summary: 'It takes three weeks, five hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty seconds. The stick says pregnant. Quinn cries first. Rachel tastes her tears—an ocean, the moon pulling the tide—in their kiss.' Rachel and Quinn's first child, with side Brittana. Fits into The Art of Boxes universe.
an (1): because sometimes i just imagine the perfect little fababies they would have. and sometimes i can't resist angsty fluff. (and brittana babies too.)
an (2): title from mindy gledhill's 'bring me close.'
...
i could float without wings (if i knew it would bring me close to you)
...
(summer)
.
The first time they talk about it does not go well. Technically it isn't the first first time, because they'd abstractedly discussed children for years, since Rachel first met Beth.
When they'd gotten married, they'd still seemed so young; they wanted to wait for more awards and more words and more songs and more recognition.
Then they got those things.
The first time Rachel tries to bring it up is at breakfast, a few mornings after her third Tony; I don't mean at this very moment, she says, stirring granola into her yogurt, but I—I think I want to have kids. We're thirty, Quinn, and I'm ready.
Quinn puts down her copy of a new manuscript she's working on and blinks at Rachel very, very seriously from behind her glasses.
I'm sorry, she says. I'm not.
Rachel nods and eats her yogurt in silence; she feels sick.
.
The turning moment comes, Rachel suspects, when they go to watch Beth's end-of-the-year musical at school. She's finishing eighth grade; she's thirteen; it's May.
She sings with Quinn's smokiness and Rachel's enthusiasm; she dances with Quinn's grace and Rachel's mannerisms.
She hugs them both afterward.
She's beautiful, Quinn whispers, awed.
We can have that, Rachel says. We can have that, all our own.
Quinn closes her eyes; they walk outside. The sun catches against her hair and hangs on.
.
I'm ready, Quinn whispers, in the middle of the night, a meteor flying across the ceiling, crashing into Rachel's skin.
Rachel doesn't say anything; she cries and she holds Quinn tighter to her, so that she's sure neither of them can really breathe.
I'm ready, Quinn says again.
...
(fall)
.
Rachel's the one who cries at the doctor's office; Quinn can't carry children safely, not with the damage done to her back. It's not that it's a surprise or something they weren't expecting, it's just that to hear it out loud makes it final.
Quinn nods, her shoulders set; Rachel recognizes the different maze of streets she's made out of now from the same walls and bricks she'd been so terrified years ago, Gotham instead of New York.
Rachel cries at the doctor's office, but Quinn cries at home, later that night, silently; big, painful tears stream down her cheeks and Rachel just holds her.
Quinn sniffles, though, and then wipes her nose, gulps a few deep breaths.
I wanted them to look like you, anyway, she says.
.
I'm scared, Rachel tells Kurt.
That's completely normal, he says. I mean, it's a human being. One that's going to be raised by you and Quinn.
Rachel bites her lip. We do have awful histories with motherhood.
Kurt takes a few breaths, then raises his mug of coffee. To new history, he says.
To new history, Rachel echoes.
.
Quinn thinks no sperm donor is good enough. (Rachel almost points out that Beth turned out pretty awesome and Puck is her father, but then she considers that it's probably not the smartest argument to go with.) Instead, she just gives Quinn time, and, finally, Quinn concedes to one who has an MBA from Northwestern, who likes guitar and baseball.
Rachel loves him immediately: he has blond hair and green eyes, and his smile is just a little bit sad.
.
Are you sure you shouldn't be wearing gloves or something?
Oh my God, Quinn says. Rachel.
You could use your mouth to, you know, and then when I'm ready the gloves wouldn't actually impede anything.
Quinn stares for a few seconds before Rachel can't help but start to laugh. Quinn starts laughing, too, and then they're kissing and clothes are in a soft pile on the floor.
Quinn follows the instructions the doctors had given them precisely, and not too much time later they're sitting on the bed, their breathing returning to normal, staring at the empty syringe.
I love you so much, Rachel whispers.
I love you, Quinn says. She smiles. She kisses Rachel's shoulder. She joins their fingers. She says, Thank you.
.
(Rachel knows:
When the plus sign showed up on the fifth pregnancy test Quinn bought, she sat on the toilet in her house and sobbed, felt the weight of a thousand different disappointments, a million different failures. They crashed down on her like a tsunami, and the wake of destruction left broken homes and earthquakes in its place. Most things had to be torn down completely; there was nothing salvageable, not a thing to be saved.
Things were bare and she rebuilt them eventually, slowly, carefully; Rachel knows now they're glittering towers, shaped out of poetry and reinforced with sadness, her very own Oz.)
.
It takes three weeks, five hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty seconds.
The stick says pregnant.
Quinn cries first. Rachel tastes her tears—an ocean, the moon pulling the tide—in their kiss.
...
(winter.)
.
Rachel wakes up early one morning; Quinn is sitting up in bed, staring at Rachel's stomach and mouthing words with no sound.
What are you telling them? Rachel asks.
Quinn's eyes shoot up to Rachel's, and her cheeks turn pink as the sun does as well.
Poetry, she says.
Your own? Rachel tugs Quinn down next to her. Rachel feels her nod. Like what?
Quinn whispers, I love you. Take my eyes and break them open to see the world. Take my hands, listen to my fingertips to feel the life that is ground into the dirt, that lies in the cracks of the sidewalk. Flowers grow through them just for you. Everything is for you. Trace the lines on my palms and tell me my future with your smile. Dream all the way until the last rivers of your eyelashes. Laugh and watch stars wish on you.
Then, Quinn shrugs.
Rachel has no idea what to say, so she kisses Quinn instead.
.
They tell Santana and Brittany first, at dinner one night.
Brittany asks if she can help name it and whether or not there's a chance it might be a dinosaur. Santana's surprisingly very quiet—they've been trying, too, Rachel knows—and then she starts to cry. Quinn hugs her quickly.
I'm so happy for you, Santana says. You guys are so lucky.
.
It's weird, Quinn says. I told my parents about Beth at this same table.
Rachel sets down the mashed potatoes, then turns to Quinn.
Don't worry, Rachel says, then smiles. I'm not going to sing.
Quinn laughs.
Later, their parents are ecstatic. Judy and Hiram cry; Collin—Quinn's stepdad—gives them each joyous hugs. Much to Rachel's horror and Quinn's amusement, Leroy starts planning a birthing playlist.
.
It feels strange to tell Shelby, for a multitude of reasons. Rachel feels an intense sense of abandonment, more than she has in years, scar tissue.
But scars are just that, she knows; Quinn's taught her every single day, just be walking. Scars are closed. Scars are the past.
Beth is so excited. She gives them both hugs and offers immediately to babysit.
.
The first time the baby kicks is during rehearsal, while Rachel's singing.
It's the first time in her entire career on Broadway that she messes up; she stops singing and starts crying and puts her hands against her stomach in an invitation to her child.
It instantly reminds her of Quinn; their baby was dancing, Rachel thinks.
.
It really works out perfectly, because Rachel's current show finishes when she's just into her second trimester, just beginning to really show.
She decides to take some time off from the stage—I'm sure, she assures a concerned Quinn—because starting a workshop now (and learning brand new choreography while five, six, seven months pregnant) seems like something she doesn't want to particularly do.
She does, however, take NYADA up on their offer of teaching a few classes during the spring semester. She thinks about her child and how big their dreams will be.
She tries to make sure her students know how special they all are.
One day, Rachel visits to meet Quinn for lunch in between a few of the classes she's teaching at Columbia—Rachel loves her name plaque: Quinn Berry-Fabray, PhD—and Quinn waves happily when she sees Rachel in the threshold of her cluttered, pretty office.
She stands and puts both hands against Rachel's full stomach.
Dr. Berry-Fabray, Rachel says.
Quinn rolls her eyes. She laughs.
.
Rachel nods and Quinn nods and says, We're sure.
It's a girl, the doctor tells them.
...
(spring)
.
Kurt lays the nursery designs on their kitchen table.
Rachel watches Quinn look them over carefully, her brow furrowed, fingers gently tracing the careful lines and swaths of fabric and paint colors, soft yellows and easy, bright greens, and polka-dots.
(Rachel remembers Quinn's whispered, Alive, we're alive dear; it's (kiss me now) spring!).
Quinn lifts her head. Quinn squeezes Rachel's hand. Quinn smiles.
.
They meet Santana and Brittany for lunch one day.
This time, Brittany starts crying.
We got a baby, she says, and for a second Rachel wonders if she's confused on how this whole thing actually works, but then Santana's solemn face splits into a grin.
The adoption agency approved us, she says.
Quinn—serious, reserved, graceful Lucy Q. Fabray—shoots up from her chair with a squeal and simultaneously tries to hug all three of them.
We're getting a little boy, Brittany says. Soon.
And no, Rachel, Santana says, we're not starting him in infant musical training with your spawn anytime soon.
.
How'd you do it? Rachel asks, twisting in their big bathtub to push Quinn's damp bangs from her forehead. Give Beth away?
Quinn shuts her eyes. Rachel waits; Quinn's eyes open. Quinn shrugs.
I loved her so much I needed her to have the best life.
Rachel nods.
Quinn looks down. It almost killed me, she says.
.
They fight over names for a while; Rachel mostly suggests completely ridiculous show names because Quinn's reactions are secretly hysterical (for the most part, pregnancy has actually calmed her down, though, so a little craziness here and there is good, she figures).
But finally, Rachel concedes to Quinn's insistence on a name with a proud literary tradition when Quinn says, What lies behind you and what lies in front of you pales in comparison to what lies within you, one night as she holds Rachel.
Emerson, Quinn says, and the baby kicks against Quinn's hands.
.
They decide on Emerson Nora—after Nora Ephron, because she has a strong theater tradition too—the next morning at breakfast.
Rachel loves the idea of handing her child something to be proud of the second anyone says her name, a tiny offering every time people begin to learn who she is.
Quinn says, And Em is a pretty good nickname, too.
.
Santana and Brittany adopt Max, a three-week-old baby boy with beautiful, smooth dark skin and eyes that Quinn calls fathomless.
His name means greatest, Brittany informs them.
Which he is, Santana adds.
.
In April, just weeks before Emerson is due, when Rachel feels like she may topple over at any second, Quinn wins a Pulitzer for her latest novel.
Santana and Brittany come over with Max to celebrate, along with Kurt and a few of their other close friends, and Santana gives Quinn a tight hug and then looks between her and Rachel.
You guys have three Tony's, a Grammy, a National Book Award, and now a Pulitzer. Oh, and Q's doctorate, and that damn novel that's getting turned into a film. How the fuck is your kid supposed to live up to shit that?
For a second it makes Rachel panic—Santana has a point, after all—but then Quinn smiles this breathtaking smile and snakes an arm around Rachel.
She can be anything she wants to be, Quinn says.
There's a beat of silence—Rachel breathes in the life of promise, of a different redemption than she could've ever imagined—and then Brittany holds up a goofily grinning Max and announces, Santana, your turn to change his diaper.
.
When Emerson is born, the sun is rising just after a rainstorm. It's May and it hurts, and Rachel's exhausted.
But the minute Rachel sees Emerson—who is, absolutely, the most beautiful baby in the world, with her scrunched, angry, perfect little face and impressively persistent crying and clenched fists in perfect miniature—nothing else seems to matter.
Then, Quinn is sitting in bed next to Rachel, and Quinn is holding a calmed, sleeping, absolutely healthy, the doctors tell them, Emerson to her chest, and Rachel starts to cry, just because it's a different tsunami and she understands that her entire life just got torn down and apart and then put back together by this little, complete human being.
Hi, Rachel says, and touches Emerson's impossibly smooth cheek with a shaky finger.
Quinn's crying, too, but Emerson doesn't seem to mind.
.
Rachel imagines that Emerson's baby-gray eyes will turn to a striking hazel, that her blond hair will get darker and darker until one day it's brown. Maybe one day she'll be taller than Rachel; maybe she'll grow up to be a doctor or an astronaut, or maybe she will love the stage, or maybe she'll love words; maybe she'll teach elementary school.
They go home; they take Emerson Nora Berry-Fabray home and put her in her crib and stand and stare at her.
I love you, Quinn says.
Rachel smiles. I love you, too.
They order pad thai and Rachel reads Emerson part of Quinn's Pulitzer-winning novel. It starts to rain outside; everything is green. Quinn gets up to answer the door and pay when their food comes, so Rachel lets Quinn pick the movie tonight.
Emerson is not yet forty-eight hours old the first time she sees Funny Girl.
...
references.
ee cummings' 'when faces called flowers float out of the ground'
ralph waldo emerson
nora ephron
(coincidentally, pretty sure emerson nora is my favourite name ever and i'm totally naming my child that someday.)