Fic: Find a piece that hasn't broken (Glee, Rachel/Quinn)

[thegirl20]

TITLE: Find a piece that hasn't broken
FANDOM: Glee
PAIRING: Rachel/Quinn
RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. I think they're Ryan Murphy's.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Short one-shot. I'm highly disappointed in Quinn's lack of snark in this. She just refused to be bitchy. She just wanted to be all soppy over Rachel. (I think it's the pregnancy hormones.)

You’ve discovered that it takes exactly one and three quarter wine coolers to get Rachel Berry drunk. You know this because you’re holding a quarter full bottle while she’s dancing suggestively with Finn to some hip-hop track that’s blasting out of Kurt’s iPod dock. You’ve all convened in Kurt and Artie’s hotel room to celebrate winning a minor local competition. It’s not regionals, but it’s a win and after the tumultuous few months the club’s gone through, the party is a welcome respite.

You run your hand over your swollen belly. You’ve been the cause of most of the upset, you’re sorry to say. When everything came out about you and Puck, and Finn not being the daddy of your baby, as you knew it eventually would, the club reacted badly. Mostly there was awkwardness. Finn stopped speaking to you completely for a couple of weeks, Puck went into hiding. The others, to varying degrees, gave you the cold shoulder. Except one.

You’d expected Rachel to jump at the chance to call you a lying whore and finally (and legitimately) get her claws into Finn. But she surprised you by being…nice. Lovely, actually. She sat with you at lunch, she went over choreography with you when your pregnancy addled brain stubbornly refused to remember steps, she helped you study for your mid-terms when all you wanted to do was curl yourself into a ball and cry.

And she was with you when you finally told your parents. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to bring your very Christian, very Republican parents up to speed on the whole pregnancy thing while holding the hand of a Jewish girl wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow flag on it. (‘So sorry I’m late, Quinn, the parade went on a bit longer than we’d expected and Daddy’s float was near the end.’)

Conclusions were jumped to, of course. But what surprised you most was the hurt you felt at Rachel’s immediate and vehement denial that the two of you were lesbian lovers who‘d performed some kind of artificial insemination involving a turkey baster.

Months later, after you’d become lovers, you told her this. She laughed and kissed your nose.

And now she’s dirty dancing with your ex-boyfriend who is at a loss as to where his hands should be placed on her body. You roll your eyes when he finally settles on her shoulders. She turns and starts grinding her ass against his crotch and you recognise the tell-tale signs of an imminent explosion as he goes cross-eyed and immediately pushes her away. You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Seemingly unperturbed by this turn of events, Rachel dances on alone. She passes close to where Puck is sitting and he reaches out and grabs her hips. You feel your body tense. It’s not the same when Puck touches her as when Finn does. There’s always more intent. You watch, holding your breath. He turns her around to face him.

“Hey Berry, how ‘bout a little lap-dance, huh?”

He pulls her closer to him. Her brow crinkles adorably.

“I’ve never understood that term. It’s hardly ‘dancing’ is it? It‘s more like rubbing.”

“Dancing, rubbing, I’ll take either.”

You hold a hand out to Kurt who obliges and pulls you out of your seat, twirling you under his arm once you are upright. You stalk over to Puck’s seat as well as you can. It’s hard being haughty with a beach ball sized bump preceding you wherever you go.

“Rachel, I‘m calling it a night, you coming?”

“You leave her with me and I’ll make sure she comes,” Puck says, leering at you and still holding onto Rachel.

Rachel just smiles at you with such warmth you feel silly for the jealousy currently causing a slight tightness in your chest. You hold out your hand and she takes it without hesitation, moving out of Puck’s hold. She’s unsteady on her feet and bumps into you so you wrap an arm around her. She winds her arms around your waist and fits her body against yours, her face nuzzled into your neck, her easy smile against your skin.

You draw in a breath at the contact. You sort of hate that she can do this to you without trying. You’ve spent a high proportion of your teenage years perfecting techniques aimed at turning boys into simpering wrecks. But with her it’s effortless, and you‘re the wreck.

“Night guys,” you call out, fixing Puck with a look that dares him to make further comment.

“Awwww, you’re not going to bed already? Drunk Rachel is so much fun!” Kurt declares, garnering a chorus of agreement from the crowd.

Rachel lifts her head from your shoulder and looks around the room, stricken. She turns and looks up at you.

“Isn’t Sober Rachel fun?” she asks, her bottom lip protruding slightly.

An unexpected laugh bubbles up from your throat and you squeeze her tightly. Kurt approaches and grasps Rachel’s shoulder.

“Yes, sweetie, Sober Rachel is very fun. It’s just that she’s more about structured, scheduled fun than Drunk Rachel. Who is apparently an outrageous flirt,” he leans in and kisses her cheek, pulling back and winking at you. “I love it.”

“C’mon Fun Rachel, my cankles are killing me,” you say, pulling her in the direction of the door. She’s more compliant when drunk so she follows you without a word.

Back in the sanctity of your shared room, she throws herself face first onto one of the double beds. You lean back against the door and watch her. Eventually she flips over onto her back and grins at you.

“I think I’m drunk.”

You smile and push off the door, approaching the bed at a leisurely pace as you enjoy the sight of her, hair wild and cheeks flushed. You kneel on the bed, one leg on either side of her thighs and hover over her for a moment.

“I think you are.”

“Are you planning to take advantage of me in my inebriated state?” she asks, then her expression becomes one of horror. “Oh Quinn, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want to rem-”

You cut her off with a kiss because, please, this is nothing like that. And yeah, OK, you were drunk but you weren’t wasted enough not to know what was happening. And you didn’t say no. You pull away from the kiss, turning onto your side and leaning your head on your elbow, your belly still flush against her.

“I was completely planning to take advantage of you, but if you‘re worried about getting knocked up maybe we should stop,” you say, keeping your face serious.

She mirrors your position, her hand coming to rest on your abdomen, stroking gentle circles around your belly button with her thumb.

“I think one’s enough for us to cope with at the moment, huh?” she says, her voice soft. She scoots down the bed and starts talking to your stomach. “You gotta be a leading lady for a little while before you have to cope with brothers and sisters, don’t you Liza?”

You roll your eyes even as your hand tangles in her dark hair.

“We’re not naming her Liza.”

“At least I’m thinking of names, I’m being proactive.”

“Like you haven’t had your baby names picked out since kindergarten,” you say, but you’ve got that stupid smile on your face that always appears when Rachel talks about baby stuff. “I wasn’t planning to procreate until I was at least forty so I thought I had more time to think about names.”

“I think Liza Fabray sounds like a star. And how could she be anything else? With your looks and my vocal coaching, she’ll be unstoppable.”

You laugh, then tip her head up to look at you.

“Liza Fabray and her two gay teenage mommies…the kid’ll be in therapy before she’s a year old.”

She shuffles back up so that you’re lying face to face, your fingers loosely entwined between your bodies. She smiles encouragingly because she knows, she just knows, that you’re only half-joking when you say this stuff.

“I’ve got two gay dads and I turned out just fine.”

You raise an eyebrow at her.

“That’s questionable at best.”

“Hey!”

She pouts and hits your shoulder lightly. It’s still fun to tease Rachel sometimes. But it’s late and you’re tired and she’s buzzed so you decide to placate her. You reach up to rub the frown lines away from her forehead, drawing your knuckle down the side of her face to her chin. Her eyes drift shut and she sighs. She’s so easy.

“So what are they?” you ask.

“What are what?” she mutters as you continue your stroking motion.

“The names you picked out when you were seven and probably still have in some book somewhere, most likely decorated with glitter and spray-painted pasta shapes.”

She smiles with her eyes still closed.

“No pasta.”

“Feathers?”

“You got me.”

You lean in and brush your lips against hers, just once and she barely has time to kiss back before you pull away. Sometimes you need to kiss her. Just to show her that you’re in this relationship as much as she is, even though you maybe can’t say it.

You settle back down to look at her. She’s looking back at you now.

“So, names? ” you probe, tickling her side a little.

“Well, obviously ‘Blue’ for a boy and ‘Straw’ for a girl.”

It takes you a moment to realise that she’s playing you and when your mouth falls open in protest a huge smile breaks across her face. You reach around and pinch her ass, eliciting a squeal.

“Personally, I would’ve gone for ‘Boysen’” you say, your arm still around her waist, keeping her close.

“‘Rasp’”

“‘Goose’”

“Like Top Gun!”

You both descend into giggles and it feels so good. It feels like you’re a high school student having fun with your girlfriend.

“So who was gonna father li’l Blue Berry and Straw Berry? Justin Timberlake?” you tease.

She looks away and blushes. You pull her face back around.

“Not Lance Bass?”

“Britney.”

You laugh. And laugh. And you don’t stop laughing.

“I hate you,” you hear her saying somewhere close to your ear. You’re conscious of movement and when you manage to calm yourself down enough to open your eyes she’s clambered up the bed and is lying facing the wall. You drag yourself up behind her and attempt to spoon her as best as you can with the immense barrier that is your belly in the way.

“Awww, sweetie, I think it’s cute that you were a baby lesbian.”

“I wasn’t a baby lesbian. I didn’t know what a lesbian was. I just knew that I thought Britney was pretty and that no-one told me that was wrong until I got to Middle School and suddenly there were all these labels flying around and I realised maybe not everybody’s house was like my house.”

You sober quickly and urge her around to face you and you look into her eyes.

“Hey, I think if everybody’s house was like your house the world might be a better place. Maybe I wouldn’t have turned into such a complete bitch if I hadn’t lived in constant confusion about Jesus and sex and hell and what it meant that I got tingly down below from seeing Santana in the showers.”

She seems to consider this for a long moment.

“So you’d be like a different person?. I don’t know if I could stand a ‘hugs and puppies’ Quinn.”

You smirk at the look on her face and you know she’s trying to picture you all sweetness and light and failing miserably.

“So you’re happy that I live in a repressed, bigoted household?”

“I’m happy you’re you,” she says with a shrug. “Bitchiness and all.”

It’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you and if you were that other Quinn you’d probably tell her you love her. But you’re not. So you trail your hand down her ribcage and slide it up her thigh, under her skirt, until it’s pressed firmly against her panties.

“It’s lucky for you all that repression has left me with a lot of pent up frustration.”

She smiles at you and you just about manage to convince yourself that she knows what you want to say to her.

~

Much later, when you’re both sated and panting, she’s kissing her way back up your body, pausing at your belly.

“Night night Liza,” she whispers.

And somewhere at the back of your brain, you just know you‘re gonna end up naming your kid Liza.