For Freaks and Geeks Fic-a-thon
Title: Burn, Burn, Burn.
Rating: PG
Prompt: Pregnant!Quinn - I'm here for your entertainment.
Notes: I don't even like Quinn, so this came out of NOWHERE. Hopefully it's good!
Morning sickness, Quinn learns, feels a lot like getting the stomach virus. The dizziness, the dry heaving, the sharp taste of bile are all there. Everything’s there except the promise of weight loss. If anything, it’s the opposite. She flushes the toilet and catches Joyce, a senior and a regular attendee at the local Church, staring as she exits the stall. Even though Quinn is a sophomore, she outranks the older girl in McKinley’s social order. Joyce quickly averts her eyes, suddenly intent on retouching her makeup. Quinn washes her hands in the sink, concentrating on the sound of running water rather than the wispy smell of vomit in the air. Sensing a pair of eyes on her, Quinn deliberately wipes an imaginary spot from her bare, flawless skin. The familiar weight of a jealous gaze is comforting.
Joyce is blonde, blue-eyed, and green with envy.
Quinn straightens her spine, ponytail whipping around her shoulder, and meets the stare in the mirror sharply; sharp enough to slice through the layer of makeup and skin to make the insecurities bleed.
“Flattering as it is, shouldn’t you be heading to class instead of admiring me, Crater Face?” The acerbic tone sends Joyce fumbling with her belongings as she exits the bathroom.
Rinsing her mouth of leftover bile, Quinn hopes the nausea is temporary. She presses her hands firmly against her flat stomach before repositioning them on her hips. The mirror reflects a person constructed entirely of impeccable lines and cutting edges, from the pressed Cheerios uniform to the angles of her crooked wrists. Quinn chews on mints for the rest of the day as students walk along the lockers in pairs to make room for her.
Morning sickness might feel like a case of the stomach flu, but it always looks like bulimia, which is infinitely better than the truth.
A rumor of her eating disorder circulates the school but no one intervenes or calls her on it. The janitor bemoans the increase of vomit stains in the girl’s bathroom.
---
It’s a dark day when Quinn gets reassurance from Rachel Berry. Still, her intentions are good and her logic is sound. Quinn will need all the support she can get when her edges become curves. So she returns to Glee Club, wearing extra blush to disguise the mortification coloring her cheek when she walks into the choir room, pretending the smiles and laughing eyes are due to an inside joke she’s not a part of. She takes Rachel’s silent support when their gaze meet briefly and tries to believe it’s compassion rather than pity that softens Rachel’s critiques of her performance.
Shortly after her pregnancy hits the blogs, she gets slushied in the halls by a tall football player. Quinn vaguely remembers turning him down to date Finn.
“Are you out of your mind?” She screeches. No one slushies a Cheerios, especially not her. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, Quinn Fabray, the next candidate for Sixteen and Pregnant.” He sneers, slapping his friend on the back.
His friend shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know man, she’s pregnant. You sure you should be doing that to her?”
“Please, it’s not like it’s hurting the baby.”
Quinn remembers his name now. Todd. She always thought he had nice eyes.
“Still, it’s bad form, y’know? What if she catches pneumonia and the baby comes out blue?”
“I’m right here.” Quinn snaps, flinging clumps of flavored ice from her skin.
The boys turn to study her critically. Suddenly, the friend grabs Todd’s Letterman jacket. “Dude! W-What if it makes her push the baby out now?” Their gazes lock on her stomach in horror and disgust. “Dude, let’s get out of here.”
They sprint down the hall. Todd, with his pretty, pretty green eyes, turns his head and hollers “Slut!” over his shoulders, laughing.
The sticky-sweet syrup sinks into the fabric of her uniform. She’ll never get the stains out in time. Quinn stands frozen to her spot, a red, white, and blue mess -- the All American High School Cliché-Tragedy.
The bell rings and students come pouring out of classrooms, eyes wide and jaws dropped to emit incredulous laughter: Britney and Santana included.
Ingénue, Quinn thinks as she rushes into the bathroom, must be a fancy word to mean The World’s Biggest Idiot.
(That makes her The World’s Most Gullible Fool.)
---
Santana replaces her as Head Cheerios. Stripped of her armor, Quinn loses more of her sharp edges.
---
One day, after closing her locker and moving toward her first period class, a body slams into her shoulder. Her books spill onto the floor. She turns with a scathing insult on her tongue but the person is too far away now to hear it. Someone else bumps into her and turns his head mid-blink to say, “Excuse me,” before resuming his conversation with his friends.
She isn’t being attacked. They just don’t see her.
She bends down and collects her books, mindful of her rounding belly. Rising slowly, she looks at the swarm of people flowing through the halls in opposite directions. There’s no clear path anymore. No one sees her. The humiliation is crushing. She bears it silently and awkwardly maneuvers through the crowd for the first time. She gets jostled several times before she learns to round her shoulders and arrange her limbs to take up a little space as possible. She gets engulfed into the faceless stream of nobodies with one arm wrapped protectively around her baby bump.
---
Finn is a moron. Quinn knows this. He’s dopey, lacks direction, and barely makes the installment payments for her doctor visits. But she also knows that this is his best and he’s genuinely trying to love a child he thinks is his.
Can we be in love again?
Quinn knows Puck is the real father, and sometimes, sometimes, she just wants.
She forgets he’s a manwhore though, and need Santana to jog that particular set of memories. At least Finn was faithful.
When the truth comes out in its full glory, she doesn’t begrudge Finn for his anger. She’s just taken away his baby girl, after all.
Can we be in love again? Can we be in love with each other again?
“I’m done with you! I’m done with all of you!”
No.
---
The next time the crowd parts for her is after Christmas Break, only instead of a runway like she’s always imagined, it’s now a circle of narrowed eyes and flapping mouths that surround her like vultures wherever she goes. She recites passages from the Bible in her head to drown out the jeers and taunts.
---
Quinn gives her locker combination to Santana during Freshman Year just after they made Cheerios. They were pretty, thin, and smart. She recognized the ambition glittering in Santana’s dark eyes so it made sense to become friends with her, though alliance would be a better fit. Despite her ex-Cheerios status, Santana and Britney still flank her sides in and out of Glee Club. Occasionally. Quinn likes to think it’s out of loyalty rather than habit.
When an economy-sized bottle of cocoa butter lotion appears in her locker, she hunts Santana down. Quinn finds her target preening in front of the mirror in her locker. “Santana.” Quinn slams the door shut hard enough to rattle the adjoining lockers. “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”
Santana jumps back, barely avoiding injury but recovers quickly. She’s immediately on the offense. “What’s your problem? Hormones raging out of control again?”
“My problem is the lotion in my locker.” Quinn takes a step forward, her unbound hair fluttering around her face. Santana retreats several steps to gain personal space back. “If you think these immature pranks will get to me, you’ll have to try harder than that.”
She cocks her head to the side, snapping her dark ponytail through the air like a whip. “For your information, that lotion was a gift. A kindness, if you will.” She crosses her arms with narrowed her eyes. “And just to set the record straight, I don’t need to be trying harder at anything. You’re the girl, President of the Celibacy Club, who got knocked up by her boyfriend’s best friend.” Santana lets out an airy scoffs and sarcastically covers her mouth. “Excuse me. Ex-boyfriend. The one who dumped you for Rachel Berry.”
Santana unwinds her arms and slips them on her hips. She smiles then, white teeth gleaming like knives in the fluorescent hallway lighting. Quinn’s forgotten how sharp Santana’s lines were. “The lotion should last you a couple of months. I suggest you take it. I hear it does wonders for fading stretch marks.”
“I don’t have stretch marks.”
“Oh good, at least you were smart about that.” Santana leans in, her claws sinking deep and drawing blood. “I didn’t think someone dumb enough to get pregnant at sixteen would know. Too bad you weren’t smart enough when it really mattered.” She saunters off, leaving Quinn clutching her books tightly to her chest. “Oh and Quinn?”
Santana is twenty feet away, arms crossed and emanating aggression. “Don’t think for a second that I backed away out of fear. The only reason why you’re getting away with that little locker stunt is because I don’t hit pregnant people. Consider yourself lucky.” She spins on her heels and walk away, hands crooking on her hips as people move in pairs along the lockers out of her way.
Quinn stares at the sharp swish of the uniform and the strong, perfect lines Santana’s body forms walking down the hall. The crowd laughs, gawks, whispers, and heckles.
A voice rises above the noise. “Guys, let’s get to class. There’s nothing to look at, after all.” Quinn’s eyes flicker to a familiar face. Senior Joyce. Smug.
Several bursts of ill-concealed giggles explode through the crowd like a bomb raid.
It crescendos into a deafening roar in her ears.
---
Quinn changes her combination the next day. She smears Santana’s lotion over her stomach, feet, and limbs. As a result, she smells like chocolate now. Santana smirks knowingly, triumphantly, every time they cross paths. It burns like acid.
Quinn bides her time and waits. Waits for the due date. Waits for Junior Year. Waits for her body to be her own again.
All she sees lately is red: Her mother’s red lipstick, Rachel’s red dog sweater, red Letterman jackets, red tracksuits. Cheerio Red. Rage Red.
She starts hammering her blunted edges into razor-sharp lines again. She’ll be happy to reacquaint Santana to her second place position. She’ll show everyone how deep she can cut. But most importantly, Quinn will remind everyone why she was Head Cheerios when she takes everything back.
Rating: PG
Prompt: Pregnant!Quinn - I'm here for your entertainment.
Notes: I don't even like Quinn, so this came out of NOWHERE. Hopefully it's good!
Morning sickness, Quinn learns, feels a lot like getting the stomach virus. The dizziness, the dry heaving, the sharp taste of bile are all there. Everything’s there except the promise of weight loss. If anything, it’s the opposite. She flushes the toilet and catches Joyce, a senior and a regular attendee at the local Church, staring as she exits the stall. Even though Quinn is a sophomore, she outranks the older girl in McKinley’s social order. Joyce quickly averts her eyes, suddenly intent on retouching her makeup. Quinn washes her hands in the sink, concentrating on the sound of running water rather than the wispy smell of vomit in the air. Sensing a pair of eyes on her, Quinn deliberately wipes an imaginary spot from her bare, flawless skin. The familiar weight of a jealous gaze is comforting.
Joyce is blonde, blue-eyed, and green with envy.
Quinn straightens her spine, ponytail whipping around her shoulder, and meets the stare in the mirror sharply; sharp enough to slice through the layer of makeup and skin to make the insecurities bleed.
“Flattering as it is, shouldn’t you be heading to class instead of admiring me, Crater Face?” The acerbic tone sends Joyce fumbling with her belongings as she exits the bathroom.
Rinsing her mouth of leftover bile, Quinn hopes the nausea is temporary. She presses her hands firmly against her flat stomach before repositioning them on her hips. The mirror reflects a person constructed entirely of impeccable lines and cutting edges, from the pressed Cheerios uniform to the angles of her crooked wrists. Quinn chews on mints for the rest of the day as students walk along the lockers in pairs to make room for her.
Morning sickness might feel like a case of the stomach flu, but it always looks like bulimia, which is infinitely better than the truth.
A rumor of her eating disorder circulates the school but no one intervenes or calls her on it. The janitor bemoans the increase of vomit stains in the girl’s bathroom.
---
It’s a dark day when Quinn gets reassurance from Rachel Berry. Still, her intentions are good and her logic is sound. Quinn will need all the support she can get when her edges become curves. So she returns to Glee Club, wearing extra blush to disguise the mortification coloring her cheek when she walks into the choir room, pretending the smiles and laughing eyes are due to an inside joke she’s not a part of. She takes Rachel’s silent support when their gaze meet briefly and tries to believe it’s compassion rather than pity that softens Rachel’s critiques of her performance.
Shortly after her pregnancy hits the blogs, she gets slushied in the halls by a tall football player. Quinn vaguely remembers turning him down to date Finn.
“Are you out of your mind?” She screeches. No one slushies a Cheerios, especially not her. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, Quinn Fabray, the next candidate for Sixteen and Pregnant.” He sneers, slapping his friend on the back.
His friend shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know man, she’s pregnant. You sure you should be doing that to her?”
“Please, it’s not like it’s hurting the baby.”
Quinn remembers his name now. Todd. She always thought he had nice eyes.
“Still, it’s bad form, y’know? What if she catches pneumonia and the baby comes out blue?”
“I’m right here.” Quinn snaps, flinging clumps of flavored ice from her skin.
The boys turn to study her critically. Suddenly, the friend grabs Todd’s Letterman jacket. “Dude! W-What if it makes her push the baby out now?” Their gazes lock on her stomach in horror and disgust. “Dude, let’s get out of here.”
They sprint down the hall. Todd, with his pretty, pretty green eyes, turns his head and hollers “Slut!” over his shoulders, laughing.
The sticky-sweet syrup sinks into the fabric of her uniform. She’ll never get the stains out in time. Quinn stands frozen to her spot, a red, white, and blue mess -- the All American High School Cliché-Tragedy.
The bell rings and students come pouring out of classrooms, eyes wide and jaws dropped to emit incredulous laughter: Britney and Santana included.
Ingénue, Quinn thinks as she rushes into the bathroom, must be a fancy word to mean The World’s Biggest Idiot.
(That makes her The World’s Most Gullible Fool.)
---
Santana replaces her as Head Cheerios. Stripped of her armor, Quinn loses more of her sharp edges.
---
One day, after closing her locker and moving toward her first period class, a body slams into her shoulder. Her books spill onto the floor. She turns with a scathing insult on her tongue but the person is too far away now to hear it. Someone else bumps into her and turns his head mid-blink to say, “Excuse me,” before resuming his conversation with his friends.
She isn’t being attacked. They just don’t see her.
She bends down and collects her books, mindful of her rounding belly. Rising slowly, she looks at the swarm of people flowing through the halls in opposite directions. There’s no clear path anymore. No one sees her. The humiliation is crushing. She bears it silently and awkwardly maneuvers through the crowd for the first time. She gets jostled several times before she learns to round her shoulders and arrange her limbs to take up a little space as possible. She gets engulfed into the faceless stream of nobodies with one arm wrapped protectively around her baby bump.
---
Finn is a moron. Quinn knows this. He’s dopey, lacks direction, and barely makes the installment payments for her doctor visits. But she also knows that this is his best and he’s genuinely trying to love a child he thinks is his.
Can we be in love again?
Quinn knows Puck is the real father, and sometimes, sometimes, she just wants.
She forgets he’s a manwhore though, and need Santana to jog that particular set of memories. At least Finn was faithful.
When the truth comes out in its full glory, she doesn’t begrudge Finn for his anger. She’s just taken away his baby girl, after all.
Can we be in love again? Can we be in love with each other again?
“I’m done with you! I’m done with all of you!”
No.
---
The next time the crowd parts for her is after Christmas Break, only instead of a runway like she’s always imagined, it’s now a circle of narrowed eyes and flapping mouths that surround her like vultures wherever she goes. She recites passages from the Bible in her head to drown out the jeers and taunts.
---
Quinn gives her locker combination to Santana during Freshman Year just after they made Cheerios. They were pretty, thin, and smart. She recognized the ambition glittering in Santana’s dark eyes so it made sense to become friends with her, though alliance would be a better fit. Despite her ex-Cheerios status, Santana and Britney still flank her sides in and out of Glee Club. Occasionally. Quinn likes to think it’s out of loyalty rather than habit.
When an economy-sized bottle of cocoa butter lotion appears in her locker, she hunts Santana down. Quinn finds her target preening in front of the mirror in her locker. “Santana.” Quinn slams the door shut hard enough to rattle the adjoining lockers. “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”
Santana jumps back, barely avoiding injury but recovers quickly. She’s immediately on the offense. “What’s your problem? Hormones raging out of control again?”
“My problem is the lotion in my locker.” Quinn takes a step forward, her unbound hair fluttering around her face. Santana retreats several steps to gain personal space back. “If you think these immature pranks will get to me, you’ll have to try harder than that.”
She cocks her head to the side, snapping her dark ponytail through the air like a whip. “For your information, that lotion was a gift. A kindness, if you will.” She crosses her arms with narrowed her eyes. “And just to set the record straight, I don’t need to be trying harder at anything. You’re the girl, President of the Celibacy Club, who got knocked up by her boyfriend’s best friend.” Santana lets out an airy scoffs and sarcastically covers her mouth. “Excuse me. Ex-boyfriend. The one who dumped you for Rachel Berry.”
Santana unwinds her arms and slips them on her hips. She smiles then, white teeth gleaming like knives in the fluorescent hallway lighting. Quinn’s forgotten how sharp Santana’s lines were. “The lotion should last you a couple of months. I suggest you take it. I hear it does wonders for fading stretch marks.”
“I don’t have stretch marks.”
“Oh good, at least you were smart about that.” Santana leans in, her claws sinking deep and drawing blood. “I didn’t think someone dumb enough to get pregnant at sixteen would know. Too bad you weren’t smart enough when it really mattered.” She saunters off, leaving Quinn clutching her books tightly to her chest. “Oh and Quinn?”
Santana is twenty feet away, arms crossed and emanating aggression. “Don’t think for a second that I backed away out of fear. The only reason why you’re getting away with that little locker stunt is because I don’t hit pregnant people. Consider yourself lucky.” She spins on her heels and walk away, hands crooking on her hips as people move in pairs along the lockers out of her way.
Quinn stares at the sharp swish of the uniform and the strong, perfect lines Santana’s body forms walking down the hall. The crowd laughs, gawks, whispers, and heckles.
A voice rises above the noise. “Guys, let’s get to class. There’s nothing to look at, after all.” Quinn’s eyes flicker to a familiar face. Senior Joyce. Smug.
Several bursts of ill-concealed giggles explode through the crowd like a bomb raid.
It crescendos into a deafening roar in her ears.
---
Quinn changes her combination the next day. She smears Santana’s lotion over her stomach, feet, and limbs. As a result, she smells like chocolate now. Santana smirks knowingly, triumphantly, every time they cross paths. It burns like acid.
Quinn bides her time and waits. Waits for the due date. Waits for Junior Year. Waits for her body to be her own again.
All she sees lately is red: Her mother’s red lipstick, Rachel’s red dog sweater, red Letterman jackets, red tracksuits. Cheerio Red. Rage Red.
She starts hammering her blunted edges into razor-sharp lines again. She’ll be happy to reacquaint Santana to her second place position. She’ll show everyone how deep she can cut. But most importantly, Quinn will remind everyone why she was Head Cheerios when she takes everything back.