocabulary; enough confused expressions and murmurs of "what?" from Brittany had been enough for Quinn to reduce her own from the verbosity of Lucy's mind.

The biggest, most obvious difference, however, was the confidence. That obvious expression of self-worth that poured off of Rachel Berry, the product of loving parents and achievable dreams that Quinn lacked entirely (she didn't know what she wanted out of life now that she had made her goal of becoming beautiful and popular, and she had no idea how to take her parents' sudden barrage of compliments now that she was beautiful and popular). The confidence that, Quinn knew, made Rachel very, very attractive but for the fact that she dressed like a maladjusted social retard. It was that, she thinks, that made her attack Rachel with a savage ferocity that even surprised Santana at its outset.

It was simple at first. Verbal barbs. She'd heard about the way Rachel had been teased in middle school for changing in the stalls during gym, and had revived the "tranny" insults. It wasn't much more than that freshman year. A few slushies, though those were mostly used by upperclassmen in their own feuds. Quinn never threw a slushie, though, she never objected to anyone doing so.

By sophomore year, it was just about the only thing that made her feel good, watching Rachel Berry get bullied. It wasn't even the good kind of good. The empty kind that let her stand up straight and walk away and completely and utterly forget about the girl named Lucy that lived inside her. And forgetting Lucy is all she wanted.

But Rachel…God knew how, but Rachel never, ever got upset with her. And given the chance, Rachel would even speak civilly to her. This friendless girl had the gall to stare at Quinn with huge eyes, swimming with pity. For Quinn. It drove Quinn insane.

But then, their first real conversation. Not like the other ones, where Rachel would extend a friendly hand and Quinn would slap it away childishly. No, the one where Rachel approached her, imploring her to stay in Glee club because they could be her real friends, the ones who would stick by her when the rest of the school turned against her for being pregnant. And when Rachel walked away, Quinn felt her eyes follow. And something within her warm.

This only intensified when Rachel sang "Keep Holdin' On" right at her and Quinn had cried, in a mixture of self-pity and shame and regret for the torture she inflicted on that girl who in some strange and frightening way, made Quinn's body warm and her heart pound.

Retrospectively, Quinn is sure that that's when she began to fall for Rachel Berry.

.
Hands down I'm too proud to love
.

"I kinda knew, you know," Santana says softly.

Quinn looks at her and raises an eyebrow, "Knew?"

Santana shrugs a little bit uncomfortably, "I guess I kinda knew you were in love with Rachel, I just…didn't put it together fully."

Quinn's eyes dart away uncomfortably, "I don't know if…" she sighs, "Yeah, I guess I think I'm in love with her, but I don't know…unrequited love is unrealistic and idealized. I don't know if I consider it real love."

Santana nods uncertainly, "Yeah, okay, I get that. I mean, I've kinda been there, you know? In love with the best friend?"

Quinn rolls her eyes, "With Brittany? Come on. At least you got to kiss and have sex with her. I'll never get to do that Rachel because she's straight!"

Santana's mouth opens and she snaps it shut again, wincing. She can't believe that she almost told. She knows what it's like to be outed…So instead she sighs a little. "Look, okay, I've watched you two. That's why it doesn't really surprise me that you've got a thing for her. I've seen the way you look at her, I watched you beg her not to marry Finn, I've watched you buy her things, and hug her for too long, and watch her instead of what's on the TV screen. I honestly really should have figured this out on my own. For god's sake, Quinn, you somehow convinced me at Prom that we both had an amazing time in high school just so you could give her the crown. Like, two minutes later, I was thinking back on your words and went, is Q fucking kidding me? I was miserable and closeted throughout high school and she was homeless and got hit by a fucking truck. But whatever, you persuasive bitch, I get it now. It was all for Rachel, right? But don't think I haven't noticed that shit got weird between you two lately."

Quinn blows out her breath, "She just…stopped confiding in me. I had to hear from Blaine of all people that she and Finn are totally done. I guess something else happened between them that she never told me about? I don't know. It's just like ever since Finn started writing to her, she's shut me out!"

Santana rolls her eyes, "Gee, maybe she can tell that you're hiding something from her and doesn't trust you!"

Quinn winces this time and looks away again. "Yeah, well, I don't know what I'm supposed to do about that. I came out to you and within a minute, you figured out I have feelings for Rachel. I can't afford her realizing that."

Santana glares at the tabletop, because…Quinn might be right. Maybe it would screw everything up. Especially if Kurt is right and Santana is the only woman Rachel has had a romantic connection with—which, she'll defer to his judgment on that, it would explain some things about how forgiving and caring Rachel has been to her. She doesn't want Quinn's coming out to drive a wedge between all three of them. But at the same time… "That's bullshit. She won't judge you. Hell, who says she'll even figure it out?" She bites her lip, thinking about how Rachel hasn't told Quinn about her bisexual leanings, about, paradoxically, how long it's taken Rachel Berry to be comfortable with that aspect of herself, "Look. It's a conversation you have to invite, Q. It's creating a rift in your friendship, and you're the only one who can fix it. Rachel never will. Because like it or not, you'll probably always have the power in this friendship, because of how long she spent being afraid of you."

"Dammit, Santana," Quinn mutters brokenly, but Santana pushes on.

"Dammit, Quinn, you have to do this. She won't. And it's not like she'll be uncomfortable with your sexuality!"

"I'm not comfortable with my sexuality," Quinn hisses, and the way her eyes dart around the coffee shop, with its steady stream of customers that completely ignore them, just emphasizes that fear, "I'm a Fabray, Santana. I'm too stubborn, proud, vain and insecure to make a first move in anything, even something that would save my friendship with the most important woman in the world to me."

Santana stares for another minute and then murmurs, "Quinn, I'm most of those things too, and I did it for Brittany." They make eye contact for another few moments, Quinn blinking away tears and Santana hoping her sympathy is actually coming through in her gaze, before Quinn finally snorts and rolls her eyes. Santana instantly gets it, "Okay, I guess I was kinda brutally kicked out of the closet, so maybe I didn't put so much of my pride on the line for Brittany, but you get what I mean."

Quinn tilts her head, "I thought you didn't think what Finn did was that bad."

Santana grunts, "In the long run, I'm kinda glad he did it, because it did end up meaning I could have Brittany and not have to keep it a secret. But after watching Rachel cry over him for a couple months? Yeah that kinda makes me a little more bitter toward the guy." Quinn twists her mouth and looks away with hurt in her eyes, and it's clear both that she agrees, she got pretty upset with him, too, and that she aches for Rachel, and aches that Rachel hadn't told her about this. So Santana changes the subject, "I still can't believe you told Zizes before you told me. Your other best friend," she grumbles.

Quinn meets her eyes again, the eyebrow lifting, "Since when have we ever been the kind of friends who confide in each other? Santana, we were friends for status and when we hung out, it wasn't really us hanging out. Heck, I didn't even tell you I was pregnant."

"Yet another reason I believed you were straight," Santana folds her arms and looks away, "You know, maybe I'd like to be that kind of friend with you."

"I would, too," Quinn answers softly, "It's just…how do we change how we interact? We know each other so well, but not…what's in our heads."

They're silent for a moment, until Santana finally says, "I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell me about the pregnancy."

Quinn raises her eyebrow again, "I accept, I guess? Do you get why I felt that way?"

Santana sighs, "Of course. Because I would have stabbed you in the back in a heartbeat. And god, once I did find out, I was awful to you."

"You were," Quinn responds evenly, eyebrow still raised.

"Do you get why I was awful to you?" Santana implores, not waiting for a response, "Because, but for the grace of god that could have been me. How often had I slept with Puck? And he never wrapped it up!" She shakes her head, "I was lucky, that I got on birth control so young, and that it never failed for me. Did I ever tell you about how I've probably only had like two conversations with my dad in my entire life?" Quinn shakes her head, and Santana swallows, and continues, "When I was ten, I got the sex talk. He wanted to take care of it instead of Mom, because he's a doctor. It was horrible and awkward and disgusting, especially since I always just saw him as a quiet, gentle man and I suddenly knew these things about what my parents had done together. And then, when I was fourteen, he told me he would provide me with birth control." She shakes her head, "It sounds fucked up, but I think it was kind of to battle against my mother and abuela. He'd been distancing himself from the Catholic Church for years at that point, because some of their stances didn't mesh with what he knew as a doctor. One of those issues was birth control. He wanted me to get it then, so I would never have to go through the embarrassment of asking for it, and he told me that being on birth control was not wrong, but was an important part of a woman's health. That was also a horrible and awkward conversation, but if it hadn't happened—if my dad wasn't a doctor, say, or if he stayed Catholic, I probably would have ended up pregnant, too."

Quinn presses her lips together and nods, "I get it, I think."

"We did it 'cause we were scared, Q," Santana murmurs, "Brittany, too. She was on the pill, too, because her parents are crazy feminists or whatever, but I don't know if she was entirely clear on what it did. But she knew how sex worked." Santana paused, "But you pregnant, I think that screwed with her. Because she always thought that pregnant women should be happy—because her mom certainly was, when she was pregnant with her little sister. And that you weren't? It scared her. I think…it sounds so weird to say, but I think that's why she decided she believed in the stork the next year. Because then she wouldn't have to think about you being so miserable…"

"I don't blame her," Quinn whispers brokenly, "I was trying not to think about it, too." Her gaze flicks back up to meet Santana's, "In the interest of…becoming real friends, can I tell you about…my roommate?"

Santana snorts, "The clingy bitch?"

Quinn sighs and closes her eyes, "Yeah, well, turned out she had a…straight girl crush on me or whatever." Santana's eyes widen and she leans forward. Quinn notes the movement and rolls her eyes, gritting out, "Yeah, we…made out. A lot."

"How was it?" Santana asks keenly.

Quinn takes a long breath, "It was…pretty hot," she admits, "Until Stephanie ruined it." She twists her mouth, "She…reached down and…touched herself and…I guess…came…right on top of me."

Santana takes in the bright red flush on Quinn's face and leans back. Her first impulse is to curse herself for never making out with Quinn, because, damn, that's Finn and this girl who both got so aroused kissing her that they couldn't control themselves. Girl must be a hell of a kisser. And it occurs to her that maybe this is another reason she believed Quinn was straight. How is it Quinn never made out with her or Brittany? They are hot, for god's sake. And really, what are the odds that the entire Unholy Trinity are gay (or, well, bi in Brittany's case, she guesses, but that's not her favorite thing to think about)? Maybe that's why it seemed too unlikely to her that Quinn could be gay.

But her second thought is more constructive, "What do you mean she ruined it?"

"I wasn't ready for that," Quinn hisses, looking horrified, "And plus…she was still seeing Steve at the time." Santana's expression changes to surprise and Quinn sighs, "Yeah. I really…need to work on the whole cheating thing, huh?"

"Yeah, seriously," Santana snorts, "I mean, not that I've been an angel, but jeez, Quinn. It's like all you do."

Quinn rolls her eyes and shakes her head, "At least I didn't have sex this time."

Santana just smiles and decides not to mention that what happened between her and her roommate could very easily be considered sex. "So what happened with her and the boyfriend"

"They broke up," Quinn reports, "But that was after I told her what we were doing had to stop. And now she's being all queen bitch at me, like trying to make me admit I still want her. And…she's hot, and…it felt really good to kiss her, but it was a mistake." Santana nods encouragingly, and Quinn says, "The weird thing is Steve. He was kind of completely cool with the whole thing."

Santana laughs a little, "I think that's like, the one big perk to being a lesbian. You can steal some guy's girl, and he doesn't get nearly so pissed about it because he thinks it's hot. I mean, come on, Artie barely even scowled at me when I got Britts."

Quinn chuckles a little and shakes her head, "I get it, I guess. I just don't know what to do. I thought Stephanie could be a good friend."

Santana shrugs, "She still could be. Maybe you should come out to her, too. That would fix that friendship, like yours with Rachel."

Quinn glares, "No? Because then she would be even more convinced that I want her?"

"Whatever," Santana inspects her nails, "I don't get how you've fucked up your coming out this fucking much."

"I'm pretty good at screwing up my life," Quinn admits without even sounding pitiful. Just…factual. "That's one thing therapy is supposed to be helping me with."

"Therapy?" Santana asks.

"Yeah," Quinn says, still affecting that same plain tone, "Have another of my secrets, Santana. I've been in therapy since the middle of Senior year. Rachel inspired me to get it. It…I haven't been to much. I didn't want to get too accustomed to my therapist in Lima when I knew I was leaving for Yale, so I limited my appointments, but it's helped. And I have one on campus who isn't bad. It's…it does help me try to keep my life in perspective. And it's helped me be a little more open with friends." At Santana's snort, she continues, "Except for with this, obviously, but come on. We actually did kind of talk about serious stuff over the summer, if you recall."

Santana nods begrudging, but then, "Wait," Santana starts, "You told me you only told Zizes you were gay. You haven't even told your therapist?"

Quinn bites her lip, "Like I said, I haven't really even gotten that much therapy. It took me three sessions to even be able to talk to the one in Lima. And…as you might imagine, my family…and the accident…were kind of enough of a source of my issues without even taking into account my sexuality."

Santana nods and a thought occurs to her, "Speaking of your family, are you going to tell your mom?"

Quinn closes her eyes painfully, "No way in hell," she mutters.

"Really?" Santana asks, "I mean, I really thought my parents would flip, but they were scarily cool about it. I mean, they're like your mom in some ways. And she always seemed cool about me and Britts."

Quinn laughs a little bitterly, "Yeah, well. Look. She's not homophobic, I'll give her that. But…back when that campaign ad ran about you, and she found out about it, yeah, she had to do some soul searching for a few days. And when she talked to me after like, radio silence for a couple days, she asked me if you and Brittany were together. I told her yes. She said…she said she doesn't understand it, and probably never will, but her opinion doesn't really matter because you and Brittany aren't her daughters. And she said she loves you just the same."

Santana can't help smiling a little, because she had no idea Mrs. Fabray had ever expressed love for her and Brittany, but her expression changes when she plays back what Quinn said and…"Oh."

"Yeah," Quinn utters bitterly, "It's fine for you and Brittany, she'll love you just the same, but for her own daughter? I know it would be different."

Santana closes her eyes briefly, "Yeah. I get that," she whispers, "Hey, Q?" Quinn meets her eyes, "Thanks for telling me all this. You know. Trusting me."

Quinn gives a little half-smile, "Yeah, well. What's the point of having a gay best friend if you can't come out to her?'

A/N: Chapter titles from Bowerbirds, "Northern Lights," and Lykke Li, "Little Bit."