THE POINT OF NO RETURN

'Does it show too much, Berry?' Quinn queried faintly, an absent hand placed limply on her gently protuberant belly as she stood sideways before a full-length mirror in the first floor girl's bathroom.

Rachel, who had been, up until now, furiously applying a tube of red lipstick (whose shade could not be described as anything other than obnoxious) to her pursed lips with the aid of the little mirror over one of the bathroom sinks, took a moment to stop what she was doing before flicking her dark brown eyes in Quinn's direction. 'It's not that bad,' she stated, simply.

Quinn let out a long sigh and smoothed over the tulle skirt of her ballerina costume, turning away from the mirror and sliding over to the mirror beside the one beside Rachel. She didn't want to get too close, obviously. She sniffed a little and studied her reflection in the mirror––her thin blond hair coiled into a tight ballerina's topknot, her make-up, silvery and fine, applied conservatively across the wide planes of her pale face.

'You look nice,' Rachel commented, in an awkward attempt to shatter the silence between them. The rest of the girls had already changed and left, but Quinn had lingered behind to obsess over her baby bump and Rachel... well, she was Rachel. Of course she'd be the last one out. Either way, they were alone in the bathroom, and it was awkward.

Extremely awkward.

'Thanks,' Quinn responded, tartly, shuffling another little step away from the brunette. Silence ensued once more, but this time, it was Quinn who broke it. 'You're not selling yourself, Berry, just your voice. I'd go a shade darker if you want to get away from the whole hooker image.'

Taunting her somehow made things better.

Rachel stiffened, clearly digesting Quinn's words, and speculating to herself whether or not there was any truth to them. She bit her lip. It tasted of wax. 'You would know, wouldn't you?' she muttered caustically to herself, immediately regretting it the second she did. She had realized just after the words had left her lips that Quinn had actually been attempting to help her, in her own bitchy, deluded way––Rachel had been too quick to jump on the defensive. But it was too late now, for Quinn was gearing up to launch another attack. Rachel could tell. Whenever Quinn was angry, her bright hazel eyes flashed and her lips pressed together in a thin line and she did this odd thing where she lowered her head a little and locked her jaw. Rachel had seen this look many times before, most often directed toward her. She squared her shoulders, narrowed her eyes, and braced herself for what biting insults would inevitably come next.

'Just because I'm pregnant,' Quinn began, slowly, 'does not make me the whore. Forgive me, Berry, if I got carried away with my feelings'––she inwardly shuddered at the lie––'and got myself in this situation because of it. At least I'm not you. At least I'm not trying to openly stake a claim on a boy who's not only taken, but will be the father of my child.' She paused, the little cross hanging from her neck suddenly feeling extremely heavy on her chest. 'That's somewhat more of a whorish move, don't you think?'

Rachel stood speechless as Quinn assayed out of the room, her mouth agape with something a little less than horror and a little more than guilt.

She turned back and faced the mirror, numbly.

She snagged a paper towel and rubbed off the lipstick.

'Rachel, Quinn, this is one of the most important songs of the musical,' Mr. Shue began, standing at the apron of the stage, looking up at his two female leads and waving some sheet music distractedly in one hand. 'I cast you both, because I felt you could handle it,' he stated, seriously. 'Please don't prove me wrong.'

'Mr. Shue, if there's a problem with our dynamic, I promise you it has absolutely nothing to do with m––'

'That's enough, Rachel! You both having been staring daggers at each other the entire rehearsal, and you know it! I don't understand why you can't just set aside your differences, if not for my sake, then for the sake of the school musical as a whole, and for the sake of your castmates. We've been working on this for nearly a month now. The show opens in two and a half weeks. I know you're both stressed, and tired: hell, I am too. But you owe it to yourselves to get through at least one rehearsal without looking like you want to shoot each other. Okay?'

'Yes, Mr. Shue,' Rachel whispered, eyes downcast, fists balled with poorly suppressed rage.

'Quinn?'

'Fine, I'll try,' came her snarky assurance.

'Good. Now, let's try it again, from the top of Angel of Music. Quinn––from Meg's entrance.' Mr. Shue settled back in the first row of seats and folded his arms across his chest, knitting his brows in the concentrated hope that his words bore some meaning for the two girls.

Quinn bounded offstage into the wings, and Rachel arrayed herself in front of the little altar (currently represented by a chair from the Glee club classroom), closing her eyes and delving into Christine's deep, silent prayer.

This part was a challenge for her, because she was Jewish.

The sacrifices she had to make for stardom sometimes appalled even her.

From the wings, Quinn took a deep breath and focused on her character: Meg. Best friend of Christine. Almost like sisters. She grimaced, opened her eyes, and stepped out onto the stage, waiting for her musical cue before she launched into Meg's first line. 'Christine, Christine, where in the world have you been hiding? Really, you were perfect...'––that part always made her want to vomit––'I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your great tutor?'

Perhaps the character of Meg Giry was slightly pathetic. Traipsing around after her best friend, constantly jealous of her, wanting to know her secret to success, desperate for the love and affection and adoration that Christine got whenever she opened her mouth. Quinn didn't like being cast as such a pathetic character. But maybe she and Meg had more things in common than she thought: maybe they were both desperate for attention, for love, for praise, for acceptance. The thought made her shiver, and she ceased it altogether, wiping her mind clean and following her basic blocking. She forced a very fake-looking smile onto her face as she took a seat on the stage floor beside Rachel, who was now over-dramatically reciting the textual interlude before her vocal cue.

'Father once spoke of an angel...' Quinn got distracted there. Fathers, and angels. This part always got her, for some reason. 'I always dreamed he'd appear...' Rachel continued, ignorant of the fact that Quinn was now staring off into space and would likely miss her cue. When Rachel played Christine, she had a tendency to loose herself, to forget everyone and everything around her, but for different reasons than Quinn. She turned and looked at Quinn––or, rather, Christine turned and looked at Meg––and waited expectantly for her to pick up her harmony cue.

She didn't.

Groaning, Rachel stopped and called out for the music to end. 'Mr. Shue, let's continue this rehearsal after Quinn, here, learns her cues. I have better things to do than wait around for amateurs.' With that, she stood up and flounced offstage, leaving Quinn fuming in the spotlight and Mr. Shue silently shaking his head from the audience.

He was going to have to take action.

'What the hell are you wearing?'

They were standing outside the Lima Mall, Rachel in her plaid miniskirt and vivid blue t-shirt, argyle stockings pulled all the way up to her knees, mary-janes sparkling in the dim sunlight. Quinn wasn't in her Cheerios uniform––not like she'd wear that to the mall, of all places. Instead, she wore a sunny pinafore with a three-quarter sleeve white cotton shrug. She looked, of course, divine. As always. And Rachel looked, of course, ridiculous. As always.

'You have your style, and I have mine, Barbie. I don't judge yours.'

'This is a mercy shopping trip. You'd better be thankful I'm doing it.'

'You're doing it because Mr. Shue forced you, Quinn, and for no other reason,' Rachel quipped, crossing her arms over her chest as a particularly strong gust of wind blew past her small frame.

'Be that as it may,' Quinn stated, bitingly, 'I didn't have to show up. At least I'm not going in dressed like a clown.' She shook her head angrily and began walking toward the entrance of the mall, all the while muttering to herself that she couldn't believe Mr. Shue had actually talked her into this dumb character-building, cast-bonding trip with the slut who was trying to steal her boyfriend. Unbelievable.

She wished she was still a Cheerio. She wished she had never joined Glee. She wished she had never tried out for Phantom.

She wished, mostly, that she wasn't here, right now, with Rachel freaking Berry.

Rachel trailed behind Quinn silently for a few moments before she did a little jog move to catch up to her. For a pregnant girl, she sure did have a pair of legs on her. 'Look, Quinn, I don't want to be here either, as much as you don't. But we're here, and we'll be here for the next several hours, so we should probably just... make the most of it. We can at least try to be cordial to each other, right? We'll have to be, for Phantom. Mr. Shue just wants us to start practicing now, and I mean, if you think about it, it makes total sense, he's a very bright indiv––'

'Shut up, Rachel. If you don't talk, this will be easier.'

She stopped and broke into a small smile. 'Hey, you called me Rachel. That's the first ti––'

'Well, it's your name, isn't it?' Quinn countered, as she pulled the door open and sidestepped into the mall.

She let it swing back and hit Rachel in the face.

'Yeah. Yeah, it is.' Rachel said, quietly, after she could feel her nose again.

They shopped for the next four hours.

Quinn bought Rachel a tasteful sweater.

Rachel followed up by financing dinner in the food court.

And when they parted, they hated each other a little less.

'Oh my gosh, Quinn, are you okay?'

She tried to make a reply, but all she could do was whisper a raspy, 'No,' before her head was in the toilet again.

'Um, um, oh gosh, what can I do? Should I call the nurse?' Rachel was hopping around outside the stall where Quinn was, feeling utterly helpless and confused and useless. Quinn was puking in the toilet. Oh gosh. Oh gosh.

Quinn made a frustrated groaning noise before she retched again.

It took a moment for it to click, but when it did, Rachel smacked her forehead in a wave of self-annoyance. 'Right, the nurse is gone afterschool,' she expostulated with a sigh. 'Um, um...' Since when was Rachel Berry ever at a loss for words? Pristine white teeth gnawing on deep red lips, she grabbed a paper towel and rapped on Quinn's stall door. 'Quinn, may I come in?'

She could barely move. She shivered over the toilet, her breathing raspy and shaky, her muscles feeling like they might give out at any second.

Rachel waited expectantly for the door to open, but it didn't.

'You should just––leave––Rachel,' came her tardy response.

'Quinn, I can't just leave! For one thing, you're in the next scene we're running and I can't very well go on without my Meg, and for another thing, you're puking your guts out in the toilet and my dads always told me to help those in need,' she finished, fiercely. 'Therefore, I'm coming in, even if I have to crawl. Besides... I've always wanted to hold someone's hair back when they puked. You could call it a certain dream of mine, or maybe just, you know, a goal––to be the helpful one, like in the movies. You know, a la Breakfast at Tiffany's, that sort of thing. It gives me a sense of empowerment, and besides, you're probably going to need help cleaning up, so you'll have to let me in eventually.'

'Rachel––'

'I have connections with the janitor, I could get him to unlock this door for me.'

'Rachel, please––'

'What, you don't believe me? He and I go back to my freshman year, when this girl I used to know––'

'Shut up, just shut up,' Quinn grumbled, reaching behind her and fumbling for the door clasp. 'There,' she pushed it open with her foot. 'Happy?'

Miffed from her directive from Quinn––the girl who she was trying to help, thank you very much––to shut up, Rachel sniffed and stepped in, nodding and saying, 'Yes, thank you.' But once her moment of selfish offense ended, she stooped down to Quinn's level and observed her closely, a bit stricken by what she saw.

'You don't look very good, Quinn,' she stated, quietly.

Quinn shot her a peeved look with her weary brown eyes and then suddenly lunged forward and vomited into the toilet again––just dry heaves. Rachel cringed, and looked into the toilet. There was nothing there but stomach bile. She furrowed her brows, knowingly. 'Quinn, what did you have for breakfast?'

No answer.

'Quinn insert-middle-name-here Fabray, promise me you are nourishing yourself and your unborn child.'

No answer.

Rachel sighed and carefully sat down on the bathroom floor, suddenly not caring about the fact that she was going to get grime on her costume. She pressed a paper towel to Quinn's head to sop up some of the lingering perspiration and gave her compatriot a sad look. 'Why haven't you been eating?' she asked, as mildly as she could.

It was a long time before Quinn responded, but when she did, it came out as a croak. 'I have been eating, Rachel. I just didn't, today, because I wanted to fit in my costume. I thought maybe if I just waited till after rehearsal, I'd––' she hiccuped. 'I'd be able to zip it.'

Rachel glanced at the back of Quinn's ballerina dress. It wasn't zipped all the way.

'You know Mr. Shue can have it altered for you, Quinn. All you had to do was ask.'

'No, Rachel, you don't get it. I didn't want to ask for that. I didn't want to admit that I keep getting fatter and fatter by the second. I just wanted to be able to zip the damned dress myself.' She looked like she was struggling valiantly not to cry.

It was quiet for a while, and then Rachel reached out and patted Quinn gently on the back. 'Not eating for a day is going to do nothing to your baby bump, Quinn. It won't make it any smaller. Though if you keep this up, you might cause it to disappear altogether.'

'What if I want that?'

'Quinn, think about what you're saying, thi––'

'What if I want it to disappear, Rachel? What if––' But she stopped herself. She'd already said enough. Too much, even. She didn't trust Rachel like that. And she wouldn't let herself start behaving like she did. She was stronger than that; Sue had taught her better than to be that pathetic, that desperate, that craven for attention, for someone to reach out to. She wouldn't become needy. She couldn't stoop that low.

'I don't believe you,' Rachel said, after a pause. 'You're sick, and tired, and hungry. And lonely. Quinn, I think what you really need is a trip to Ms. Pillsbury, maybe she can talk to you. She helped me, anyway. Maybe if you explain your grievances to her, she'll be able to help you put your best foot forward.'

Quinn remained silent as she sat back and grabbed a paper towel from Rachel's hands to wipe her mouth. She wouldn't so much as look at the girl.

'Right now, though, you need some basic sustenance. I know the vending machines don't have a very wide array of edible options, but I'm sure we can find something for you. Okay?' Rachel stood and offered Quinn her hand.

'You'll be late to rehearsal,' she stated, coldly.

'Mr. Shue will understand, once I explain the extenuating circums––'

'No! No, you're not going to explain anything to him, Rachel.'

'Fine. But you have to promise me you'll go to see Ms. Pillsbury at your earliest convenience.'

'Which will be never,' Quinn scoffed.

'Quinn, I don't know why you think you can do this alone.'

'I'm not doing it alone. I have Finn.'

It was intended to sting.

But for some reason, it didn't.

'Right, you have Finn, who doesn't know the difference between a newborn and an alien.'

'I thought you liked him.'

'Tastes change.'

After an abeyance, Quinn sighed and took Rachel's hand.

'Get me some damned food.'

'Quinn, dear, could you help me with the dishes?' Finn's mother asked politely as politely as she could manage over the raging volume of the television that Finn had parked himself in front of, drink in hand, mouth agape.

She rolled her eyes and sat up from her place next to him, calling out, 'Of course, Mrs. Hudson,' as she moved to the kitchen.

'There, all you have to do is dry that pile, okay?'

'Yes, Mrs. Hudson,' she nodded, grabbing one of the dish towels from the counter.

Quinn couldn't help but think about Finn, and about the fact that this wasn't his baby; that she was leading both of them on, and how bad it was, how unChristian was her conduct. But she was in over her head, and she knew she couldn't rely on Puck. She didn't really want to rely on anyone, but him least of all.

She wondered to herself if this was the life with which she would end up. Would Finn sit there on the couch, watching football with a Coke and a bag of potato chips, after they were married? Would she be in here doing the dishes like a good little housewife?

It sickened her.

She sighed and ran the towel over a plate decorated with little flowers, and felt her throat swell. There were certain things that Quinn wanted about the domestic life. Choosing cutlery, picking out those cute little decorated plates, getting really nice china for when there was company. Things like that; the simple, little things. She wanted that. But there were some other things that she didn't want.

Such as Finn, for an eternity.

She knew that at one point she would have to tell him that this wasn't his baby. That this was Puck's. That it was her sick attempt at proving to herself––at proving she wasn't––

She dropped the glass plate, and it shattered on the floor.

'I'm so sorry, Mrs, Hudson!' Quinn stammered, heat spreading across her own porcelain features as she immediately bent down and began gathering the shards. 'So clumsy,' she muttered, shaking her head as Mrs. Hudson bent down to aid her.

'Don't trouble yourself, Quinn. I shouldn't have asked; you go back to Finn and relax in front of the television, okay?'

She sighed. 'Yes, Mrs. Hudson.'

And then she was back where she started, sitting in front of the television, staring at Finn's mouth (now dripping with drool), and wondering why the hell she was here.

What had reduced her to this; a shadow of what she knew she must be fated to eventually become.

She thought about Rachel, fleetingly, and wondered what it must be like, to live so unconventionally, to be so... free.

And, for the first time that evening, she smiled. Because, for the first time ever, she felt hope.

'Dad, Daddy,' Rachel began, as she propped her elbows on the kitchen island, 'would you mind bringing lunch to dress rehearsals for Phantom next week?'

'Darling, you already have the lead, what more could you want?' Her Daddy asked, eyeing her curiously.

They were in the kitchen, cooking dinner, her Dad and her Daddy, as they always did on Friday nights, and Rachel was sitting at the island, doing some homework. Friends was blaring softly on the television screen in the living room. It was distracting her. Though, in all fairness, she'd been distracted since yesterday afternoon when she had found Quinn puking in the bathrooms. Her dads had noticed.

'No, it's not that, Daddy,' she explained, pursing her lips. 'It's just that... I... I want the cast to like me. You know how some of my lessors can be when I attain roles superior to theirs, and, well, I don't want those feelings of animosity to carry onstage for opening night.'

'What are you up to, little girl?' Dad asked, raising a brow. 'Since when does our daughter care about what her lessors think? I thought we taught you better than to give weight to anyone else's opinions!'

Rachel sighed. She knew she was going to have to give this a little work. 'You're both just going to have to accept that this time, it's different.'

Dad stopped slicing the tomatoes and gave a meaningful look to Daddy, who quickly leaned over and pressed the 'mute' button on the television.

'Rachel, you're lying to us. What's behind all of this?'

She knew honesty was the best policy, but––well, she didn't want to give them the wrong idea. However, she hated lying to her dads more, so... ugh. Options were weighed. She went for it.

'You know that girl I told you about a few weeks ago, Quinn Fabray?'

'The bitch who got knocked up by that cute football player you have the hots for?' Dad queried as he turned on the stove.

'Well, first of all, yes. Second of all, she's not a bitch, and third of all, I don't have the hots for Finn anymore. Anyway, the point is, yesterday I found her vomiting in the bathroom, and––okay, well, that doesn't matter. Dad, Daddy, I just want to help her out. She's not eating very well and I'm concerned for the health of her bastard child. I'd like you to bring those nice organic sandwiches for everyone in the cast, including her, so that I can be sure she's at least eating one healthy meal a day. Are we clear?'

The dads looked at each other and suddenly burst into laughter.

'Okay, Rachel, enough of the bullshitting, what's the real reason you want us to cater?'

'...Dad, I'm serious.'

It took her all night to convince them.

But for Quinn? It seemed worth it.

Odd.

'Do your dads cook professionally, or do they derive some sick pleasure from bringing worthless teenagers food?' Quinn queried sharply as the two sat in the corner of the theatre, nibbling on the catered lunches that Rachel's dads had made a habit of bringing to each dress rehearsal of the final week before opening.

'Well, Dad is more into cooking than Daddy is,' she answered, taking a bite of her sandwich. 'And they think that bringing food to Mr. Shue might ingratiate me with him further, so that I might get future leads all throughout high school and present an expansive resume to Juilliard, my college of choice, naturally.' But she was lying.

Quinn rolled her eyes. 'Of course, it was something like that. Rachel Berry is incapable of doing anything that isn't out of ambition; I should have known her dads would be the same.'

This darkened Rachel's mood considerably.

Quinn's insults were beginning to bear a lot more weight than they had before.

'Leave my dads out of this, Quinn,' she said, quietly. 'They have nothing to do with my ambition, which, I realize, can be considered somewhat of a fault. They are merely doing what I asked them too.'

'So you asked them to stick their heads up Shue's––?'

'No, Quinn. I asked them to help cater the rehearsals because... well...' she stopped, sighing.

'I'm waiting.'

'Because, since you were kicked out of your house, and living with Finn, I know of Finn's own financial struggles, and therefore I know of yours... and, well, I just wanted you to eat, Quinn. I didn't want a repeat of the bathroom incident last week.'

'You're kidding me.'

'Not exactly.'

'You actually thought of someone other than yourself?'

'Yes, I know, it's odd. Believe me, Quinn, my dads didn't believe me when I told them.'

A pause. The only noise being their mouths working on their sandwiches. And then,

'Have you seen Ms. Pillsbury?'

'She just gave me a pamphlet. That was all.'

'And did you read it?'

'Skimmed.'

They didn't speak for the rest of the dinner break, until Quinn got up to throw her polka-dotted lunch bag in the trash. On the way to the trash receptacle, she paused by Rachel's shoulder and said, 'Thank you.'

Rachel couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the rehearsal.

'You seem distracted,' Finn said, quietly.

Quinn rolled her eyes and removed Finn's arm from around her shoulder.

'What?' he asked, somewhat offended at the sudden dearth of physical contact between them.

'Finn, just because I'm not focused on you every second of every day doesn't mean I'm distracted, it just means I happen to not be thinking about your stupid, puppy dog face at the moment.'

'...oh. Well, sorry.'

She sighed and scooted away from him.

They were sitting on his porch; twilight was just setting in.

She wasn't thinking of Finn, or her baby, or Puck, or even anything related to that whole mess.

She was thinking of Rachel.

'Finn, do you care about our baby?' she asked, quietly.

He gave her a confused look. 'Of course I do, Q. I'm not going to abandon you like any other guy would. I care about our baby, and I care about you.'

'Rachel brought me an organic sandwich today, with dietary supplements and vitamins.'

'...yeah. She brought me one too. That's nice of her. Hey, you don't still hate her, do you? Because it'd be really awkward if you did and she brought you a sandwich and you ate it even though you hate––'

'No, I don't hate her, you idiot,' Quinn snapped.

'Oh. Well, that's good.'

'Why don't you bring me sandwiches like that? Why don't you––why don't you start growing up and facing what's going on here, Finn?'

'What do you mean, why don't I grow up? Quinn, I've been reading those books we got from the library, about babies and stuff, and I've been telling mom to stop buying potato chips because I don't want our baby to be obese, and I've even stopped watching so much football so I can sit out here with you. What more do you want?'

She sighed, stood up, and went inside.

You can't give me what I want, she felt like saying. But she didn't.

Rachel was sitting on her bed, laptop in front of her, rendering a video of herself singing the famous aria from Lucia di Lammermoor. She was happy. She was really happy. She didn't know exactly why she was, but she felt it, lodged in her heart, beating steadily, throbbing with excitement and pleasure.

She was happy.

Alright, okay, so, she was thinking about Quinn. She knew why she was happy. She was thinking about Quinn, and how she'd said thank you for the sandwiches, and how that had made her felt. Truthfully, she hadn't been able to stop smiling even after rehearsal had ended. She just... wow. 'So, this is what it feels like to help someone,' she said absently to herself. 'Amazing.'

She'd never really... helped anyone out before. At least, not like this. Rachel was by nature an extremely conceited and selfish little girl, and it carried on throughout her high school years. Thinking about others, putting herself in another's shoes, did not come easily to her.

But with Quinn, it did.

She really felt for Quinn; she identified with her, in an odd way. You see, Rachel was Quinn. Or, at least, she had been Quinn, so many times, throughout her life. She was ostracized, bullied, picked on, made fun of, for her talent, and for how she obnoxiously toted it around like a badge of honor. Well, for her, that's what it was. She used to think it was all she had. With Quinn, it was a little different––it wasn't pride that brought Quinn such attention, but rather, shame.

Rachel had never felt shame before, but she'd read about it in books, and it sounded like it sucked.

So, she'd done something she'd never done before. She put her own ambition aside, and she did something that was not geared toward self-gain in any way, shape, or form.

She'd helped Quinn.

And in doing that, she was fairly certain she'd helped herself.

See, Quinn had this funny effect on her. She wasn't sure what it was, but she liked it.

No, scratch that. She knew exactly what it was.

And, funnily enough, she wasn't afraid.

'Angel of music, guide and guardian, come to me, strange angel...'

'Okay,' Quinn nodded, concentratedly.

'Your turn. You've got to get this harmony down before we open tomorrow,' Rachel stated matter-of-factly as her fingers strayed absently over the piano keys. She and Quinn were in the Glee club rehearsal room, sitting at the piano, going over their Angel of Music duet, about which Quinn had expressed some worry. Rachel volunteered to help her. She did that sort of thing now: helped people. At least, when it came to affairs of the voice––her area of expertise. It was her duty to aid her underlings, obviously.

'Angel of music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel...' Quinn sang, softly, feeling rather exposed to be singing by herself with just the guidance of Rachel's piano accompaniment rather than voice.

'Hmm, you're a little flat. Try it again.'

They repeated the process, with Quinn still flat. She was beginning to get frustrated. She didn't want to admit defeat––she was Quinn Fabray, she didn't go there. But this felt a lot like defeat, especially under Rachel's scrutinizing gaze. And Rachel could sense it, she could tell.

'Quinn, I think you're over-thinking it. Just sort of... let the music transcend you, okay? Remember, this is a spiritual experience for Meg and Christine. It's got to sound like you're really undergoing something divine. Now, try it again.'

'Angel of music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel...' Quinn sang, attempting to follow Rachel's directive.

Still, she was flat.

Rachel sighed and stood from the piano bench, motioning for Quinn to sit. 'You're still over-thinking it. You need to just... lose yourself. Like the Phantom makes Christine forget about everything in The Music of the Night number? That's got to be you. You can't worry about how you sound, because if you think about it, you'll go flat. It's almost as if you're distracting yourself. It happens a lot to professional singers.'

Quinn nodded, still focused on not accepting defeat. She had to get this right. She had to be perfect for tomorrow night.

'When we sing this tomorrow, in front of the audience,' Quinn began, slowly, 'I want people to be moved. I want to sound perfect. I want their first thought to be, "wow, that girl can sing," not, "wow, that girl is pregnant." '

Rachel smiled faintly. 'I understand, Quinn. And you will be perfect, and people will think that. You've got the potential to have an incredible voice one day. Maybe not as good as mine, but close. I want to help you reach that potential. But before you get there, you need to stop obsessing so strongly over what people will think of you.'

'How can I stop thinking about what people think of me?' Quinn asked, looking away. 'How can I stand the thought of constantly being judged?'

'You learn to forget,' was Rachel's simple answer.

'How?'

Rachel was silent for a little while, before she reached over Quinn's shoulder and flipped the musical score over to The Music of the Night. She pressed down the opening key, an raised it an octave, so as to better fit her lyric soprano range. 'Like this,' she whispered, in Quinn's ear.

'Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation; darkness stirs and wakes imagination; silently the senses abandon their defenses...' Rachel ran her palm down Quinn's shoulder and smiled at the alarmed look the blond girl gave her as she did so.

'Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor; grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender; turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light, and listen to the music of the night.' Rachel continued her song (she thought she did a better job of it than Puck, who was incidentally playing the title role in the musical, but that may have just been her own biased opinion), never once taking her eyes off Quinn.

She was playing with fire.

It was just a random, senseless thought––one that came naturally, too naturally. She didn't understand where it had come from, but it was coming very quickly now, and she couldn't stop it.

She was flirting with Quinn Fabray.

And if she judged correctly, Quinn Fabray was enjoying it.

And it all made too much sense. They'd gotten closer over Phantom, become real friends, talked more, even so much as texted a few times. Quinn even came over one night for a Friends marathon hosted by her dads.

Yes, it all made too much sense.

'Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams, purge all thoughts of the life you knew before; close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar...'

Quinn closed her eyes as Rachel's voice dwelled angelically on the high notes, really, truly, losing herself for a moment––surrendering to her darkest dreams. All of which consisted of herself, with Rachel. And certainly no baby. Her eyes flashed open, and her breathing accelerated as she realized what she had just been thinking. But it was too late.

She had already surrendered.

'...and you'll live as you've never lived before.'

Her eyes closed again. She let herself picture it. All the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions that had been struggling to be released from the shackles of her conscience––all of it came exploding forth across the closed expanse of her eyelids with a frightening clarity. She and Rachel.

It made too much sense.

'Softly, deftly, music shall caress you; hear it, feel it, secretly possess you; open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness that you know you cannot fight; the darkness of the music of the night...'

When Quinn opened her eyes again, Rachel was sitting next to her on the bench, their hands pressed together.

'Let your mind start a journey to a strange, new world, leave all thoughts of the life you knew before; let your soul take you where you long to be; only then can you belong to me...' on the last line, she gave Quinn's hand a gentle squeeze, and Quinn found herself squeezing back before she closed her eyes once more.

'Floating, falling, sweet intoxication... touch me, trust me, savor each sensation, let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write... the power of the music of the night.'

At the close, Rachel scooted closer and slid her hand up Quinn's shoulder, tugging her chin in her direction––an action that forced Quinn to open her vibrant eyes and skewer Rachel's with a dark gaze.

'You alone can make my song take flight... help me make the music of the night.'

There was silence; the sound of Rachel trying to catch her breath, intermingling with Quinn's breathless tempo of exhales. They just looked at each other, Rachel holding Quinn's pert chin, Quinn holding Rachel's other hand with a strangling intensity. Nothing was said until Quinn pulled away, stood up, took a deep breath, smoothed over her belly, and said, 'Play the damned opening note while I'm still lost.'

Rachel displayed a breathless smile and touched the key.

And when Quinn sang, it was the most beautiful she'd ever sounded.

That was the first time Quinn realized Rachel brought out the best in her.

It wouldn't be the last.

The stage was set. The sound was checked. The lights were backed. Everything was ready for William McKinley High School's very own production of Andrew Lloyd Weber's Phantom of the Opera.

Everything, and everyone, except for Meg, that is.

Except for Quinn Fabray.

'Quinn, come on, the curtain goes up in less than five minutes!' Rachel called excitedly, tugging on Quinn's hand and pulling her out of the makeshift dressing room (a.k.a. the very same girl's bathroom which had been put in use since the first blocking rehearsals).

'Calm down, Rachel,' Quinn snapped, letting out a ragged sigh as she was tugged along by the fanatical brunette.

Sensitive to her sudden switch in mood, Rachel froze and turned around, dropping her hand. 'What's the matter? You aren't getting a last minute bout of stage fright, are you?'

Quinn looked away sheepishly, and Rachel let out a little exhale of frustration.

'It's understandable for you to be nervous, Quinn. You're not as experienced as, say, someone like me in the field of musical theatre.'

The blond scoffed and rolled her eyes at Rachel's supposed words of comfort.

'But I heard you last night, and you were amazing,' she said, and bit her lip. Complimenting someone else (whom she had once viewed as competition) did not exactly come easily for her. 'I know you can do it again tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that. You've got it in you, Quinn. Just lose yourself.'

Just lose yourself.

'Just lose myself,' Quinn repeated, steadily. She nodded, feeling the lump in her throat and the gnawing in her stomach slowly start to abate. 'Just lose myself.'

Rachel grinned at her brightly, and Quinn managed a weak smile back.

'You know, Quinn, when Mr. Shue first put up the cast list, and I saw your name––I didn't think you'd be able to do it (well, after I'd pat myself on the back for of course achieving the role of Christine, and grimaced at Puck being the Phantom and laughed at Finn being Raoul). I was upset, really, that he'd chosen to cast such an amateur in such a stunning and crucial role as Meg. Especially one by whom I felt threatened'––she flinched a bit––'but now... I realize why he did it. You're very talented, Quinn, and you're the only one who was good enough to sing opposite me.'

'I thought this whole experience was going to be a lot worse than it was,' Quinn admitted, after a pause. 'Now I don't really want it to be over.' She finished off with a weak smile.

'At least we'll still have Glee afterward, and sectionals!'

'That's true,' she allowed. 'Maybe Mr. Shue will give us a solo, or something. It's not as bad as I thought it was, sharing the stage with you, Berry.'

'Hey, you were doing so well there for a while!' Rachel protested.

'I broke up with Finn tonight.'

Rachel's breath hitched in her throat. 'I thought you loved him?' she eventually managed to choke out. 'Isn't that what you said, that––that your feelings had gotten out of control, and––'

'It's not Finn's baby.'

The words sliced between them like a knife.

'It's Puck's.'

Once Rachel recovered from the shock, she turned and gave Quinn a meaningful look. 'Is that why you ended things with Finn? So you could be with Puck?'

'Be in a relationship with that Lima Loser? Please.'

'Then why?'

'Oh, you know. Tastes change.'

That was the first time Quinn shot Rachel a flirty smile.

It wouldn't be the last.

'No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears...' Finn sang in a deep bass as he ran his fingers a little more longingly than was in character across Rachel's arms. But she wasn't in the song. She wasn't in character.

For the first time in her professional stage-life, Rachel Berry was distracted.

Distracted by a beautiful, blond ballerina in the wings, who was staring at her from her vantage just as intently as Rachel was staring from onstage.

'All I want is freedom, a world with no more night... and you, always beside me, to guard me and to guide me,' the words came freely now, sliding out of her lips just as if they had been composed for how she felt about Quinn. It had taken some time for her to see it, but now that she could understand in retrospect that all the anger and antipathy that she and Quinn had once held for one another was nothing more than poorly restrained sexual tension, everything became more clear. More defined. More sharp.

The song dragged on endlessly, with Finn and Rachel's stage-chemistry crackling and steaming up the audience to an almost unbearable point. Unbearable for Quinn, anyway. She knew that Finn had feelings for Rachel. She wasn't an idiot. But she also knew that Finn was an idiot, and more than likely didn't see that Rachel no longer had any feelings for him whatsoever.

Or, at least, so she hoped.

'Anywhere you go, let me go too... love me, that's all I ask of you,' came the dramatic finish, Rachel's soprano soaring into the farthest reaches of heaven and Finn's baritone descending into the deepest trenches of hell. Quinn clapped reflexively from the curtains, clasping her hands together and smiling––really, truly smiling––for the first time in a long time.

That, right there, on stage?

That was Rachel Berry.

That was the girl she loved.

Rachel rushed offstage right, where Quinn was standing, and grabbed hold over her, spinning her around in a dramatic hug.

'It's going so well, Quinn! They love me!'

'Yes, yes, they do, Rachel,' she whispered, suddenly sobering. 'They all love you.'

Rachel quieted her egocentrism and looked directly into Quinn's suddenly dark gaze with something a little less than horror and a little more than guilt.

'I love them too,' she whispered back. She didn't want––she couldn't have––she didn't at all want for Quinn to think she was being selfish, for her to think she was gloating. Suddenly she felt ashamed, as if she was too focused on her own successes. It was the first time Rachel had ever felt as if she was in the wrong. 'They love you, too, Quinn. Probably more than me,' she admitted. 'It's true, really, don't look at me like that––the audience quite often shares a high level of regard or affinity for a side character of lesser importance, they are called fan-favo––'

She didn't know where the sudden impulse originated; all she knew was that she followed it, and it led her to Rachel's lips. The kiss was over too soon––it was really more of a crushing meeting of lips than a kiss. Quinn was experienced, but Rachel was not; in fact, her mouth was still moving with partially formed words against Quinn's lips, until finally they sagged, limply, and her eyes closed, and she dropped her head back like she'd seen so many times before in those Bogart and Bacall's. Quinn looked at her, and rolled her eyes.

'Typical Berry,' was the first thing she said as she pulled away.

Rachel opened her eyes, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, processing what had just occurred, and what it meant.

'Rachel, you're on!'

It was close to the finale, now. Puck was opposite her, and they were singing The Point of No Return.

She couldn't stop thinking about Quinn.

'Past the point of no return,' Puck began, in his deep timbre, 'the final threshold! What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn beyond the point of no return?'

Focus, Rachel, focus, she chanted to herself, before she launched into her part of the duet. 'You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence... silence. I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why; in my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent; and now I am here with you, no second thoughts; I've decided... decided.' That part always made her blush when she was in character, but now? Now, she was Rachel Berry, singing to Quinn Fabray, who was dancing to her right, looking at her just as passionately––but with a touch more fear––than Rachel could see.

Quinn was terrified of her feelings for Rachel. Of what they meant, for them both. First she was pregnant, and now she was... well, she was breaking a lot of Christian rules. The cross around her neck seemed to cinch, and choke her.

When she went offstage, she tore it off, and threw it in the trash.

No more fear. No more sin. No more expectations.

It was just she, and Rachel.

They'd passed the point of no return.

THE END.