Chapter Five: Conclusion (Kinda)

Of course, it wasn't perfect.

Puck was still Puck, which meant that at any given time, he had about a sixty percent chance of saying something selfish, thoughtless, or jaw-droppingly inappropriate. Like, for example, that he didn't "dig on fat chicks."

Still, they were making their way forward…slowly, slowly. Being with Puck was a huge adjustment for Quinn. The other boys she'd dated had, like Finn, seemed a little dumbstruck at their good fortune. They were perfectly willing to let her call all the shots, from where they could go on a date ("Please. If you can't come up with something better than the mall KFC and Transformers, don't bother picking me up!") to how far they could go on a date (Finn wasn't the only one to be shown the wonders of Immaculate Affection). They meekly accepted her scathing put-downs and bowed out quietly when she was tired of them.

Puck acted sometimes like he had done her an enormous favor by taking her virginity and leaving her pregnant. He didn't hesitate to shoot down a movie suggestion ("The Back-Up Plan? I SO don't need to see that. What's wrong with Kick-Ass?"); he was merciless in his criticism of her knife skills and, surprisingly, her wardrobe ("Seriously? The sack o' potatoes look? Early '90s, babe."). When she got irritable or short with him, he ratcheted up the argument or stormed out with a resounding door slam.

But there were times when the look in his eyes was all for her, times when the wisecracks let up and he'd melt her with sweetness. He kept a little lockbox in his room that was slowly filling with cash from (Quinn fervently hoped) the spring pool cleaning; he took her to her doctor's appointments and tried hard not to be grossed out. More than once he repeated what he'd said to her that day in the school hallway: "We could be a family."

And she would forgive whatever idiotic comment he'd made, pull him in for a long, slow kiss, and they would grin stupidly at each other, and it would be OK. Mostly.

Until one day…

She caught sight of him surrounded by Cheerios, nodding and laughing. This in itself wasn't really noteworthy—Puck flirted as naturally as he breathed. But then one ambitious slut pulled him aside, whispering something in his ear. His arm snaked around her waist as he bent down to hear; he handed her his phone, and her fingers flew over the buttons.

Quinn remembered babysitting that night. And the sexting that went on, practically under her nose, while she blissfully sang "Papa Don't Preach" to three unruly kindergartners.

Lips pressed together, she stalked over, grabbing the arm of his jacket and pulling. She didn't stop until they were all the way down the hall.

"What the—? Jesus, what's wrong with you?" His eyes were dark, unreadable.

"I let you make an idiot out of me once." She looked down at her stomach, and corrected herself. "Twice. It won't happen a third time!"

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

She seethed, "I saw you, Puck. What are you thinking? That you'll store up a few new numbers, in case I get too fat, or get stretch marks, or my feet swell? You need someone new to sext with, now that Santana's cut you off?"

He rolled his eyes. "Here we go. Another ride on the Hormone Express. Buckle up, kids, it's gonna get bumpy!"

She grabbed his phone and pressed "Contacts." At the top was a new entry: "Kylie." Underneath her number was a note: "Ready when you are! :)"

This time she did smack him. And turned on her heel, marching away as fast as her flats would carry her.

"Nice waddle, Daisy," he called after her.

She made it to the relative privacy of a bathroom stall before tears overwhelmed her. Was this what it was going to be like, all the time? Having to look over her shoulder, question his intentions, wonder where he was, who he was with?

She'd said, when it all fell apart the first time, that she'd do this by herself; she damn well could, she'd proven that now. Only...it had been nice, having someone to hold her hand. And teach her how to slice an onion. And share her secret joy when she felt the baby move.

She thought of his phone, and the smirk on his face. Not worth it. Definitely not worth it.

Still repeating it like a mantra later that afternoon, she pulled her history book from her locker and tried to figure out just where the hell she was going to go. Banging the door shut, she glanced up…and there he was.

She tried to think of something particularly stinging to say, but strangely, her "bitch retort" seemed out of commission. Plus, he looked weird: eyes cast down, shoulders slumped. Like he was…ashamed?

He lifted a hand to her shoulder, pushing one curl back. She was searching his face for an explanation when she saw it: dangling from his fingers was a beautifully delicate silver chain, an old-fashioned baby shoe suspended from one of its links.

Her mouth went dry. "What's this for?" she asked, far less bitterly than she intended.

If he had said anything, anything at all, she probably would've told him to go to hell. But his silence caught her, kept her standing there watching as he fastened the bracelet around her wrist and stepped back.

She looked down at the filigree chain glinting in the hallway's strip lighting, and fought hard to stay angry. Does he think I'm stupid—he shouldn't have done it—he should treat me with more respect—

He better not. He shouldn't. He absolutely should. Could she forgive him?

Tears clung to her lashes, then slipped down her cheeks as she reached up to him. Crowds thronged the hallway, but they were alone together, trading wordless apologies and promises and sweet, sweet nothings.

Perfect was overrated, anyway.

The End

(for now)

Note: The last part of this chapter is from another Quick piece I wrote called "Apology"—I switched it around to Quinn's POV.

I'm hoping to write a sequel to this, that incorporates some of the (very few) Quick moments in the most recent episodes. In the meantime, thanks so much for reading and reviewing!!