I really liked the idea of these two being friends. They never really interact directly, but I think they have a ton of unspoken things in common and sometimes I wish that had been addressed on the show.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. In case nobody figured it out by themselves.

Lucy Fabray is six years old, and she hates society dinners more than anything else.

Her mother straps her into a sheath dress, low heeled mary-janes, and a knit cardigan all straight out of the kids section at Nordstrom, frowns at her as they pull up on the gravel lined drive in their shiny white Mercedes, and warns her to not act up and not say the wrong thing and actually, now that she thinks about, just try to be seen and not heard.

Her mother smells funny, like Estee Lauder perfume and Chanel powder, and her face looks like a plastic mask. Her father wears a penguin suit and frowns even more forbiddingly than usual.

The foyer is marble tiled, and filled with many more adults who look dress and act more or less like her parents. If her fingers weren't already wound through her mother's silk skirt, she might have forgotten who was who and tackled the ankles of one of the other shiny faced women tittering at one another and clutching their filmy shawls.

The first thing she notices is that there are practically no other kids.

The second thing she notices is that the food is weird.

Lucy can't help but twist her freckle-spattered nose at the mushy brownish orange stuff cut into a circle and drizzled with sauce like it's a special kind of ice-cream, except it's not. It smells funny and it looks like the goop that her teacher hid in the shoebox during the Halloween themed science experiment, the one where they were supposed to put their hands in the shoebox and touch the goopy stuff and try to guess what it was without looking.

"Eat your foie gras," her mother hisses at her.

"I don't want to," says Lucy, loud and clear.

Her mother is like a tea kettle now about to boil over, and she knows the other adults at the table are looking at them.

Knowing she has no choice, she spears the stuff with the pretty little silver fork and presses it to her lips, trying hard to keep the grimace off her face.

She looks up, and across the table is the one other kid about her age. He's a boy with a curly mess of hair and funny eyebrows, but he looks at her sympathetically as he grimaces his way through his own helping of foie gras.

She returns to her own helping, feeling better. At least she isn't the only kid having to eat the weird foie gras stuff and keep the funny expression off of her face.

Later on that night, the adults are all sitting around and sipping golden bubbly liquid with their pinkies out, and Lucy is tracing circles on the floor with the toe of her stiff new shoes and feeling incredibly put out.

At length, one of the older ladies hiccups and puts her wine glass down, noticing Lucy sitting by herself.

"Why don't you play with-hic-Blaine?"

"Blaine?"

The woman points at the same boy who didn't like his foie gras either.

"No, thank you," says Lucy politely, like her nanny taught her.

"Why not?" asks another lady with a maroon shrug and abnormally large teeth that glint in the soft light of the chandelier. "It'd be cute for the two of you to play together."

"They'd look like one of those picture cards for anniversaries, wouldn't they?" sighs a third woman, with the streaky eye makeup that makes Lucy think of an Indian brave. "The ones that hold hands."

"I don't want to hold her hand," says Blaine, frowning and scuffing his own shoes on the floor.

All three ladies look scandalized. "Blaine!"

"It's okay," says Lucy. "I don't really want to hold his hand either."

The woman that Lucy can only assume is Blaine's mother prods him in the back of his head, hard, so she flashes him a winning smile when all the grown-ups are turned around. He smiles back at her.

Just because they don't want to hold hands, doesn't mean that they can't be allies.

Lucy Fabray is eight years old.

She's still wearing a Nordstrom dress, and she still hates society dinners, but her mother has now forced her into shoes with a two inch heel that are probably going to leave blisters on her pinky toe by the time that she gets home and the car that they are arriving in is a Ferrari, not a Mercedes, and her mother smells like Chanel No. 2 rather than Estee Lauder.

Lucy has always wondered why her parents don't move someplace nicer, like New York or Paris if they have so much money. She realizes then, as they move up those same marble steps, that it scares them; moving out of these places that they have always shone in scares them, like going to a coast somewhere will take the glitter out of them.

These people all like talking in circles. They are having the same conversations that they had every other year and Lucy is expected to sit there nicely and pretend that she enjoys staring at the wall and having nothing to do.

This year, though, there is a slight change. Blaine Anderson of the enormous hair and rude mouth comes to sit next to her.

"The food is better this year, at least," he says.

"The steak was okay," Lucy admits.

They sit in awkward silence.

"So. Where do you go to school? I don't see you at mine."

Lucy forgets to answer for a minute, busy examining Blaine's face. His features seem strange and sharp and rounded and blurred all at once, like his bones can't decide what they should be.

"St. John's."

"Do you have to wear the uniforms?" St. John's is a Catholic school.

Lucy nods. "And when I'm not in a uniform, I wear the stupid stuff my mom buys me." Lucy's mom always told her not to say stupid or goddamn or shit or any of the words her dad sometimes said when he was looking at the papers he brought home from work. She relishes the word, feeling a thrill. It's like a dare. It's like sneaking chocolate chips out of the cavernous pantry that only the cook goes into.

Blaine nods gravely. He's a strange little kid. "My mom threw away my Superman cape. She said it was crass." He rolls over the last word like he's not quite sure what it means.

Lucy shrugs. She doesn't know what crass means either. But it reminds her of grass. "Let's go outside," she says, not a question. She bored of the marble and the couches that they're supposed to sit quietly on.

Blaine trails after her without another word. They go out through the French double doors without telling a soul.

Lucy stands awkwardly, looking at the stars, not sure what to do.

Blaine sits on the grass. It's defiant. Lucy knows there's probably going to be a grass stain on his bottom.

She sits down too.

It's worth it, even an hour later when their mothers find them and scold them and tow them back in by the elbows.

Lucy Fabray is eleven years old.

She positively dreads society dinners, even more than she dreads class presentations and family gatherings and whenever the cute boys at her school pass by her locker and laugh at her.

She's still wearing a brand new Nordstrom dress, but it's uncomfortably tight. She can feel the rolls of fat up around her armpits push up and out of the beaded strapless bodice. The heels are chunky but they are the only ones that will comfortably support her equally chunky ankles.

She stumbles a bit exiting the Rolls Royce. Her mother, thick with the scent of Dior, pays her no mind.

This year, her mother had bought her a makeup set, finely milled powder that puffed up under the bathroom lights. She'd also given her contact lenses.

Lucy hates her glasses. She hates the bottle thick lenses. But much as she tries, she can't force the contacts into her red streaming eyes. So she goes without the contacts, but she also goes without the glasses because her mother would disapprove.

Everything looks blurry. Her uncomfortable form looks blurry in the windows as her parents steer her up the drive. She's grateful. She hates seeing herself.

Dinner goes by at a sluggish plod. Lucy doesn't know half the things she ate, because she couldn't see them.

She doesn't recognize Blaine Anderson until after dinner when he comes up literally three inches before her nose.

"Hi."

"Hi," says Lucy. "Sorry. I couldn't see you. I'm not wearing my glasses." It all tumbles out in a rush and she winces. Blaine is possibly the dweebiest boy she knows and yet she still stumbles, reflexive conditioning after months and months in school of being judged.

Amazingly, he doesn't laugh.

"I forgot to put in my contacts before I went to school last Thursday. It was tennis day in gym. I hit the gym coach in the back of the head by accident. I got suspended."

Lucy laughs in spite of herself, a great snorting laugh. The kind of laugh that the kids at her school made fun of. But Blaine's laugh is equally stupid. This makes her laugh even harder. The adults turn and stare, penciled eyebrows arched. Lucy's mother looks like she has a migraine.

She almost regrets it when it's time to leave.

Quinn Fabray is fourteen years old.

This time she picks up her own dress. The saleswoman is astounded when she fits the sample size Herve Leger.

She prances up the drive like a model, flicking blonde tresses over her shoulder. Her heels are sky-high and she feels sky high.

The eyes of the society men trail her legs almost unwillingly, and she feels a creeping sense of shame and delight that she can make people look at her like that. Her mother, for once, is not frowning at Quinn every time she says the wrong thing.

She nibbles at her dinner and checks her cell phone surreptitiously under the sleek table. It buzzes often, full of grammatically and politically incorrect messages from the kind of boy that used to call her Lucy Caboosey because she was fat.

Later into the night she's tip-tapping away at the keys with manicured nails as the adults discuss all the same things they usually discuss. Politics, fashion, the damn welfare layabouts that are driving the country into the ground.

A shadow falls over her.

"Lucy?" Blaine Anderson's voice is filled with unflattering disbelief.

"I go by Quinn," she says sharply.

He still stares, fascinated and revolted.

Quinn takes a moment to look at him, really look. His hair looks like broccoli. His arms are twiggy. He's wearing a bow tie, for God's sake. He's shorter than her and has the demeanor that practically begs to be shoved into a locker.

Blaine Anderson is beneath her.

"If you're done here, then," she says, waving a hand at him impatiently.

He turns without a word. He's as repulsed by her as she is by him.

She pretends to forget him but almost two months later, watching passively as her football boyfriend flings spitballs at the fat girl two rows ahead of her, she remembers his scrunched and disapproving face and feels something like shame.

Quinn Fabray is sixteen years old.

She gets off at the gum-encrusted bus stop and walks a block to the Seven-Eleven, wearing a pair of sweatpants borrowed from Mercedes' mother and a McKinley High football hoodie.

Tonight is probably a society dinner, she thinks. As she buys three jars of mayonnaise and settles in the corner of the store to munch on it with a plastic spoon, she imagines her parents. Dodging knowing smirks and whispers from the society women and deflecting questions about Quinn with stiff masks for faces.

Good riddance. She hated the dinners anyway.

She licks the spoon, resting a hand on the swell of her stomach. The cravings are so awful sometimes. Her ankles hurt her again.

Mercedes is a really good friend. Probably the best she's ever had. But that's really not saying much, as Quinn's never called anyone a friend.

Mercedes' family is the best, too. They took Quinn with open arms when Mercedes brought her home one day, eyes and belly swollen and shame on her shoulders. Quinn had expected the judging eyes that followed a girl who got pregnant and kicked out. Instead, they gave her tears and hugs.

But some nights, it's too much. The house is too warm and they love each other too much and it hurts Quinn, smothers her. She has to get out to remember who she is.

The bell tinkles and a boy stalks in.

He's in disheveled formal wear, tie loosened and suit jacket gone. He buys an enormous bag of tortilla chips and settles against the wall near Quinn, munching moodily.

The boy is halfway through the bag before he pauses long enough to turn around and look at Quinn.

"Lucy?" he says, shocked.

Quinn almost drops the jar. "It's Quinn to you," she says.

Blaine Anderson merely cocks his head at her. He's grown a bit, but he's still shorter than her. His hair is gelled down neatly. His shoulders have broadened, his face has filled out.

"Come to gawk at the teen preggo?" Quinn snaps, as he stares a moment too long.

Blaine shakes his head and goes back to his chips.

The silence grows. Quinn can hear the cashier fiddling about with the register. "Shouldn't you be at the dinner?" She ends on a harsh spit in spite of herself.

Blaine gives a wild laugh, and Quinn is almost scared. "I left. Screw them. Screw my dad. Talking and staring like I can't hear or see them."

Quinn curls her fingers around her belly.

"Too bad for him," Blaine rambles on, like he's forgotten that Quinn is there. "They all know now."

Quinn stares at him in turn. The ghosts of bruises are dusting his cheekbone.

They continue eating in silence. Blaine eats steadily until the bag is empty, then he crumples it in a stiff fist.

He turns to look at her. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Quinn nods. "With my friend, Mercedes. Her family is nice."

Blaine is halfway out the door before he looks over his shoulder. "It gets better."

The door slams shut. He might have been talking to himself.

Quinn looks down at the empty jar in her hands. She should go back. Mercedes would stay up and watch a movie with her if she asked.

Quinn Fabray is seventeen years old.

It got better. Her baby was adopted, she's joined the glee club, she's got her boyfriend back, and she's living with her mother again.

But some nights it's still terribly lonely.

Nights like tonight. It would have been a society dinner, she thinks idly. But she doesn't go to those anymore and neither does her mother. Not since her mother left her father and got a job in accounting.

She sitting across from Santana Lopez at the Breadstix, picking at a salad and listening to Santana throw barbed, bitchy comments at every McKinley student who passes by.

Once in a while she wonders why she's friends with Santana, who couldn't be any meaner if she swallowed acid. But nights like tonight when she looks across the table and sees a girl with a face curved delicate as a hothouse flower, brittle but not ready to break, and she knows why.

She sort of understands Santana.

Santana's bitching has become a pleasant background hum as Quinn scans the crowd. Her eyes find Kurt, resident McKinley High queer and fellow glee clubber. He's actually sort of fascinating and Quinn admires him sometimes, that he can thumb his nose at all the jocks who toss him headfirst in the garbage can Tuesday mornings.

Underneath the table, his ankles are tangled with that of another boy's. She looks up and drops her breadstick.

Blaine Anderson.

Santana follows her gaze. "Sad, isn't it?" She tears a vicious hunk out of her garlic bread. "Even Lady Lips is getting some and I'm not."

Quinn remembers the wound-up and frightened boy at the Seven-Eleven, bruises all over his face and cursing his father.

A lot of things make sense now.

For once, she feels sorry for someone who isn't herself.

Quinn Fabray is eighteen years old.

About thirteen different pairs of arms are trying to hug her at once. Sam Evans is catcalling, Artie Abrams looks a little bit jealous. She's almost grateful when the bell rings and the glee club shuffles out, still talking amongst themselves.

She's bent over, gathering up her books, when somebody clears their throat. She turns around. Blaine Anderson is leaning up against the doorjamb.

"So. Yale?"

"Yes. I'm going to be a drama major." She can't help the giant grin that spreads across her face. She usually never shows her teeth when she smiles. Sometimes she can feel the ghost of braces poking at her gums.

"Congratulations," he says, and he's not jumping up and down or singing or hugging her but she can tell that he really means it.

"You too," she says.

Blaine looks confused.

"You and Kurt. You guys are happy. I know it isn't easy."

"It isn't," he agrees, smiling more to himself than anything. He offers his arm to escort her out the door. The perfect gentleman.

Quinn accepts graciously. "You know," she says, stopping in the middle of the hall, "Tonight would be a dinner."

"We could have our own dinner," says Blaine. "What do you say? You, me, Kurt, Mercedes, Breadstix at six?"

"That would be lovely," she says, and she really means it.

When they step out into the sunlight, Quinn finally understands that they have made it.