Title: Anything But Ordinary
Rating: T
Pairing: Rachel/Puck, Rachel/OC, Rachel/Santana (friendship)
Disclaimer: If I owned Glee, I would write a character in for myself and make out with Mark Salling every day. Alas, it isn't so...

When she first finds out that she's pregnant, Rachel's first reaction is to call Santana.

Well, that's not entirely true. First, she drops the two pregnancy tests she has in her hands and watches them land on the plush carpet, the dual positive result cushioned by cheap shag carpeting. She drops to her knees, almost crushing the plastic beneath her, and manages to lift up the toilet lid before retching into the (mercifully) empty bowl. Her fingers shake as they wind through her thick brown hair, and she can feel the tears rolling down her face and listens to them as they drip into the sick filled toilet.

After that, she curls up on her king-sized bed and pulls Fiyero into her arms. The small French bulldog blinks up at her with impossibly large and warm eyes, and she's sobbing as she pulls out her phone and dials Santana's number. It goes straight to voicemail, which happens rarely, and she leaves a gasping and incoherent voicemail on her friend's phone. Somehow, she manages to convey the message that she's pregnant, even if it does take her five minutes to do so. Then, she calls her director and woefully informs him that she needs to take a personal day tomorrow, if he doesn't mind.

Her incredible work ethic has given her a sense of camaraderie with the middle-aged man, and he just tells her that it's not a problem, and he hopes she feels better soon.

Her dog gives a strangled little squeak when she pulls him even harder into her chest, and she feels his soft little tongue dart out and lick at her salty cheek before he nuzzles against her. Eventually, her cries taper off and his quick breaths slow and deepen as he drifts into a nap. Rachel clutches Fiyero to her like a lifeline as she falls into a fitful slumber.

Her last complete thought before sleep is that she never thought this would happen to her.

OOOOO

His name was David Kingsley, and they had met at one of the after parties for her first Broadway show. She had just been a member of the chorus, but the thrill of being a professional on the Great White Way was one that she couldn't resist. She had been sitting by the bar demurely sipping at a club soda with lemon, when he'd approached her with a smile. He had been suave, all dark hair and blue eyes, with a charming smile that she should have known would bring her trouble.

They had spent the evening chatting and laughing and discussing the nuances of the actress (an understudy) who had played Elphaba in that night's showing of 'Wicked.' David had been blown out of the water by the woman's voice, but Rachel had noticed more than one occasion where her nearly operatic singing had gone a little flat despite months and months of training. Rachel Berry would have done a much better job, and wasted no time in letting this handsome stranger know it.

Somehow, between cocktails and taxis and stumbling up stairwells, he managed to lift her dress up over her head, press her down onto the large mattress in her bedroom, and slip inside her before she even knew what was happening. Maybe it had been the alcohol he had been buying for her, or maybe it was the heady rush of desire she was feeling (it had been months since the last time she had done this) but either way her mind was fogged over. She had been so caught up in feeling and moaning and letting go that it hadn't been until the next morning as they said their good-byes that she realized they hadn't used protection.

She hadn't worried, though. She had been on the pill ever since the week she had dated Noah. Her fathers had heard about his reputation by word of mouth and the day after he showed up at their front door, she had found herself in a gynecologist's office, a surly looking father on either side of her.

So, any thoughts of potential pregnancies had slid right off of her shoulders as she looked down at the business card he had pressed into her palm, his cell phone number glinting up at her from the glossy little rectangle.

Things continued on in that way for almost a year, and it had all seemed like a New York fairytale for Rachel. Things, she remembered thinking happily, couldn't have gotten any better.

She had been right. They had only gotten worse.

The director had pulled her aside one day after rehearsal and explained to her in hushed tones that the understudy with the flat voice was being let go due to an ever-increasing dependency on drugs, and Rachel would be taking her spot. It had been a veritable dream come true, and her first impulse had been to call David's cell phone.

Her fingers had been trembling in excitement when she tapped his number against the keys, and the grin had felt almost painful when she pressed her phone against her ear. The giddy feeling that had been all consuming waned a little when a woman had picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

Rachel paused, confusion dimming the smile on her face. "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number. I was trying to call David Kingsley-"

"Oh," the woman said, giving a friendly laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry, David's at our son Leon's soccer game. He must have left his phone at home. I'm his wife, Susan. I can take a message if you'd like?"

The warmth dropped out of Rachel's body completely and she dimly recalled telling her lover's wife that no, she didn't have a message to leave, but thank you for your time – sorry for the inconvenience.

Married. How could he be married?

Numbly, she had wandered the streets of New York until she reached her apartment. Drudging up the stairs, she felt oddly disconnected when she saw his tall frame leaning against her door, blue eyes looking distressed. She had stood in front of her door without a word, and slid her key into the lock. She had stepped into her apartment, ready to shut the door in his face, when his large hand had slapped against the wood. Rachel peered up at him through thick lashes and dark curls, and had noticed with vague disinterest the determination and anger that were pouring out of the eyes she had grown so close to loving.

"My wife can't know about us," he had growled at her, leaning closer and closer. "I won't lose her because of you. Don't call me again. For anything."

And that had been the end of it. At least, until two months later when she was reading an article in Cosmopolitan about the dangers of mixing medications and realized, with a start and sinking gut, that she had been taking St. John's Wort the last few weeks of her and David's love affair.

A flurry of panic, pharmacies, and purchased pregnancy tests later, and she finds herself curled up on the bed, a small snorting dog her only companion.

Half asleep, she dimly notices that the pounding she hears isn't coming from the headache pulsing against her temples. It isn't until she hears Santana shout her name that she realizes she's no longer as alone as she had feared. Rachel throws the covers off of her body, startling Fiyero awake with the jarring movements. She makes her way to the main room of the apartment and throws open the door, revealing the impatient form of Santana Lopez as she stands in the beige hallway. "About fucking time," she huffs.

The familiarity is too much for her, and Rachel breaks into fresh tears as she falls into her friend's arms.

Two hours later, they're lying side by side on her bed, Rachel's cheek pressed against Santana's chest. Her eyes are swollen and red from crying, and there are more tissues littered across the bed than she knew she even could fit into a box of Kleenex. By now, she has told her friend the whole sordid tale – Santana had known the basics; Rachel had been seeing a tall, handsome fellow, then Rachel had broken up with the tall, handsome fellow. Nothing more and nothing less. Despite how hard she tried to get the chick to talk dirty with her, Rachel had always remained fairly tight-lipped when it came to her romances.

"Fucking asshole!" she swears violently, arms tightening convulsively around her best friend. "Seriously. I'll castrate the bitch for you. I will drive to the fucker's house and rip his balls off with my bare hands." She launches into a fit of Spanish, no doubt spouting off more of the same threats, and it helps Rachel a little to know she has a friend that would even think of doing those things for her.

The violence eventually thins out to the occasional enraged murmur, until Santana voices the one question that Rachel had been contemplating internally ever since she peed on that damn stick. "So, are you like…gonna keep it, or what?"

She doesn't answer right away, thinking about all the possibilities. If she keeps the baby, she'll lose her spot as Elphaba's understudy within a few months, as well as any shot she would have had at becoming the lead herself. She'll probably have to move back to Lima, she realizes in a panic, since the cost of going through a pregnancy in New York and living as she does now would be too much on an understudy's salary.

If she gets rid of the baby…

No.

The reaction is immediate, and she can feel her stomach turning over on itself at the thought. It may not have been the way she wanted it all to happen, and she may never see her child's father again, but she saw the heartache that Noah and Quinn went through after giving up their daughter. Somehow, in the seven hours since she has found out about her pregnancy, she's become attached to the small life growing inside of her. She can't even begin to fathom giving it away – whether to an adoptive family, or cold surgical tools.

"Yeah," Rachel whispers, and feels one last tear roll down her nose and soak into Santana's top. "I think I am."

Neither of them says anything for a while, until Santana breaks the silence. "I'm gonna be the best fucking godmother any baby's ever had," she says decisively. "Your kid's gonna be the shit, and it'll all be because of me."

Despite herself, Rachel giggles. The pain in her chest is eased somewhat.

She and Santana spend the weekend solely with each other, going shopping and eating in nice restaurants and watching old movies on Rachel's modestly sized flat screen television. Eventually, real life intervenes and they must continue on with their days as they did before. With a fierce hug, Santana tells her that she "better call me if you need anything, you pregnant hussy" before making her way to meet her cab.

Rachel shuts the door and leans against it, sliding down until her bottom hits the floor. Santana's presence had been good as a distraction, but without the foul-mouthed Latina to occupy the apartment with her, she's left alone with her thoughts. Slumping to the side until she's laying on the ground, Rachel closes her eyes and presses a hand against her still flat abdomen. She breathes in and out slowly, feeling her heartbeat thrumming through her body and against her palm. She thinks about the small, barely formed life inside of her and imagines that the heartbeat she feels belongs to her baby.

The tears snake sideways down her face and pool into her hair.

OOOOO

When she tells her director, Geoffrey, about the pregnancy, it's only after a hysterical crying fit in his office, followed by him shoving a steaming mug of lemon tea into her hands. She sits in one of the chairs next to his desk and stares miserably at a picture of him and his partner, Luca. They look so happy in the photo, proudly holding onto one another and grinning at the camera.

"How could this happen?" Geoffrey asks her, rubbing his eyes behind his thick rimmed glasses. "Obviously I know how, physically, but…how could you let this happen?"

"I didn't mean to," she whispers, settling the mug down on a coaster. "I don't believe in taking over the counter drugs – other than birth control, of course – so whenever I have a stomach ache I take St. John's Wort. I didn't know it would cancel out the birth control."

Geoffrey sighs and tents his fingers, elbows planted firmly on his armrests. "What do you want to do?"

Rachel straightens her shoulders at the question, and turns red rimmed eyes to her boss and friend. "I'd like to stay on for two more months," she says firmly. "And then I'm going to go home. To Lima."

He balks at her. "But you've worked so hard to get where you are!" he cries out. "You're one of the youngest understudies on Broadway!"

She shuts her eyes and lets another tear escape. "I know," she whispers, broken. "I'm only twenty-three, Geoff. How am I supposed to handle rent, and a baby, and a Broadway career? I'm driven, and I have goals, but not even I can afford to raise a child when I spend most of my day out of the apartment. Not emotionally or mentally, anyway." She lays her hands down on his desk and stares at her knuckles. "It's just something that I need to do."

Geoff reaches across the desk and lays a hand on top of her own and says nothing. It's a silent show of support, and she nearly cries.

After her meeting with Geoff, he sends her home for the rest of the day, despite all of her protests. As her director, he needs the time to sort through her remaining work schedule and ready an announcement for the rest of the cast. As her friend, he doesn't want to add any stress to her life and cause the baby harm. Despite her irritation at being shooed out of the office, she feels warmth inside her heart at the show of concern.

Rachel flags down a cab outside of the theater and slides inside, savoring the warmth of the heated interior. It's a particularly cold November day, and despite her thick woolen scarf and plush jacket, the chill had already started to seep in during the few minutes she had been outside. She leans forward to the glass partition and asks the driver to take her to her OB/GYN's office, giving him the name of the practice and the street name as directions. He nods and veers into traffic, throwing her back against the seat. Muttering to herself about bad drivers and the virtue of patience, she buckles herself in.

The buildings and cars crawl by her as they drive to Dr. Rosenburg's office, and Rachel is consumed in her own thoughts. She thinks about the baby, about her fallacy of a life with David and of her fathers' reactions when she tells them the news. She thinks about all she's giving up, of life back in Lima, of working so hard to get where she is only to turn back around and go home. She thinks about her daughter or son, and wonders whether or not it will have her nose, his eyes, her mouth, and his laugh.

When they reach the brick building, she shoves a couple of bills into the cabby's hands and exits the car, feeling the chill almost immediately. Shivering, she walks briskly up the steps and almost throws the door open, feeling the plume of hot air fall over her. Happily, she makes her way to the waiting room and settles down into a chair, picking up an old issue of Glamour along the way. In the middle of reading an article about Taylor Swift, her phone vibrates in her pocket.

Rachel fishes around in the pocket and eventually pulls out her Blackberry, and scrolls to the newest message. Since she's expecting the message to be from Santana, she's a little surprised when it's from someone else entirely.

Whats up lady

Rachel stares at Noah's text for a few moments, unsure of how to respond to him. The two of them had dated for almost a year in their senior year of high school, breaking up at the end of summer when they had gone their separate ways for college. She had gone to New York and he had somehow pulled up his grades enough to get a scholarship to a school in Maryland. They had been close enough to one another to keep up a long distance relationship, but at eighteen Rachel had known that attempting to do so would have only ruined their relationship for good.

It hadn't been an easy decision – she had been so in love with him back then. She'd never told him, though. She had stubbornly wanted him to be the first to say the words, and he never did. Her utter adoration of Noah Puckerman hadn't been a secret, but she never gave voice to her feelings.

In the first year of college, he had tried to initiate conversations with her through texts or at parties when they were both in Lima, but the ache in her chest whenever she thought of him had been too strong, and so she had all but ignored him. After a summer full of running into one another at grocery stores and shopping malls and parties, she had begun to respond to him whenever he spoke to her. It had been awkward in the beginning, but at this point they had been broken up for so long and his texts were few and far between enough that she had no hesitation in responding.

Now, though, her thumbs hovered over the keypad in uncertainty.

Not too much, Noah. Just at the Doctor's office. How are you?

There, she decides, hitting the send button. Innocent enough. She could have been at any doctor's office – she highly doubts that his mind would jump to OB/GYN.

Drs? U okay? Dont die on me yo

She chuckles a little, huffing out a laugh as her fingers fly over her cell phone.

I'm perfectly fine, just a check up.

Just as she hits send the nurse calls out her name. Rachel stands and follows the woman in the purple scrubs, and feels a sinking feeling in her stomach as Dr. Rosenburg's office looms closer and closer. She thanks her with a smile when the nurse opens the door for her, and settles herself into one of the plastic chairs. Her phone vibrates in her hand and she smiles when she reads Noah's text.

K good. Itd suck if u wrnt ok

She sends him a smiley face in response and lets him know that she won't be able to respond for a bit, as her appointment is starting. She won't find out until later whether or not he responds, because she turns her phone off completely as soon as Dr. Rosenburg walks through the office.

"Hello, Rachel," he greets her, peering over his spectacles and dropping a manila folder onto his desk. "What can I do for you today? You seemed quite urgent on the phone yesterday."

Years of theater training has taught her how to school her face, but she can't stop the butterflies from fluttering in her stomach. "I took a pregnancy test a few days ago," she tells him, bluntly. "Well, I took two, actually. And they were both positive. I guess I just wanted confirmation from a professional."

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it, and she's grateful for it. Although, she supposes that in his long career, he's come across far more shocking things than a twenty-three year old getting pregnant. He picks her folder back up and motions for her to follow him out of his office and down the hall. He catches the attention of a nurse along the way, and she follows them into the blood workroom.

"Rachel, I have a patient that I have to tend to," Dr. Rosenburg says, handing her chart off to the nurse. "I'll be with you as soon as Nurse Tibbet here finishes your blood work, and we'll find out whether or not you're pregnant."

As the nurse draws her blood, Rachel makes idle chitchat, looking everywhere but at the vial of blood attached to her arm. Vaguely, she wonders if Noah's messaged her back.

It doesn't feel as if it's too much longer before she's back in Dr. Rosenburg's office, and the man in question walks in, looking harried. "Sorry for the wait," he apologizes to her, despite not having made her wait in the least. "But, we have the results of your blood test."

Rachel knows that her surprise is showing on her face, at least a little bit. "So soon?"

The doctor chuckles and pulls out his reading glasses, and sits down behind his desk. "It doesn't take terribly long, Rachel. Now, onto the big moment." He opens her folder and scans the results, and Rachel watches the way his eyes flicker from side to side as he reads. A nerve-wracking ten seconds passes by before he looks up with a smile and kind brown eyes.

"Congratulations!" is the last thing that she hears before the world grays out around her. It had been one thing to use a home pregnancy test – she had heard stories of false positive results so often, but now that she has a professional's confirmation…it just all seems too overwhelmingly real.

She calls Santana later that night and quietly tells her about the day she's had. For once, the other girl just listens and interjects only when Rachel has gone silent.

"San?"

"Yeah, babe?"

Rachel rubs at her forehead, and listens to the tags on Fiyero's collar jingle as he scratches at an ear. She squeezes her eyes shut in preparation for what she's about to ask. "Would…would you mind coming with me to the first ultrasound?"

Santana scoffs at the question. "Please, bitch, as if I wouldn't have come even if you hadn't asked. Fucking crazy ass chick."

Despite herself, Rachel bursts into laughter.