Author's Note: Yes, another one.
Set after the ficlet Already Out of Foolproof Ideas. Which is apparently a pretty empty part of the timeline.
Live and Learn From Fools and From Sages
Half my life's in books' written pages
Live and learn from fools and from sages
You know it's true
All the things come back to you.
~Dream On, Aerosmith
Life is good.
This is the predominant thought in Rachel's head as she happily dusts the increasingly cramped shelf that holds her three Drama Desks, two (count them, two!) Tonys, and her brand new Grammy Award. It's the thrill of being halfway to the coveted EGOT that has her willingly doing this bit of daily housework without complaint, although it means that she also makes a daily mental note to talk to Quinn about investing in an actual award case for her growing collection and then daily forgets to actually commit to shopping for one.
They need to stop procrastinating on it though, because Rachel is finally dipping her toes into the television industry, which means an Emmy could very well be in her future. Well, she hopes one will be anyway, just like she hopes that the pilot she'd filmed a few weeks ago will actually be picked up for a full season. Or even just half a season—thirteen episodes maybe? Then it can become a breakout hit that everyone talks about on every social media platform and propels her to outrageous fame and fortune far beyond her current level of fame and (almost) fortune.
She feels truly blessed. She has an amazing career, a brilliant, beautiful, loving wife, and a perfect, precocious daughter who is adorable and gifted far beyond her short nineteen months of life. There'd been a brief period when Rachel had worried that she might only end up with two out of the three. Of course, the loving wife and perfect daughter are the most important two, but she's certainly relieved that the bright flame of her career hasn't flickered out amidst a lack of kindling. It had been touch and go there for a few months after she'd taken her final bow as Iris, with no firm prospects in sight for her future endeavors post self-directed family leave. Sure she'd had a tentative album deal in her back pocket, but that had hinged on her actually being able to write and produce said album and then have it actually make a profit.
It hasn't made nearly as big a splash on the charts as she'd hoped, getting off to a rather slow start, but sales have been rebounding nicely since she'd added that shiny new statue to her shelf. Her critics consider her something of a niche artist, and if music fans with actual taste and culture are her niche, then so be it!
She's choosing to ignore the fact that the song that had earned her the Grammy and therefore jump-started her album's lagging sales is the one song that's—well, it's one of the more risqué ones, to put it nicely. She wishes that Quinn would choose to ignore that fact as well, but Rachel hasn't heard the end of her wife's complaints about that song since she'd gone ahead and included it on the album despite Quinn's attempts to persuade her otherwise.
(Really, no one can actually prove that she'd written it about Quinn, though she can never tell if that makes it better or worse in her wife's eyes.)
It's only a tiny point of contention—nothing that three dozen roses, a box of gourmet chocolates, a dozen macarons from Ladurée, and a very expensive emerald bracelet (to match Quinn's eyes) couldn't smooth over. (It may also be the reason that Rachel has been on housekeeping duty since that song had actually been released as a single and started being played everywhere, resulting in a Grammy nomination and subsequent win and embarrassing Quinn at every turn.)
Rachel Berry isn't exactly toppling Taylor Swift from the top of the musical charts anytime soon, but she certainly has hope that her next album (which she hasn't even started writing yet) will be highly anticipated by a far wider audience than her supposed niche fans. So take that Billboard!
And if she's suddenly also a rising television star with a successful, hourlong dramatic comedy series (or comedic drama; she's not quite sure which one fits), then more the better.
Oh, and has she mentioned that her brillant, beautiful, loving wife is also very close to finishing her fourth in a wildly popular series of books for which the first film adaptation is finally, finally—after two years of back-and-forth contract negotiations and script rejections and rewrites and casting kerfuffles—in production? Because that's a thing that is also happening.
So yeah, life is good.
She's still humming a cheerful tune while she finishes her dusting, mindfully keeping one eye on Calliope, who is happily playing with a set of blocks in the middle of the living room floor and babbling up at Oliver where he perches over her on the sofa. He's mostly been a little gentleman with their daughter, but her growing exuberance as she steadily closes in on the supposed 'terrible twos' occasionally tests his patience and transforms him into more of a grumpy old man. Luckily, his preferred method of expressing his crankiness is twitching his tail and storming out of the room at top speed.
Today, he's content to keep his own watchful eye on Calliope until he hears the door to Quinn's office open, and he immediately deserts his post, diving over the side of the sofa onto the floor and skittering down the hallway to greet Quinn with an expectant mewl. Rachel's attention is drawn there by the uneven shuffle of her wife's stockinged feet on the floor and the exasperated, "Jesus, Ollie."
Grinning to herself, Rachel abandons her duster on the dining room table and turns in time to see Quinn appear in the living room with Oliver perched on her shoulder, insistently rubbing his fuzzy face against her cheek. Rachel fails to completely stifle her laughter at the sight. "Someone missed you."
In point of fact, three someones have missed Quinn today despite her being right here in the very same apartment. She's been holed up in her office since early this morning, determined to finish the last two chapters of her book and barely coming out for a breather, even to use the bathroom. Oliver had been kicked right back out of her office every time he'd managed to sneak inside, so it's no surprise that he's set on reclaiming his favorite human now that she's finally emerged.
Rachel takes in her wife's appearance, noticing the subtle differences from her brief presence at breakfast this morning. She'd opted to forgo her contacts today, wearing black rimmed glasses that make her look so incredibly sexy. They're a little askew now, mostly from Oliver bumping his head into them. Her t-shirt (bearing the Confessions logo in its stylized Broadway motif) is wrinkled, and her short hair is mussed, no doubt from running her fingers through it every time she gets frustrated with a sentence. She looks tired, but there's a satisfied smile on her face as she reaches up to pry Oliver from her shoulder, cradling him against her chest instead.
She playfully flattens his ears down with her palm. "Someone's a little pest." And when Oliver squirms in protest, she deposits him right back onto the sofa cushion where he started. Put out by the dismissal, he hops up on the back and contemplates pouncing right back onto her shoulder until Calliope's delighted squeal of "Mommee!" has him crouching back down warily.
Their daughter instantly abandons her blocks at the sound of her wayward mother's voice, pushing herself up onto her feet with the aid of the furniture. She's still a little unsteady with her steps from time-to-time, but she's exceptionally determined to explore every inch of the world around her and so is becoming increasingly confident in her mobility. She's also, obviously, transitioned from calling them both ma or mama to very specifically calling Quinn mommy.
Rachel is still mama and sometimes just ma.
Quinn is elated to finally own the mommy title for herself, and her smile blooms bright. "And you are my little sunshine," she coos, squatting down to intercept Calliope in a bear hug and bestowing an exaggerated and noisy kiss to her cheek.
"Un-si," Calliope attempts to repeat, grinning as she tucks her little body into Quinn.
With a happy sigh, Quinn stands back up with their daughter securely in her arms before sitting them both down on the sofa with Calliope in her lap. "What have you and Mama been up to today?"
Calliope leans back in Quinn's arms, flinging an arm in the direction of the floor. "Bocks."
"Building with your blocks," Quinn translates, nodding in approval as her gaze falls to the mess of colorful, lightweight blocks haphazardly strewn across the floor in no discernable pattern outside of two sets of two that she'd managed to stack next to each other. "Impressive. Did Mama help you with those?"
Calliope very emphatically shakes her head. "No. Me."
Rachel snorts in amusement as she makes her way over to join her girls on the sofa, careful to avoid stepping on those very blocks.
"Good job, Callie," Quinn praises before smiling at Rachel. "Our daughter is a prodigy."
"Well, obviously," Rachel agrees, humor in her voice as she settles next to Quinn. Any child of theirs would naturally be multi-talented in a wide array of creative fields. "But I don't think architecture is her calling."
Quinn shrugs. "You never know." She absently slides her fingers through Calliope's untidy curls. "That vaguely resembles," she cranes her neck, raking her eyes over the mess on the floor again, "a castle?"
"You're being very generous."
"And you're a terrible supervisor," Quinn accuses playfully. "Not even offering any creative direction to your pride and joy. What exactly have you been up to all morning?"
Rachel takes the teasing in stride, huffing in mock offense. "I was slaving away to keep our home clean and tidy."
"Really?" Quinn makes a show of looking around their apartment, which is very much dustless, thank you, but also not showing any noticeable improvement in overall tidiness from this morning. "Slaving away?"
"I dusted," Rachel defends. "And," she gestures towards the kitchen, "did the dishes." Which are still in the sink, but Quinn doesn't need to know that tiny fact just yet. "And Calliope and I had a very enriching morning before she decided to build," she glances at the floor with a perplexed frown, "whatever that is."
She's not entirely certain that Quinn would consider it enrichment to repeatedly watch two separate rough cuts of the music video for her next single on her laptop while Calliope was coloring next to her, but at least this song is G-rated. (And maybe she'd tried to get their daughter to sing along just a little. It hadn't been fully successful but her little star had definitely been babbling along in the right key.)
Quinn laughs, bumping her shoulder into Rachel's. "I'm just teasing, Rach. I really do appreciate you taking care of her today so I could finish my book."
"And did you?" Rachel asks excitedly. Quinn has only let her read the first half of this one so far, withholding the rest until the climax and resolution is completely ironed out, and Rachel has been dying to know what happens.
"I did," Quinn confirms with a proud smirk, shifting a suddenly restless Calliope off her lap and onto the cushion next to her. Their daughter immediately seizes upon her freedom to escape back to her blocks, sliding expertly off the sofa. Quinn keeps a heedful eye and a guiding hand on her until she's safely on the floor, and Oliver takes advantage of the change in sofa occupancy to hop down onto the empty cushion and curl up beside Quinn. "In fact, I'm completely finished with the whole thing."
Rachel widens her eyes in surprise. "You mean, the writing and all of the editing?" She'd assumed Quinn was merely determined to get the first draft of those last chapters done, not that she'd already started fussing with all of the revisions and rewrites she inevitably labors over before she even sends them off to Aileen.
"Well, there'll probably still be a lot of edits," Quinn admits with a rueful smile before relaxing into the cushions with a happier expression. "I mean that I'm done with the series. Finished writing it. Kissing Maeve and her evil ways goodbye."
"You…you're finished?" Rachel squeaks out, shocked by the revelation. At Quinn's proud nod, Rachel sucks in a surprised breath. "I thought you had at least two more books outlined after this one." And really, Lucy Quinn had introduced such a multilayered backstory for her antagonist and so many complicated plot threads into the last book that it seemed impossible to tie them all up in the next installment.
"I thought I did too," Quinn admits with a dismissive shrug of one shoulder. "But then this one just wrapped itself up in such a perfect way that it seemed kinda unnecessary to drag out the plot."
Rachel sags against the back of the sofa as she attempts to process this information. There is a lot of plot in that fantasy world that Quinn has created. "Are you certain about this, baby? This is only the fourth book." She'd envisioned Quinn going at least six or seven to rival the Potterverse, albeit with far less problematic undertones and absolutely no buyer's remorse after the fact because Lucy Quinn is a champion of LGBTQA rights—all the rights actually. "And you have a movie deal."
"Twilight was only four books long, and it managed to do okay at the box office."
Rachel rolls her eyes. "Don't even pretend that Twilight is the series you're modeling your success against."
"You liked it well enough," Quinn reminds her with a snicker, poking at Rachel's thigh.
"When I was sixteen," Rachel grudgingly admits, her cheeks heating in remembered embarrassment of how romantic she'd found the whole thing back then. "My tastes are far more discerning now."
Quinn hums in wordless agreement, hazel eyes glinting with a touch of wickedness while the hand that had just poked her thigh curls around it instead. "I can confirm your taste is magnificent."
Rachel's skin heats even more because her wife's double entendre is downright blatant with that smirk and that voice of hers, not to mention the warm palm creeping up the inside of her thigh. "Stop evading." She very purposely moves Quinn's hand to a more chaste location. "I just want to make sure that you're not…rushing an ending," she poses cautiously. It's not that she's questioning Quinn's creative process or storytelling decisions, but, "The last time you talked about your ideas for the series, it seemed like you had a lot more territory you wanted to cover before Maeve got her final comeuppance."
Quinn shrugs again. "Things change. And lately I've been thinking about focusing on other projects."
Rachel supposes that she can understand that. After all, she'd hit the metaphorical wall on a couple of her own projects now. Luckily, she'd wrapped up Confessions before the redundancy had really started to burn her out, but she can't say the same of her time playing Fanny Brice. Those extra months had kind of ruined her favorite musical for her to a small degree. She certainly doesn't want her wife to experience the same boredom with her writing.
"Well, I can't say I don't see the appeal of embarking on something completely new." Rachel has done it for herself several times over by now. "I know you must have dozens of fresh stories floating around in that brillant, beautiful mind of yours." Quinn ducks her head at the compliment, biting into her lower lip. "And I suppose you could always revisit the Wishing Stone universe with new characters if you choose to someday. Lord knows you wouldn't be the first author to restart a supposedly finished series with a prequel or a sequel or a whole new set of characters."
Quinn inhales deeply, lifting her eyes to Rachel's with an almost wistful expression. "Actually, when I say other projects, I kind of mean…other than writing."
That brings Rachel's mind to a grinding halt. Other than writing? "What other than writing?" She blinks as she stares at Quinn, searching for some clue to her wife's meaning. "Like, back to editing?" Not that Quinn wouldn't be a fabulous book editor. She already had been a fabulous editor—well, associate editor. But why would she settle for that again after being a fabulous, successful author?
Quinn chuckles quietly and shakes her head. "No, like, retiring from the publishing industry entirely."
Rachel is still not comprehending. "Huh?"
"I mean, I don't need to publish anything else," Quinn declares, casually stretching an arm along the back of the sofa behind Rachel. "I've got three, soon to be four, bestselling novels and, like you said, a movie deal that covers the series. I stand to make a nice little profit once they start hitting the big screen. And you're doing pretty good with the successful album and a potential television career. I can retire and be your trophy wife."
A disbelieving laugh escapes Rachel's lips. "My trophy wife?" she repeats, at a loss to fully comprehend what she's hearing. It's true that they've joked about it before but Rachel had never believed for a moment that Quinn would actually consider it.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Obviously not just a trophy wife," she clarifies before smiling down at their daughter. "I'd be a full-time wife and mother with no distractions while you bring home the bacon."
"No," Rachel refutes automatically, shaking her head. "There's no bacon."
"Facon, then," Quinn easily amends, clearly amused by Rachel's bewilderment. "I can make sacrifices."
"But you love writing." Still shaking her head, Rachel tries to make sense of what Quinn is telling her. "It's your passion." Like performing is Rachel's passion.
Quinn takes hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and catching Rachel's attention with a very serious expression. "You're my passion. Callie is my passion. Everything else is just…fancy ribbons to tie it up."
The sentiment is, admittedly, sweet, but she simply can't imagine Quinn being nothing more than a housewife. "You'll get bored." Rachel is certain of that. She gets more than a little bored when she doesn't have a new project to focus on, even though she does love being at home with her family. "Won't you get bored? Don't you need something else to work on? Even part-time?"
Quinn's eyes narrow suspiciously. "You seem kind of unsupportive of my decision, Rachel."
"I'm not," Rachel quickly denies, knowing better than to fall into that particular trap. "I'm merely…concerned that you'll miss writing if you give it up entirely. You shouldn't go cold-turkey, right? Not that writing is anything like an addiction, of course, but it's been a major part of your life since college. Maybe you should…ease into a life of leisure. Write some short stories for the New Yorker. Oh, or children's books," she suggests, instantly tickled by the thought. She spares a loving glance at their daughter who is happily rearranging her blocks into something bearing a little more resemblance to a tower this time around. "You could write down some of those amazing stories you tell Calliope when you tuck her in."
Quinn's eyes go soft, falling on their baby girl as well as she clearly considers the suggestion, but then she stubbornly shakes her head. "Nah. Those are just for Callie." She tilts her head thoughtfully when she meets Rachel's eyes again. "Maybe you're right though. I could do something small as a hobby. Maybe start a blog."
Okay. A blog isn't exactly what Rachel had in mind, but at least it's a way to keep her wife writing until she hopefully remembers how much she loves it and how many stories she has yet to tell. Not that Rachel is fundamentally opposed to Quinn being a stay-at-home wife and mother with no career of her own to speak of, but she was just ruminating on how good everything is right now with both of their careers flourishing, so pinning all of their future finances on the hope of some good royalties from Quinn's existing catalog and whatever unpredictable work Rachel can find in the entertainment industry just doesn't seem like a particularly good decision at this precarious juncture.
"I…I suppose a blog could be…interesting," she hedges, already contemplating how she might steer her wife into making that somehow profitable.
Quinn's eyes light up at her concession, and she grins excitedly, squeezing Rachel's hand again. "It could be. I just had the best idea for it, too."
"Oh?" Rachel tries her best to appear genuinely interested.
Quinn looks inordinately pleased with herself. "I can post sex toy reviews."
There's a moment of near silence where the only sound in the apartment is Calliope's quiet humming over the click of her blocks, and Rachel struggles to determine if she actually heard what she thinks she heard.
"Come again?"
Quinn's grin turns wicked. "That'll definitely be part of the review. God knows there aren't enough sex blogs geared strictly towards lesbian couples."
With that comment, Rachel realizes that, yes, she heard exactly what she thinks she heard. "Are you freaking kidding me?" she yelps, heart racing and mouth only barely censoring the irate question with a last minute recollection that their precious, innocent baby girl is in the room. "There is no way you're going to quit writing and become a sex blogger, Quinn Fabray!"
Quinn presses a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, eyes downright twinkling with mirth. She shakes her head, drags in a few sniggering breaths, and finally manages to drop her hand to giggle out, "I can call my blog the Q-Spot."
Rachel glares at her wife, tugging her hand free from Quinn's loose grasp to tug at her own hair in dismay. "That doesn't even make any sense!"
"It would if you remembered what day it is today," Quinn informs her with barely regained composure.
"It's Monday. What does that have to do with your ridiculous sex blog idea?"
"It's actually Tuesday, Rach." Quinn seems far too self-satisfied providing the correction. "I know it's hard to keep track of the days when you don't actually have a schedule right now."
Rachel's brows furrow. "It's Tuesday?" She could have sworn it was Monday. "Are you sure?"
Laughing, Quinn leans forward to retrieve Rachel's very own cell phone from the coffee table and holds it up to display the time, day, and, most importantly, the date. Seeing it, Rachel drops her head into her hands and releases a muffled screech into her palms.
It's that mother fucking day again!
"April Fool, sweetie," Quinn crows smugly.
Rachel snaps her head up sharply and scowls at her wife, pointing an accusatory finger at her gorgeous, smirking face. "I must have said it was Sunday at least three times yesterday and you didn't correct me once."
They'd had such a lovely, relaxed day yesterday—a lazy morning with a late breakfast at Cafe Bee, during which Calliope had mostly stayed quietly occupied with her pancakes, and then a leisurely walk in the park to enjoy the mild weather that culminated with watching Calliope play at the Safari Playground before heading home to do nothing much of anything except spend precious time together. There had certainly been enough other families and children out and about yesterday for Rachel to think it was a weekend.
Quinn catches her pointing hand and pulls it into her lap, leaning into her wife. "Why would I correct you when your forgetfulness played right into my nefarious plan?"
"Nefarious is right," Rachel grumbles, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "The sex blog isn't the only part of your prank, is it?"
Quinn laughs in delight and shakes her head. "That was a lucky bit of improv. Thank you for that, by the way. You set it up beautifully."
"You're insufferable."
"And yet you suffer me happily," Quinn teases, lifting the hand she's still holding to her lips to kiss it in supplication.
"Less happily on this god awful day of the year," Rachel feels compelled to remind her. She can't believe she'd lost track of the days once again. She could have sworn she'd set a reminder on her phone for this year—it's how she keeps track of important anniversaries and birthdays after all—but she wouldn't actually put it past her wife to delete any reminders set for the first of April just so she can continue on with this terrible tradition of hers. "Just to clarify, you're not actually planning to retire from writing?"
"No," Quinn confirms with a roll of her eyes, "but it's good to know how very unsupportive of that possibility you really are."
"I simply don't want the world to be deprived of your brilliant world building," she defends, not mentioning her own desire to not be deprived of the second income. Even so, Quinn doesn't look entirely convinced of her sincerity. "And speaking of world building…the Wishing Stone series?" she prompts, hoping that was also part of her wife's ruse.
Quinn chuckles. "Not quite done yet," she confirms, much to Rachel's relief, "but book number four is all wrapped up and ready for endless edits."
"Yay," Rachel cheers. "That means I can read it now."
"Well, not right this minute, but yeah."
"Get it to me by tonight and I might actually forgive you for this one." At least this minor humiliation is entirely private, unlike last year when her dear, darling wife had involved the entire Fabray family in her prank on Rachel.
Quinn is annoyingly unrepentant as usual, leaning close. "You forgive me for all of them, sweetheart." And damn if she isn't using that tone again, the purr of her voice low and husky and intended to remind Rachel exactly why she always ends up forgiving Quinn. "I'm very good at making amends."
And if the verbal reminder isn't enough, Quinn punctuates it with her lips on Rachel's lips, soft and teasing and tempting Rachel to once again forgive her everything. "I still want a copy of that book," Rachel murmurs between kisses, though she may not be in quite as much of a hurry to read it if Quinn is offering up other forms of restitution.
She can feel her wife smile against her mouth. "Are you sure there aren't other things you want more?" she asks, as if reading her mind—or more likely reading her body.
Rachel catches Quinn's lower lip between her teeth, biting gently before she pulls away. "Well, I really want a wife who doesn't prank me once a year, but I suppose I'm stuck with you."
"Oh, you very much are," Quinn agrees with a laugh.
Rachel isn't exactly unhappy about that fact, but she's still tempted to continue on with their playful banter for a while before actually letting her wife know that she's forgiven. Alas, whatever witty reply she could make is interrupted by the small hand patting her leg. "Mama. Mommy." Calliope gazes up at them with big hazel eyes. "Bocks." And she points back at her newest creation with a proud grin. This time, the blocks are crookedly stacked into something that almost resembles a pyramid.
"See. A prodigy," Quinn reaffirms to Rachel before smiling at their daughter. "That is a masterpiece, baby bear. You're such a good builder."
"You are," Rachel agrees, reaching down to lift a beaming Calliope up onto the sofa between them. "Our brilliant little star," she declares before she places a kiss on the top of her daughter's head.
Maybe blocks aren't Rachel's preferred method of artistic expression, but she can still recognize her child's accomplishments. The pyramid is much more cohesive than whatever that was she was working on earlier.
Quinn runs her palm over their daughter's hair with a tender expression. "And someday Mommy will teach you all about April Fool's Day."
Rachel's smile falls away on an outraged gasp. "No Mommy will not!"
Laughing, Quinn has the nerve to wink at her. "We'll see."
"Quinn," Rachel warns, in no way inclined to let this threat to their daughter's future respectability slide. "If you corrupt our baby girl with your pranking schemes, I swear to Barbra…"
"You'll keep on loving us anyway," Quinn finishes knowingly before grinning at their daughter. "Isn't that right, Callie?"
Dark curls bounce with her eager nod. "Ya. 'Ov Ma."
It's their precocious daughter's approximation of the word love, and Rachel feels all her defenses simply vaporize into dust. Some of it might have even gotten into her eye. She really has no hope of resisting two sets of hazel eyes gazing at her with adoration.
Yes, life is good. Her angelic daughter more than makes up for her wicked wife, and Rachel will gladly be the fool who loves them both.