storm through your castle doors, pg, rachel/quinn
Title: storm through your castle doors
Author: intobrakelights
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn.
Rating: PG, except for one strong swear word in the beginning.
Length: ~4400
Spoilers: Up to "Journey," although with some definite differences.
Summary: Finn loses his voice and, insanely, Quinn promises to sing Faithfully in his place at Regionals.
Author's Notes: This was a prompt I found somewhere that I attempted to rediscover but could not. I thought it was at the rq_meme, but I might be mistaken. In any case, that's what inspired the idea.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” growls Santana, more or less voicing everyone’s opinion without the restrictions of sentimentality. “He cannot possibly be that much of a moron.”
“Wait, Santana,” Mr. Schuester cuts in, because Regionals is in just five days and they cannot waste valuable practice time throwing blame around, “he got sick. That’s not really his fault.”
“Right,” Santana says, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest like she has never believed anything less in her life. And then Rachel’s turning to look at Santana, mouth open in what is sure to be a long-winded protest, because as upset as she might be that their lead male vocalist is out of commission, that doesn’t keep her from being largely affronted on his behalf.
But listening to one of Rachel’s endless speeches falls decidedly into the wasting time category. “Look, guys, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is. Finn will probably recover enough that he can join us at Regionals, but we have to assume his voice won’t have returned fully by then-and even if it has, he shouldn’t strain his vocal chords. That means we need another lead male vocalist.” He casts a glance at each male in the room in turn, at this point prepared to choose a name out of a hat if it means they can begin rehearsing. “We need to start practicing now if we want to have any hope at all of winning Regionals.”
“I completely agree,” Rachel says, nodding and standing up beside Mr. Schuester without prompting. “We need to begin immediately-I have, of course, set aside plenty of time for the purpose of rehearsing throughout the next five days and will be delighted to provide tips regarding performance improvement.”
If it was meant to inspire enthusiasm, Rachel’s speech seems to have fallen short: now they look altogether more intimidated and wary than excited, because agreeing to this means agreeing to spend the next five days alone with Rachel. Only Finn, they suspect, would ever be able to manage that and maintain his sanity. And as much as winning Regionals would mean to all of them, with Sue judging and Finn unable to sing, the crushing weight of hopelessness is becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
“What Rachel means is that we’ll be here to help you out. We can split up the vocals.” When all he is meant with is silence, he breathes a heavy sigh. “C’mon, guys! We’re so close.”
Rachel, still beside him, stares at her peers with something akin to horror-but before she can speak, before she can berate them all for their lack of ambition and drive, for their unwillingness to improve, they hear a voice no one could have anticipated.
“I’ll do it.” Every single pair of eyes turns to look, and there are more than a few open mouths. “I’ll sing Finn’s part for Faithfully.”
---
Quinn isn’t sure what insanity possesses her to speak. All she knows is that no one else is saying a word and the silence is pathetic and incriminating and suffocating and Quinn knows she deserves none of the blame for this. It’s not like she’s a boy or like anyone expects it from her, especially given she’s ready to explode any day now, but none if this logic keeps her quiet. Instead, she’s watching Rachel as she looks incredulously from one boy to the next, hardly able to comprehend the sheer lack of ambition.
And maybe that’s how it happens-maybe for a moment she is trapped by pregnancy hormones and mood swings and disgust for this group of losers who cannot seem to care about the one thing that makes all of them happy.
So somehow, stupidly, she is speaking words she never intended, words she’s certain she’s never thought-and yet they sound confident, nonchalant, as if she never considered saying anything else. “I’ll do it,” she says, like she isn’t screaming obscenities in her mind that would quite possibly put her mother in an early grave. “I’ll sing Finn’s part for Faithfully.”
She meets each of their stares with a look that would have made Sue Sylvester proud, haughty and condescending, and she awaits the verdict. Even Will looks at her for a few moments, mouth opening and closing rather unattractively, until at last he manages, “Oh, Quinn, that…would be amazing, actually. Besides, we are always talking about diversity. I think it’s time we walk the walk.” He still looks uncertain and he’s staring at her like he thinks she might have plans for murder, but he knows at this point the risk is probably worth it.
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” Mercedes stage-whispers, continuing to stare at her incredulously. “You remember Rachel Berry, right?”
But Rachel-though Quinn has no doubt she hears the insult-pays the comment no mind because she’s looking right at Quinn and smiling this smile that’s so damn bright it practically glows.
“Of course I know,” she answers, raising her head with self-assurance she does not possess. Except Rachel’s still watching her like she’s the answer to all the problems in the world, like if there were not ten people in the way she might tackle her to the ground (like maybe she’s considering it, anyway, and despite her stature Quinn has a distinct feeling she should not be underestimated). In spite of herself, Quinn feels sort of like she’s maybe done something right.
---
“Now, Quinn,” Rachel begins, and it’s just the two of them standing in the choir room-except Brad, of course, but Quinn is not entirely convinced he doesn’t sleep here-and Quinn’s rolling her eyes. “This song requires emotion and believability. I do understand that you are in possession of no such feelings for me, but at least consider someone with whom you have shared this bond. It has to mean something to you. The audience can make no connection with a lifeless performance and audience connection is an absolute must if we are to succeed.”
“It’s kind of hard,” Quinn snaps, “when I have to stare at you the whole time.” (The strange thing is that she doesn’t actually mean it. Sometimes she looks away just to stop feeling everything so much. Damn pregnancy hormones.)
For a single instant, Quinn sees the hurt in Rachel’s eyes, but then she’s nodding and smiling like she understands, like she means it. She wonders how often Rachel has to pretend. She wonders how much it hurts and whether she ever ends up in the bathroom stall, sobbing uncontrollably on the toilet because someone decided grape slushie would look good on her that day. She wonders whether she ever stares at herself in the mirror and thinks about giving up altogether.
Quinn should recoil from the sudden rush of understanding, of empathy, but instead she feels an ache in her chest and the crushing weight of guilt on her shoulders. Before she can retract her statement or at least apologize (apologize over and over for all the stupid, cruel things, for all the insults she bestowed twice as often in order to disguise the fact that she never really meant them), Rachel says, “That’s why you should imagine someone else in my place. Perhaps you might replace my image with Finn’s, if you find that your past relationship enhances your performance connection. You must greet it as if you are an actress on Broadway and this is your final performance, one that will no doubt earn you a Tony if done to perfection. You must pour your heart into each line. You must mean every single word, Quinn.”
(Quinn tries, once or twice, to picture herself singing the lyrics to Finn, so full of devotion and adoration and love, but finds those feelings especially elusive in these moments. She even tries imagining Puck, but the end result is no more successful. She tries not to think about the fact that not imagining anyone means watching only Rachel throughout the entire performance, and she especially tries not to think about how little she minds.)
“I’ll try,” she says, and Rachel opens her mouth as if she is prepared to launch into another speech about how “try” will get them nowhere (and, God, if she decides to quote Yoda at this point Quinn doesn’t think she’ll have any choice but to go with murder), but Quinn looks her in the eye and offers her a genuine, albeit slightly tentative, smile. “I will. I’ll try, Rachel.”
Rachel nods several times before offering her a grin. Involuntarily, Quinn feels her own smile widening in response.
They practice until Rachel is almost satisfied (if she were not concerned with the merits of an adequate amount of sleep, Quinn is quite certain they would practice for a hundred and twenty hours straight) with the promise of further rehearsal tomorrow.
But Rachel’s smile momentarily distracts her from the complete mess she’s chosen voluntarily and, stupidly, she cannot bring herself to regret her decision.
---
On the second day Quinn arrives in the practice room to be met with a plate of star-shaped cookies, held out toward her by one Rachel Berry. They are arranged to read “You can do it!” and Quinn’s eyes involuntarily close as she inhales the most delicious smell she thinks has ever existed. Because, wow.
“I know you’ve been experiencing pregnancy cravings,” Rachel says, eyes lifting to meet Quinn’s, “and I noticed you devoured all of Mercedes’ cookies the other day, so I thought that perhaps I would bake some in case you were interested.” She offers her a surprisingly soft smile as she adds, “In the words of our mutual friend, they are, apparently, ‘sick.’”
“Puck,” Quinn says with a laugh, reaching forward to grab a cookie without asking permission. “God, Rachel,” she murmurs like a prayer-because this taste is nothing if not heaven (and maybe she should consider converting), “they’re amazing.” She doesn’t even stop to consider that she’s talking with her mouth full, one of Finn’s habits she never found she particularly missed, because they’re incredible.
Rachel beams. “Thank you, Quinn,” she says, and suddenly Quinn’s not sure whether her gratefulness stems more from her compliment or her easy use of Rachel’s first name or the fact that she agreed to this when no one else would. Maybe it’s everything.
When Quinn smiles in return, it occurs to her that it’s the most sincere demonstration of emotion she’s ever shown Rachel. She rests her hand on her exploding belly and feels the burn of regret in the pit of her stomach. “You’re welcome,” she says. She means so much more.
Rachel rests her hand atop Quinn’s and Quinn links their fingers together over her stomach. She looks at Quinn like maybe she knows.
After that, the song takes precedence-but Rachel rewards her with bright smiles and the sharpness of Quinn’s tone diminishes alongside her attempts to imagine singing the song to anyone else.
---
On the fifth day, Quinn is leaning against Rachel’s countertop like they’ve been doing this forever, laughing like she didn’t torture the girl now mixing the cookie batter for the previous four and a half years.
Four and a half years. (But it’s only taken Quinn five days to realize what she knew all along. It should horrify her, but instead it just keeps her nerves on edge and makes her thoroughly more aware of the stuttering of her heart. It should disgust her, but instead she feels a rush of relief from the inevitable weightlessness of understanding.)
They are vegan cookies, Quinn has realized, which is certainly striking-though perhaps not surprising-but has done absolutely nothing to diminish the craving that began from the first bite. Since then, Rachel has brought them with her to their practice sessions every day-and on their final day, somehow it seems right that they should be here, at Rachel’s house, making cookies.
It also feels like trust. It feels like trust Quinn isn’t sure she deserves-knows she doesn’t deserve, in fact-and it tastes like hope.
Quinn reaches over and dips her finger into the batter, flashing a quick, mischievous smile and Rachel just huffs and mutters something about needing the perfect amount and suddenly Quinn is struck by a memory from only months prior, except there was a boy with a mohawk and her secret was not apparent to everyone in the universe by way of her enormous stomach. She remembers feeling happy, even wanted. She remembers a desire to live out a fairytale romance.
But what she feels now is her heart pounding in her chest and the curling in the pit of her stomach whenever Rachel smiles. What she sees now is Rachel, determinedly stirring the batter and rolling her eyes playfully at Quinn and looking absolutely perfect in an animal sweater and an argyle skirt and knee-high socks. Nothing has ever been more clear.
“Are we friends?” Rachel asks with no pretence of any kind of segue, after the cookies are in the oven and a surprisingly comfortable silence has settled over them. Maybe that’s what she prepared herself for least-the comfort of being in Rachel’s company. It should be a struggle, but it isn’t. It’s easy.
Quinn turns to her and catches her gaze and almost says something else. The words are stumbling past her tongue and she swallows them quickly before she makes another mistake. Regardless of her epiphany, she doubts she is prepared for this-she may not be head cheerleader, but she is Quinn Fabray and her surname, she knows, is heavy with expectations-and she knows Rachel is not.
“Yes,” she says.
Rachel looks startled and delighted by her complete certainty, but there’s still a question in her eyes as she begins, “After this is over…”
I’ll still be yours, Quinn nearly says, foolishly. “We’ll be friends,” Quinn finishes. “You’re my friend, Rachel.”
It is the last day of practice-it is the last day of practice and Quinn knows that she is singing to Rachel with undisguised adoration and is grateful for the easy explanation. She isn’t sure she could play pretend otherwise.
“Your emotional connection is incredible,” Rachel says during one of their breaks; they’re sitting on her couch, almost touching but not quite. “I think you could win that Tony.”
The compliment catches her so off-guard that the tears come without any warning at all.
“Oh, Quinn,” she murmurs, tucking her legs beneath her and turning to face Quinn on the couch and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m-”
“Thank you,” Quinn says, turning to look Rachel in the eye. “Thank you.”
It’s not enough, she knows, but she doesn’t think she’s ever meant anything more.
---
Quinn is trying desperately to calm herself, except her heart is pounding in her chest and leaping into her throat and she isn’t sure how this happened but here she is, anyway, staring at a red curtain that may mean the end of everything she’s ever known.
She’s not stupid. She knows this is Lima, Ohio, and she knows she should turn around and walk away, retain what little dignity remains for a pregnant sixteen year old ex-Cheerio. But then she looks to her left and Rachel’s standing there, staring at the curtain and breathing in and smiling just at the corners of her lips, and Quinn knows she can’t do either of those things.
She knows that this is beyond social suicide. She knows that her mother’s society friends will be gossiping about this for weeks. She knows that, after this, her home will never again be her home. Nothing will ever be like it was before. She doesn’t want to go back to before.
She doesn’t want to because Rachel’s eyes are closed in concentration and she’s whisper-singing under her breath and Quinn knows that Rachel will indeed perform as if on Broadway, as if this were her final performance and the one that will earn her the highest acclaim, which would certainly be saying something, given her vast collection of trophies. She knows that Rachel’s voice will bring at least three-quarters of the room to tears. So, stupidly, Quinn forgets to care about everything else.
“Hey,” she says, because the announcer is congratulating Aural Intensity on their inspiring performance and they both know what that means.
“Hey,” Rachel says back. “Break a leg.” She offers Quinn a bright smile, like she knows that everything will be perfect because she trusts them. Because she trusts Quinn.
“I love you,” Quinn says because she means it.
Rachel looks at her with wide eyes and it occurs to Quinn suddenly that this was a very, very stupid idea -but then there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips, a little bit unsure, and Quinn doesn’t know what that means except that maybe she doesn’t hate her. That could be enough.
And then she has no time to think at all because the announcer is shouting New Directions and this is their cue, this is it. Quinn takes in an unsteady breath and pulls back the curtain.
---
“Oh, girl, you stand by me,” Rachel sings, eyes never once leaving Quinn’s.
“I’m forever yours,” they sing together, like a promise, “faithfully.”
Quinn knows that Rachel is watching her and imagining someone else in her place. She suspects that Rachel is probably madly in love with Finn after the Jesse debacle or perhaps still pining after Jesse-although she hopes after the egging this is not the case-and either way it doesn’t matter because Quinn knows that Rachel Berry is decidedly heterosexual, regardless of the number of rumors (half, no doubt, inspired by Quinn) spread that run to the contrary. Because having two gay dads in Lima, Ohio didn’t make her gay. It just made her strong.
In spite of everything she knows, hearing Rachel sing girl with such sincerity twists something inside Quinn’s stomach and the smile she directs toward Rachel is so bright it must catch Rachel by surprise.
She smiles back.
---
There is no time provided for the Lima, Ohio audience members to collect themselves from the surprise of seeing what they have seen because Rachel and Quinn step onstage and New Directions moves seamlessly into the next performance.
Several people leave after realizing the intention. They stand and walk through the doors and never look back.
They are fewer than Quinn had expected and it hurts far less than she had anticipated.
But maybe that’s because Rachel tangles their fingers together for just a moment at the song’s conclusion and looks at her like she means every word.
Maybe it will strike up a grand controversy-two girls sing a love song to one another and then hold hands for two and a half seconds following this debacle. Breaking news.
Maybe her father will hear about it and read her name and his surname under the headline in the newspaper.
Quinn finds she wouldn’t mind at all.
---
Quinn’s water breaks not two minutes after they finish their performance.
Everyone panics and Rachel stands frozen in place for several long moments, staring at her with something like wonder. Except then Quinn’s shrieking for a damn hospital and Rachel is calmly issuing orders and before Quinn’s even sure what’s happening, she’s being pushed around in a wheelchair and God, it hurts and Rachel and Puck and Mercedes are all standing around her, watching her, and Rachel’s murmuring what Quinn assumes to be encouraging words but it hurts and she’s screaming-
And then it’s over.
It’s over and Beth is in her arms and she’s perfect.
She’s perfect, and it hurts.
---
“She’s beautiful,” Rachel says, moving to stand beside Quinn as she looks through the glass at the baby girl who will never, who will always, be hers.
Quinn nods because it’s true and because she cannot quite remember how to speak.
Together, they stare through the window for several long moments-it’s the longest, Quinn will think with some measure of amusement to herself much later, once the breathtaking hurt becomes less suffocating, she has ever heard Rachel go without speaking.
But then she glances in the mirror and sees Rachel turned toward her, looking at her questioningly, like there’s something she’s dying to know. But even Rachel Berry is tactful enough under these circumstances to realize there are more thoroughly opportune moments to ask questions.
“Yes, I meant it,” Quinn says without looking away from the window and without any verbal cues. Rachel turns to her and blinks several times before nodding.
“You meant it,” Rachel repeats.
Perhaps on any other occasion, she would have snapped; her frayed nerves and the weight of her shame and all of her uncertainty would have crippled and terrified her and she would have said, Of course I meant it, Man Hands, I wouldn’t declare my love for the social pariah of McKinley, not to mention a girl, unless I meant it. She doesn’t say that, though-instead, she looks through the window and watches the little girl and then catches Rachel’s eye in her reflection.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Rachel glances toward the ground and Quinn turns to watch her as her smile widens until she’s looking back up and beaming at Quinn. She nods again, eyes sparkling, before turning back to the window and leaving Quinn staring at her. And Quinn is so captivated by the weight of this moment that she doesn’t notice the movement of Rachel’s hand until their fingers are decidedly entwined.
When Rachel rests her head on her shoulder, Quinn cannot help the tears that trace their way down her cheeks. She looks at the beautiful baby behind the glass window and then the reflection of the beautiful girl pressed against her side and in spite of the impending weight of her future it feels like everything cliché in the tales of white knights and princesses and true love and happily ever afters. It feels like coming home.
That, she thinks, should hurt, because she knows she no longer has a home to which she can safely return. (Sometimes she’s not sure she ever did.)
Somehow, it’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt at all.
---
One week later, Quinn arrives at Mercedes’ house (and she knows she cannot do this forever, knows she cannot expect them to support her-but what else is there?) to find an envelope taped to the front door. On the envelope is written very simply “Quinn Fabray.”
She glances around as if expecting to find an answer nearby; when nothing emerges, she reaches cautiously forward and gently peals the envelope off the door. Only then does she see the back, upon which is drawn a star.
“Rachel?” she wonders aloud, turning the key in the door and pulling out what appears to be a letter.
Dear Quinn, it reads.
I would like to extend to you a formal invitation to consider yourself a member of the Berry household. Now, before you object, I realize you would not like to consider yourself an intrusion. Rest assured, you would not be. The truth is that my fathers are often away and while I enjoy the time I spend with them immensely, I would not mind the added pleasure of your company. I have spoken to both and they are quite agreeable; in fact, they believe it would be healthy for me to spend fewer of my days alone. While I believe I am perfectly healthy, I must admit I agree.
You are sixteen years old, Quinn. You just had a baby. You deserve time to recuperate. I know nothing can ever replace anything you lost. I know that I am not your family and that this is not your home. But I hope it will be more than a house to you. I hope, too, that I will be more than just a friend.
You are my closest friend. In just under two short weeks, this has become quite apparent. I know I haven’t yet responded directly to your admission at Regionals, mostly because I wanted to provide you with the space you needed. I would be more than happy to continue giving you your desired amount of space, if you would like. But I want you also to know that I very much hope to be there for you and to perhaps lend you a small amount of comfort. I would like to hug you and to hold you and also to kiss you.
I love you too, Quinn. I am aware the average response time is expected to be a bit less than two weeks later, but given the circumstances I hope it is acceptable nevertheless. I love you and I hope that my home might be yours, too.
It is entirely your decision. Enclosed is the key, in case your answer is yes. If it is, you may begin moving in whenever you see fit.
Thank you for everything.
Love,
Rachel
Quinn is chewing on her lower lip as she struggles not to sob audibly, but the tears are streaming down her cheeks and-no one has ever done anything like this for her before.
Barely aware of anything but the words blurring in front of her on the page she clutches desperately in her hands, she arrives in what has become something like her room and looks up only when she hears a voice.
“Quinn.”
And for a moment Quinn thinks she is dreaming or that the letter is somehow affecting her brain but perched on the bed in front of her is Rachel Berry, offering her this bashful smile and glancing down at the floor and then looking up to meet her eyes, tentative and nervous and hopeful.
From a Rachel Berry who spent the better part of an hour lecturing her about the proper approach to performing on Broadway, somehow this means so much more. It feels like everything.
“Now, Quinn, I’d just like you to hear me out-”
But Quinn doesn’t adhere to this request in the slightest; before she can help herself, she’s pulling Rachel to her feet and kissing her, lightly wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her and she tastes like the promise of a weightless future.
She tastes like happily ever after.
Author: intobrakelights
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn.
Rating: PG, except for one strong swear word in the beginning.
Length: ~4400
Spoilers: Up to "Journey," although with some definite differences.
Summary: Finn loses his voice and, insanely, Quinn promises to sing Faithfully in his place at Regionals.
Author's Notes: This was a prompt I found somewhere that I attempted to rediscover but could not. I thought it was at the rq_meme, but I might be mistaken. In any case, that's what inspired the idea.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” growls Santana, more or less voicing everyone’s opinion without the restrictions of sentimentality. “He cannot possibly be that much of a moron.”
“Wait, Santana,” Mr. Schuester cuts in, because Regionals is in just five days and they cannot waste valuable practice time throwing blame around, “he got sick. That’s not really his fault.”
“Right,” Santana says, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest like she has never believed anything less in her life. And then Rachel’s turning to look at Santana, mouth open in what is sure to be a long-winded protest, because as upset as she might be that their lead male vocalist is out of commission, that doesn’t keep her from being largely affronted on his behalf.
But listening to one of Rachel’s endless speeches falls decidedly into the wasting time category. “Look, guys, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is. Finn will probably recover enough that he can join us at Regionals, but we have to assume his voice won’t have returned fully by then-and even if it has, he shouldn’t strain his vocal chords. That means we need another lead male vocalist.” He casts a glance at each male in the room in turn, at this point prepared to choose a name out of a hat if it means they can begin rehearsing. “We need to start practicing now if we want to have any hope at all of winning Regionals.”
“I completely agree,” Rachel says, nodding and standing up beside Mr. Schuester without prompting. “We need to begin immediately-I have, of course, set aside plenty of time for the purpose of rehearsing throughout the next five days and will be delighted to provide tips regarding performance improvement.”
If it was meant to inspire enthusiasm, Rachel’s speech seems to have fallen short: now they look altogether more intimidated and wary than excited, because agreeing to this means agreeing to spend the next five days alone with Rachel. Only Finn, they suspect, would ever be able to manage that and maintain his sanity. And as much as winning Regionals would mean to all of them, with Sue judging and Finn unable to sing, the crushing weight of hopelessness is becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
“What Rachel means is that we’ll be here to help you out. We can split up the vocals.” When all he is meant with is silence, he breathes a heavy sigh. “C’mon, guys! We’re so close.”
Rachel, still beside him, stares at her peers with something akin to horror-but before she can speak, before she can berate them all for their lack of ambition and drive, for their unwillingness to improve, they hear a voice no one could have anticipated.
“I’ll do it.” Every single pair of eyes turns to look, and there are more than a few open mouths. “I’ll sing Finn’s part for Faithfully.”
---
Quinn isn’t sure what insanity possesses her to speak. All she knows is that no one else is saying a word and the silence is pathetic and incriminating and suffocating and Quinn knows she deserves none of the blame for this. It’s not like she’s a boy or like anyone expects it from her, especially given she’s ready to explode any day now, but none if this logic keeps her quiet. Instead, she’s watching Rachel as she looks incredulously from one boy to the next, hardly able to comprehend the sheer lack of ambition.
And maybe that’s how it happens-maybe for a moment she is trapped by pregnancy hormones and mood swings and disgust for this group of losers who cannot seem to care about the one thing that makes all of them happy.
So somehow, stupidly, she is speaking words she never intended, words she’s certain she’s never thought-and yet they sound confident, nonchalant, as if she never considered saying anything else. “I’ll do it,” she says, like she isn’t screaming obscenities in her mind that would quite possibly put her mother in an early grave. “I’ll sing Finn’s part for Faithfully.”
She meets each of their stares with a look that would have made Sue Sylvester proud, haughty and condescending, and she awaits the verdict. Even Will looks at her for a few moments, mouth opening and closing rather unattractively, until at last he manages, “Oh, Quinn, that…would be amazing, actually. Besides, we are always talking about diversity. I think it’s time we walk the walk.” He still looks uncertain and he’s staring at her like he thinks she might have plans for murder, but he knows at this point the risk is probably worth it.
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” Mercedes stage-whispers, continuing to stare at her incredulously. “You remember Rachel Berry, right?”
But Rachel-though Quinn has no doubt she hears the insult-pays the comment no mind because she’s looking right at Quinn and smiling this smile that’s so damn bright it practically glows.
“Of course I know,” she answers, raising her head with self-assurance she does not possess. Except Rachel’s still watching her like she’s the answer to all the problems in the world, like if there were not ten people in the way she might tackle her to the ground (like maybe she’s considering it, anyway, and despite her stature Quinn has a distinct feeling she should not be underestimated). In spite of herself, Quinn feels sort of like she’s maybe done something right.
---
“Now, Quinn,” Rachel begins, and it’s just the two of them standing in the choir room-except Brad, of course, but Quinn is not entirely convinced he doesn’t sleep here-and Quinn’s rolling her eyes. “This song requires emotion and believability. I do understand that you are in possession of no such feelings for me, but at least consider someone with whom you have shared this bond. It has to mean something to you. The audience can make no connection with a lifeless performance and audience connection is an absolute must if we are to succeed.”
“It’s kind of hard,” Quinn snaps, “when I have to stare at you the whole time.” (The strange thing is that she doesn’t actually mean it. Sometimes she looks away just to stop feeling everything so much. Damn pregnancy hormones.)
For a single instant, Quinn sees the hurt in Rachel’s eyes, but then she’s nodding and smiling like she understands, like she means it. She wonders how often Rachel has to pretend. She wonders how much it hurts and whether she ever ends up in the bathroom stall, sobbing uncontrollably on the toilet because someone decided grape slushie would look good on her that day. She wonders whether she ever stares at herself in the mirror and thinks about giving up altogether.
Quinn should recoil from the sudden rush of understanding, of empathy, but instead she feels an ache in her chest and the crushing weight of guilt on her shoulders. Before she can retract her statement or at least apologize (apologize over and over for all the stupid, cruel things, for all the insults she bestowed twice as often in order to disguise the fact that she never really meant them), Rachel says, “That’s why you should imagine someone else in my place. Perhaps you might replace my image with Finn’s, if you find that your past relationship enhances your performance connection. You must greet it as if you are an actress on Broadway and this is your final performance, one that will no doubt earn you a Tony if done to perfection. You must pour your heart into each line. You must mean every single word, Quinn.”
(Quinn tries, once or twice, to picture herself singing the lyrics to Finn, so full of devotion and adoration and love, but finds those feelings especially elusive in these moments. She even tries imagining Puck, but the end result is no more successful. She tries not to think about the fact that not imagining anyone means watching only Rachel throughout the entire performance, and she especially tries not to think about how little she minds.)
“I’ll try,” she says, and Rachel opens her mouth as if she is prepared to launch into another speech about how “try” will get them nowhere (and, God, if she decides to quote Yoda at this point Quinn doesn’t think she’ll have any choice but to go with murder), but Quinn looks her in the eye and offers her a genuine, albeit slightly tentative, smile. “I will. I’ll try, Rachel.”
Rachel nods several times before offering her a grin. Involuntarily, Quinn feels her own smile widening in response.
They practice until Rachel is almost satisfied (if she were not concerned with the merits of an adequate amount of sleep, Quinn is quite certain they would practice for a hundred and twenty hours straight) with the promise of further rehearsal tomorrow.
But Rachel’s smile momentarily distracts her from the complete mess she’s chosen voluntarily and, stupidly, she cannot bring herself to regret her decision.
---
On the second day Quinn arrives in the practice room to be met with a plate of star-shaped cookies, held out toward her by one Rachel Berry. They are arranged to read “You can do it!” and Quinn’s eyes involuntarily close as she inhales the most delicious smell she thinks has ever existed. Because, wow.
“I know you’ve been experiencing pregnancy cravings,” Rachel says, eyes lifting to meet Quinn’s, “and I noticed you devoured all of Mercedes’ cookies the other day, so I thought that perhaps I would bake some in case you were interested.” She offers her a surprisingly soft smile as she adds, “In the words of our mutual friend, they are, apparently, ‘sick.’”
“Puck,” Quinn says with a laugh, reaching forward to grab a cookie without asking permission. “God, Rachel,” she murmurs like a prayer-because this taste is nothing if not heaven (and maybe she should consider converting), “they’re amazing.” She doesn’t even stop to consider that she’s talking with her mouth full, one of Finn’s habits she never found she particularly missed, because they’re incredible.
Rachel beams. “Thank you, Quinn,” she says, and suddenly Quinn’s not sure whether her gratefulness stems more from her compliment or her easy use of Rachel’s first name or the fact that she agreed to this when no one else would. Maybe it’s everything.
When Quinn smiles in return, it occurs to her that it’s the most sincere demonstration of emotion she’s ever shown Rachel. She rests her hand on her exploding belly and feels the burn of regret in the pit of her stomach. “You’re welcome,” she says. She means so much more.
Rachel rests her hand atop Quinn’s and Quinn links their fingers together over her stomach. She looks at Quinn like maybe she knows.
After that, the song takes precedence-but Rachel rewards her with bright smiles and the sharpness of Quinn’s tone diminishes alongside her attempts to imagine singing the song to anyone else.
---
On the fifth day, Quinn is leaning against Rachel’s countertop like they’ve been doing this forever, laughing like she didn’t torture the girl now mixing the cookie batter for the previous four and a half years.
Four and a half years. (But it’s only taken Quinn five days to realize what she knew all along. It should horrify her, but instead it just keeps her nerves on edge and makes her thoroughly more aware of the stuttering of her heart. It should disgust her, but instead she feels a rush of relief from the inevitable weightlessness of understanding.)
They are vegan cookies, Quinn has realized, which is certainly striking-though perhaps not surprising-but has done absolutely nothing to diminish the craving that began from the first bite. Since then, Rachel has brought them with her to their practice sessions every day-and on their final day, somehow it seems right that they should be here, at Rachel’s house, making cookies.
It also feels like trust. It feels like trust Quinn isn’t sure she deserves-knows she doesn’t deserve, in fact-and it tastes like hope.
Quinn reaches over and dips her finger into the batter, flashing a quick, mischievous smile and Rachel just huffs and mutters something about needing the perfect amount and suddenly Quinn is struck by a memory from only months prior, except there was a boy with a mohawk and her secret was not apparent to everyone in the universe by way of her enormous stomach. She remembers feeling happy, even wanted. She remembers a desire to live out a fairytale romance.
But what she feels now is her heart pounding in her chest and the curling in the pit of her stomach whenever Rachel smiles. What she sees now is Rachel, determinedly stirring the batter and rolling her eyes playfully at Quinn and looking absolutely perfect in an animal sweater and an argyle skirt and knee-high socks. Nothing has ever been more clear.
“Are we friends?” Rachel asks with no pretence of any kind of segue, after the cookies are in the oven and a surprisingly comfortable silence has settled over them. Maybe that’s what she prepared herself for least-the comfort of being in Rachel’s company. It should be a struggle, but it isn’t. It’s easy.
Quinn turns to her and catches her gaze and almost says something else. The words are stumbling past her tongue and she swallows them quickly before she makes another mistake. Regardless of her epiphany, she doubts she is prepared for this-she may not be head cheerleader, but she is Quinn Fabray and her surname, she knows, is heavy with expectations-and she knows Rachel is not.
“Yes,” she says.
Rachel looks startled and delighted by her complete certainty, but there’s still a question in her eyes as she begins, “After this is over…”
I’ll still be yours, Quinn nearly says, foolishly. “We’ll be friends,” Quinn finishes. “You’re my friend, Rachel.”
It is the last day of practice-it is the last day of practice and Quinn knows that she is singing to Rachel with undisguised adoration and is grateful for the easy explanation. She isn’t sure she could play pretend otherwise.
“Your emotional connection is incredible,” Rachel says during one of their breaks; they’re sitting on her couch, almost touching but not quite. “I think you could win that Tony.”
The compliment catches her so off-guard that the tears come without any warning at all.
“Oh, Quinn,” she murmurs, tucking her legs beneath her and turning to face Quinn on the couch and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m-”
“Thank you,” Quinn says, turning to look Rachel in the eye. “Thank you.”
It’s not enough, she knows, but she doesn’t think she’s ever meant anything more.
---
Quinn is trying desperately to calm herself, except her heart is pounding in her chest and leaping into her throat and she isn’t sure how this happened but here she is, anyway, staring at a red curtain that may mean the end of everything she’s ever known.
She’s not stupid. She knows this is Lima, Ohio, and she knows she should turn around and walk away, retain what little dignity remains for a pregnant sixteen year old ex-Cheerio. But then she looks to her left and Rachel’s standing there, staring at the curtain and breathing in and smiling just at the corners of her lips, and Quinn knows she can’t do either of those things.
She knows that this is beyond social suicide. She knows that her mother’s society friends will be gossiping about this for weeks. She knows that, after this, her home will never again be her home. Nothing will ever be like it was before. She doesn’t want to go back to before.
She doesn’t want to because Rachel’s eyes are closed in concentration and she’s whisper-singing under her breath and Quinn knows that Rachel will indeed perform as if on Broadway, as if this were her final performance and the one that will earn her the highest acclaim, which would certainly be saying something, given her vast collection of trophies. She knows that Rachel’s voice will bring at least three-quarters of the room to tears. So, stupidly, Quinn forgets to care about everything else.
“Hey,” she says, because the announcer is congratulating Aural Intensity on their inspiring performance and they both know what that means.
“Hey,” Rachel says back. “Break a leg.” She offers Quinn a bright smile, like she knows that everything will be perfect because she trusts them. Because she trusts Quinn.
“I love you,” Quinn says because she means it.
Rachel looks at her with wide eyes and it occurs to Quinn suddenly that this was a very, very stupid idea -but then there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips, a little bit unsure, and Quinn doesn’t know what that means except that maybe she doesn’t hate her. That could be enough.
And then she has no time to think at all because the announcer is shouting New Directions and this is their cue, this is it. Quinn takes in an unsteady breath and pulls back the curtain.
---
“Oh, girl, you stand by me,” Rachel sings, eyes never once leaving Quinn’s.
“I’m forever yours,” they sing together, like a promise, “faithfully.”
Quinn knows that Rachel is watching her and imagining someone else in her place. She suspects that Rachel is probably madly in love with Finn after the Jesse debacle or perhaps still pining after Jesse-although she hopes after the egging this is not the case-and either way it doesn’t matter because Quinn knows that Rachel Berry is decidedly heterosexual, regardless of the number of rumors (half, no doubt, inspired by Quinn) spread that run to the contrary. Because having two gay dads in Lima, Ohio didn’t make her gay. It just made her strong.
In spite of everything she knows, hearing Rachel sing girl with such sincerity twists something inside Quinn’s stomach and the smile she directs toward Rachel is so bright it must catch Rachel by surprise.
She smiles back.
---
There is no time provided for the Lima, Ohio audience members to collect themselves from the surprise of seeing what they have seen because Rachel and Quinn step onstage and New Directions moves seamlessly into the next performance.
Several people leave after realizing the intention. They stand and walk through the doors and never look back.
They are fewer than Quinn had expected and it hurts far less than she had anticipated.
But maybe that’s because Rachel tangles their fingers together for just a moment at the song’s conclusion and looks at her like she means every word.
Maybe it will strike up a grand controversy-two girls sing a love song to one another and then hold hands for two and a half seconds following this debacle. Breaking news.
Maybe her father will hear about it and read her name and his surname under the headline in the newspaper.
Quinn finds she wouldn’t mind at all.
---
Quinn’s water breaks not two minutes after they finish their performance.
Everyone panics and Rachel stands frozen in place for several long moments, staring at her with something like wonder. Except then Quinn’s shrieking for a damn hospital and Rachel is calmly issuing orders and before Quinn’s even sure what’s happening, she’s being pushed around in a wheelchair and God, it hurts and Rachel and Puck and Mercedes are all standing around her, watching her, and Rachel’s murmuring what Quinn assumes to be encouraging words but it hurts and she’s screaming-
And then it’s over.
It’s over and Beth is in her arms and she’s perfect.
She’s perfect, and it hurts.
---
“She’s beautiful,” Rachel says, moving to stand beside Quinn as she looks through the glass at the baby girl who will never, who will always, be hers.
Quinn nods because it’s true and because she cannot quite remember how to speak.
Together, they stare through the window for several long moments-it’s the longest, Quinn will think with some measure of amusement to herself much later, once the breathtaking hurt becomes less suffocating, she has ever heard Rachel go without speaking.
But then she glances in the mirror and sees Rachel turned toward her, looking at her questioningly, like there’s something she’s dying to know. But even Rachel Berry is tactful enough under these circumstances to realize there are more thoroughly opportune moments to ask questions.
“Yes, I meant it,” Quinn says without looking away from the window and without any verbal cues. Rachel turns to her and blinks several times before nodding.
“You meant it,” Rachel repeats.
Perhaps on any other occasion, she would have snapped; her frayed nerves and the weight of her shame and all of her uncertainty would have crippled and terrified her and she would have said, Of course I meant it, Man Hands, I wouldn’t declare my love for the social pariah of McKinley, not to mention a girl, unless I meant it. She doesn’t say that, though-instead, she looks through the window and watches the little girl and then catches Rachel’s eye in her reflection.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Rachel glances toward the ground and Quinn turns to watch her as her smile widens until she’s looking back up and beaming at Quinn. She nods again, eyes sparkling, before turning back to the window and leaving Quinn staring at her. And Quinn is so captivated by the weight of this moment that she doesn’t notice the movement of Rachel’s hand until their fingers are decidedly entwined.
When Rachel rests her head on her shoulder, Quinn cannot help the tears that trace their way down her cheeks. She looks at the beautiful baby behind the glass window and then the reflection of the beautiful girl pressed against her side and in spite of the impending weight of her future it feels like everything cliché in the tales of white knights and princesses and true love and happily ever afters. It feels like coming home.
That, she thinks, should hurt, because she knows she no longer has a home to which she can safely return. (Sometimes she’s not sure she ever did.)
Somehow, it’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt at all.
---
One week later, Quinn arrives at Mercedes’ house (and she knows she cannot do this forever, knows she cannot expect them to support her-but what else is there?) to find an envelope taped to the front door. On the envelope is written very simply “Quinn Fabray.”
She glances around as if expecting to find an answer nearby; when nothing emerges, she reaches cautiously forward and gently peals the envelope off the door. Only then does she see the back, upon which is drawn a star.
“Rachel?” she wonders aloud, turning the key in the door and pulling out what appears to be a letter.
Dear Quinn, it reads.
I would like to extend to you a formal invitation to consider yourself a member of the Berry household. Now, before you object, I realize you would not like to consider yourself an intrusion. Rest assured, you would not be. The truth is that my fathers are often away and while I enjoy the time I spend with them immensely, I would not mind the added pleasure of your company. I have spoken to both and they are quite agreeable; in fact, they believe it would be healthy for me to spend fewer of my days alone. While I believe I am perfectly healthy, I must admit I agree.
You are sixteen years old, Quinn. You just had a baby. You deserve time to recuperate. I know nothing can ever replace anything you lost. I know that I am not your family and that this is not your home. But I hope it will be more than a house to you. I hope, too, that I will be more than just a friend.
You are my closest friend. In just under two short weeks, this has become quite apparent. I know I haven’t yet responded directly to your admission at Regionals, mostly because I wanted to provide you with the space you needed. I would be more than happy to continue giving you your desired amount of space, if you would like. But I want you also to know that I very much hope to be there for you and to perhaps lend you a small amount of comfort. I would like to hug you and to hold you and also to kiss you.
I love you too, Quinn. I am aware the average response time is expected to be a bit less than two weeks later, but given the circumstances I hope it is acceptable nevertheless. I love you and I hope that my home might be yours, too.
It is entirely your decision. Enclosed is the key, in case your answer is yes. If it is, you may begin moving in whenever you see fit.
Thank you for everything.
Love,
Rachel
Quinn is chewing on her lower lip as she struggles not to sob audibly, but the tears are streaming down her cheeks and-no one has ever done anything like this for her before.
Barely aware of anything but the words blurring in front of her on the page she clutches desperately in her hands, she arrives in what has become something like her room and looks up only when she hears a voice.
“Quinn.”
And for a moment Quinn thinks she is dreaming or that the letter is somehow affecting her brain but perched on the bed in front of her is Rachel Berry, offering her this bashful smile and glancing down at the floor and then looking up to meet her eyes, tentative and nervous and hopeful.
From a Rachel Berry who spent the better part of an hour lecturing her about the proper approach to performing on Broadway, somehow this means so much more. It feels like everything.
“Now, Quinn, I’d just like you to hear me out-”
But Quinn doesn’t adhere to this request in the slightest; before she can help herself, she’s pulling Rachel to her feet and kissing her, lightly wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her and she tastes like the promise of a weightless future.
She tastes like happily ever after.