#cporttask11

“Mama?” Tina called out as she carefully stepped over the threshold and into to her old family home; a dark and barbed weight settling in her chest as it tended to do ever since his funeral.

Honestly, she didn’t know how her mother could stand to still live in a place where each room was now a crippling reminder of the sunshine presence that would never fill them again. Hell, it was only last week that she’d been able to put back up her favorite framed photo she had of her and her father ( her, sitting atop his shoulders at 6 years old with a missing front-toothed grin while he laughed and laughed and spun them around ) without collapsing into tears.

They’d both agreed weeks back that Thanksgiving wouldn’t be celebrated this year. The mere idea of it was just too hard to comprehend. Truthfully, there was nothing more Tina wanted than to just stay at home for the night, curled with Salem and a few mugs of generously spiked cider while she watched a mind-numbing series on Netflix. But her mother had asked her over the day before yesterday, and there was no way she could or would refuse.

However, the sight of the small, well-loved living room table filled with gimbap, kimchi, and soju all laid out neatly across its surface was pretty paramount in both startling and confusing the absolute hell out of her.

“What—?” but her voice cut off as soon as her mother appeared from down the short hall. For a long moment, Tina just watched her come closer, incredulous to what was happening, as a rush of blinding anger came to the forefront of her senses. Was this for real? Why in the hell would she do this? Why would she do anything that would make them remember him so soon? Too soon.

“His favorite foods from home that he liked to make,” was all Tanya offered after a tense silence, but it only made the emotions ricocheting inside of her that much worse. What was she thinking? Was she serious?! But just as she opened her mouth to shout and reprimand her mother with everything she had, she found herself beat to the punch yet again.

“Don’t. Please.” Another leaden pause thickened the air like a suffocating smog.

“You know he wouldn’t have wanted the house like this, Tina; filled with this awful silence and sorrow. You and I mourning. You know he would have hated it.”

The harsh words were loaded and like a violent shot to the chest — her breath hitching as she tried to fight back the hot press of tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.

God, hadn’t she cried enough? Why couldn’t it just stop already? Why did she do this?

Tina opened her mouth once more — to say what, she wasn’t too sure — but the sudden and harsh bursts of fury, sorrow, and loneliness she’d felt coalescing to dangerous heights mere seconds before died out when she caught the open and earnest look reflected in her mother’s own watery eyes; something she hadn’t seen in months.

It reminded her of the days she and her mother and father spent during her youth; goofing around in the kitchen and dancing sporadically to old rock music, or camping out in the backyard as her dad made silly-voiced shadow puppets on the tent walls with a flashlight, and so, so much more. Each moment was filled with the same heartfelt and loving air that she’d always felt and cherished the most from her parents that surrounded practically everything they did. They were the memories ( and everything that came with them ) that she’d so desperately tried to shove down in the aftermath of her father’s death for fear of a complete and utter breakdown. But in that one, singular instance and whispered plea from her equally suffering mother in her old family home, she found that she now, more than ever, wanted desperately to cling to them like a stubborn, spoiled child.  

And despite vaguely wishing she’d been talked to first about the whole set up; despite being ambushed and knowing she had the right to be upset in some form or fashion, Tina looked at her mother, over to the table of food that her father always swore by for the heaviest of hearts, and felt her tight, burning muscles lose all their fight and strain. 

Fine. Fine. She was right, wasn’t she?

Wasn’t she . . .?

Nodding her head, Tina smiled a choppy, but somehow sincere smile of her own as she pushed down the niggling urge to run off and throw up.

“Yeah. Okay. . .”

&&. ___________

It was a mere few hours later, and she was on that pleasant precipice of tipsiness that came just before you fell straight into being drunk. There were only a few traces of food left in bits and pieces on the table as she watched from her place on the couch — whole body warm and uncontrollable giggles tumbling free — as her mother regaled a story about the utter disaster that was her father’s proposal. It was one that she’d heard about a million times before, and yet, it never got old.

The start to their rather unexpected evening had been difficult and somewhat stilted despite the mini intervention of sorts. But once they’d stared to eat and the more they talked and began to laugh and tentatively reminisce ( the more they drank ) the easier and more enjoyable it got. Hearing about her father like this: happy and silly and whole as he ever had been, and from the only other person who knew him so well and loved him just as much as she did was something she hadn’t realized she needed; something she didn’t think would be so cathartic after the endless sad of it all.

Tina had just poured two more glasses of peach soju for her and her mother once their mingled laughter finally died down, when Tanya slowly leaned back with a small, satisfied sigh and smiled in that seeking, motherly kind of way.

“. . . How are things with you, though, honey? You know, outside of work. You’ve had so much go on with that poor Rachel girl, and this town’s never-ending need for drama outside of themselves. I haven’t heard much from you about, well . . . any of it lately.”

Well, that was absolutely a conversation that didn’t need to be had.

“Yeah, it’s all fine. I mean, it’s been hard, of course, but I’m . . . you know, dealing. I have Hunter, my friends, and work, so I’m not lacking,” she replied airily as she waved the question off. But Tanya just stared at her daughter for a long, calculating moment, and Tina felt her stomach drop at what she hoped wasn’t coming.  

Anything but that. 

“You should know better than to try and lie to me like that, sweetheart.”

Fuck. Fuck. Of course, yet again, her mother had gone and disarmed her with only a sentence ( paired with the liquor in her system and slew of emotions and issues ) as the repressed realities of the past year came slithering like grotesque vines to grip at her heart. How exactly did one tell their mother that, besides an old schoolmate dying after months of being missing, she and her friends had also been dealing with some freak tormenting them with secrets and blackmail? How she’d been on a rollercoaster with Hunter from the second he’d gotten back into Castleport that finally seemed to be slowing down and in their favor for once, or the nasty fight she’d got into with Santana that left her feeling enormously guilty and murderously irate at the same time? And worst of all, that she’d gotten Sam’s father drunk, took him home, and took a picture of what she’d done in order to save Double C’s from being shut down ( or worse ) after a series of horrible threats?

. . . Then there was her father; the haunting, painful memory of how he’d smiled a ghost of her favorite smile at her as she held his hand tight in hers ( as though that was enough to tether him to life ) before closing his eyes for the final time.

How it felt that she was just a hollow shell — a husk of nothing important or worthy of anything, and maybe she always had been.

Tanya must have seen the clear crumbling wall of emotions falling across her daughter’s face; her own showing nothing but heartbreaking empathy as she gently reached the short distance across the couch they sat on and cupped Tina’s face in her gentle hand.

“내 작은 해바라기가 너무 슬퍼 보인다.”

That.

Hearing her mother speak so gently to her in Korean along with the nickname she’d had since birth was what broke the damn, and hard. There was no stopping it. 

Tina let out an ugly, wrenched sob as she buckled forward and into her mother’s ready, protective, and comforting embrace. Her whole body shook as she cried — cried for everything that’d been her life as of late, and to the one person she knew would just let her, without judgement, without discomfort, without fear or phony reassurances, cry.

There, a daughter curled up with her mother in a heavy home filled with old, bittersweet memories and an emptiness that was felt achingly.  

Family. That’s what this day was supposed to be about - family and unity and coming together to celebrate something larger than one’s self. It was supposed to be a time where things felt okay and one felt comforted in the embrace of loved ones. Had he ever felt that way before? The house was one that was far too large for a family of three - soon enough a family of two if Hunter got his way - and as they all sat at the table it was rudely apparent just how much empty space they had. 

The air was silent as they ate, that silence only broken every now and then by a request to pass something down or a quick question in a feeble attempt to start conversation that quickly died. Every question between them died with short one or two word responses, no one really eager to divulge anything. At least, that was the case until there was a question that Hunter couldn’t just pass upon. As his mother took a sip of her drink, she looked towards her son. “Hunter, dear, you’ve been spending a lot of time with that girl again...what was her name? Tana? The one from the diner.” She looked at her husband, as if he could provide the answer as Hunter just let out an exhausted sigh. 

“Tina. Her name is Tina, and yes. I have. Despite father’s best efforts, I am. Despite the desperate, exhausting attempt to strip me of everyone I care about, I am still dating her.”

There was a clearing of his throat as his father looked at him. “Hunter, that’s enough. This is not the place.”

Too much. There had been too much since he had come back. From learning that Tina had been bribed into breaking up with him to knowing his father had double-crossed Sam and left him to take the fall...to Rachel. It was all too much. 

“No.” It came out soft at first, but still firm in its own way as Hunter put down the fork and knife he had been holding. “No. I won’t stay quiet any longer. You tried to bribe my girlfriend to leave me and when that didn’t work, you threatened her. You’ve orchestrated my life since I was a child, punishing me if I didn’t act exactly as you wanted. You took Sam Evan’s trust in me and you betrayed him leaving me to pick up the mess.”

He winced as a hand slammed down on the table, but Hunter didn’t back away, not any longer. “I am only doing what is best for you, giving you a life where you can succeed and live a respectful decent life. I don’t know what has gotten into you, Hunter Clarington, but you have been given everything. Your mother and I have given you a perfect life and what do we ask for in return? Just for you to settle down with a nice woman and continue the family line in a respectable manner. But instead you wish to throw away your life on booze and that diner girl. You could have a good life. You once listened and you were once with someone worthy of your future.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Hunter did this as he listened though eventually the words just went over him. “Someone worthy...Quinn. You know, the funny thing is, if you had just let us be, maybe we would have been. But you could never do that. And that ‘diner girl’ her name is Tina Cohen-Chang and I love her. I’m not a child anymore and I’m tired of letting you dictate my life. I know who I am, and I’m not ashamed of it. I like men, I have an alcohol problem, and I’m in love with Tina and someday I’m going to marry her, and there’s nothing you can do to stop that.”

He could feel what he could only describe as daggers being shot at him as his father was silent for a moment. “From the moment you were born, you’ve been nothing but a disgrace to this family, a disgrace to the Clarington name, and a disgrace to me as a son.” Hunter expected to be told to leave, to be sent away out of sight and out of mind, but he wasn’t. Instead, it seemed his father was going to do what he did best - leave. He watched as the man got up from the table, ignoring his wife’s pleas to sit back down even as she rushed after him. Then he was alone, sitting there at the table as a feeling of accomplishment came over him. 

For the first time in...Lord knows how long, Sam woke up on his own. No alarms and no obligations. Alone, of course. But alone was good in a large bed that wasn't his, in a room with a closet that was double the size of his own back home in a house that if he closed it eyes and listened closely, carried the gentle sound of waves. 

He could see them too, if he wanted. Slip from warm sheets and cross the floor to the balcony. But it was still New England in November and he'd meet nothing but the cold winds coming off the ocean. So this was how the other half of Castleport lived. In beachfront properties they hardly spent time in, except in the sweltering summer months, in big beds, and little cares. 

Sam rolled onto his side. He would have to get up soon. See where everyone was in terms of cooking duties. He didn't imagine that his Thanksgiving would be...this. In an Airbnb courtesy of a hookup Santana had because of course she knew people. He didn’t even know how the hell he’d even pay her back for it, feeling funny at even accepting the offer until Santana mentioned it was practically given to her for free. It was just the four of them. Him, Santana, and their siblings. 

He was glad for the buffer that Santana and her brother Steven provided, along with the chance to get out of their childhood home for the holiday. The thought of having to be in that house now...away was good. Since her arrival the night before, he hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to his sister. After helping Steven carry in the bags (theirs and some grocery ones), he settled on the massive couch in the large living room in front of the very large flat screen. Stacy had tried to approach him there, wanting to engage him in conversation, to discuss the facility that their father would call home for the next 30 or so days, but Sam sat in silence. His gaze refusing to leave the television as he casually flipped through the channels. 

Stacy’s scoff stayed with him when she turned to leave, stalking away in a cloud of auburn hair and a startlingly bright green sweater, but Sam refused to call after her. The anger he felt at her going along with Quinn’s plan to effectively shut him out of James’ treatment had yet to subside. It sat with him, in the pit of his stomach like an ugly, thorny weight. 

Waking up in a bed with a view of the ocean could only do so much, but he was determined not to let it spoil the day. Reaching for his phone, he checked his messages, scrolling through the various texts from well-wishers...which seemed like such a weird thing to do for a holiday based on eating and football. Still, he sent out a few messages, because he was thankful for the people he still had. 

And tried to ignore the feelings about the others. The Thanksgivings of old: Quinn dropping in for dessert with his family, his mother insisting on cutting an extra large slice of her chocolate mousse pie for the girl. Or the ones after Maggie, spent with Mercedes and the chaotic warmth that came from a Jones holiday with his girlfriend doting on his little sister. Wouldn’t do any kind of good to dwell on old shit. 

With a groan he got up reluctantly from the warm cocoon of blankets, and showered in the adjoining bathroom, taking the time to savor the hot water from a pipe that didn’t need a good five minutes to warm up. He loved the charm their old house had, but character couldn’t compete with a modern water heating system. 

Sam had taken his time, toweling off and getting dressed, emerging from the bathroom to find Stacy perched on the edge of the bed. She’d made it for him, the corners of the sheets tucked in tightly and the blanket folded at the foot. Her sweater today was oversized and a soft dark gold, that complimented her auburn curls and reminded him so much of their mother. Especially with that look in dark eyes, the determined one that he should have expected. 

But Sam wasn’t in the mood for any more words on the matter. He’d had enough of them with Quinn. And if the pair of them wanted to go over his head, he was no longer dealing with the issue. He tugged on the olive-colored long-sleeved thermal, smoothing it down while he turned in the mirror, paying his sister dust. 

“You really won’t talk to me? Really, Sam?” 

He raked a hand through his still-damp hair, deciding to let it air dry after finger combing a bit of moisturizing pomade through it. He glanced up, gazing at his sister through the mirror, waiting a beat before joining her on the bed. Only to tug on his boots. 

“You wanna talk to somebody, talk to Quinn. Y’all are running things now, right?” 

It was a low blow, and he barely flinched when Stacy shot off the bed hands on her hips. “You’re such a goddamn hypocrite, Sam. This is why people don’t tell you things. If it’s not something you wanna hear, you shut them out. I did what I thought was best for Daddy, and Quinn supported that. Why can’t you?” 

It pained him, hearing the emotion in his baby sister’s voice. Sam couldn’t even recall the last time they fought. Everything he did, he did for her. Any money he could spare, he sent her way. He was so proud of her, it hurt. To lose her mother even younger than he did, and left with a father who could barely take care of them and a brother who wasn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a shining example unless it involved squandered potential. 

But she managed to excel and shine, and do all the things that made him want to protect her from all the ugly shit that happened at home. And Sam wasn’t sure if he was just angry at himself for putting effort into maintaining an unnecessary facade or at Stacy, for exposing just how useless he was in all this. That he could look at the measure of it all, and find that he wasted so many years waiting around this damn town, all for what?

“I didn’t shut anyone out,” he replied simply, pushing off the bed to his full height. “I was pushed out. You two decided I wasn’t needed and made your own choice. So I’m respecting it. And I got nothing else to say about it. You wanna talk to me? Talk about anything else. But this? I’m done with it. You and Quinn made decisions about him...y’all can handle whatever the hell happens from it. I mean it, Anastasia.” 

His tone was void of anger, but carried a hint of exhaustion that seemed to zap a good bit of the goodwill that came along with the swanky house. But, it was Thanksgiving, and he didn’t want to spend it angry and tired. He’d spent enough days in the last year like that. At so  much. 

Even more so after...Sam shook his head. He didn’t like to think too long about the blackout. About finding that car out on North Road. About Rachel… 

Not today. 

Today, he’d try to concentrate on the good things he could still grasp. Cold winds coming off the ocean, in a house by the sea, in a bed with soft sheets, in a room with a closet twice the size of his own back home. With a shower that didn’t need five minutes to warm up. That wasn’t in a house empty of laughter but heavy on memories and shame, and dust, and and and….

Not today.

Today, was for thanks. For the people who mattered most to him...those he was still talking to, anyway. If there was a lesson to be taken from this Thanksgiving to the last, it was that life was just...too damn short.

His sister was standing in front of him, eyes glassy and Sam reached for her, arms curling around her shoulders as he held her in a hug, waiting for the moment he felt her arms around his waist before he pressed a kiss to her temple. 

She didn’t deserve another house with bad memories, or another holiday with tears. Not on his account. 

“Let’s go help San and Steven” he told her, giving her shoulders a small squeeze before separating. Things were...not good. They wouldn’t be. 

Sure, there were a few good moments; his grandmother arriving the night before Thanksgiving with presents in tow from the past two birthdays that she just so happened to miss, but it seemed that his mother’s mother was stuck in the past -- instead of say, something he could use for his job, in her wake was a baton that he could’ve used very well back when he donned the Cheerios uniform. Madison always received her usual, but well -- creative arts can last a lifetime. She can use those tools anyday -- he didn’t have much usage for a baton or a new curling iron. 

Especially since... well.

His grandmother wasn’t happy when he walked through the door the morning of Thanksgiving with his freshly-growing in buzz-cut. He wasn’t the last to arrive, nor was he the first; his cousins littering the household and making it seem full again. And despite his desperate attempts, it hadn’t felt full since his father’s fiasco. Even after they moved, it never felt full. 

Various family members asked him how things were going, and they tried so hard to check up on him, but he brushed them off. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about anything. Not to his family, at least. Maybe to Madison, but well -- Madison was never her friend. He hadn’t talked to Madison properly in weeks, anyways. A few more hours ( read: days ) wouldn’t do any damage. 

His aunt was discussing whatever high-end job his uncle had gotten within the past few years, and how they were doing a lot better since moving to Washington D.C. A part of him ached; he only wished his family was doing that well. With the uprising of tablets and e-books, it was only a matter of time before the bookstore closed it’s doors for good. It was still sometimes a shock to him that his mother could afford the house she lived in, still keeping everything she wanted to keep and refusing to take out a mortgage. And yet, here his family was: basking in the awe of smartphones and six-figure salaries. 

It made him sick to his stomach.

But maybe that was the third glass of wine in the past hour talking. 

It was always his mother’s side that attended Thanksgiving, and most other holidays; never his father’s side. They didn’t talk to or about his father, or whatever family still felt like talking to them on that side. It was always at his mother’s house, because according to his grandmother: “It’s the biggest, and the closest. We can all fit like the happy family we are.” 

Happy. 

Bullshit. 

Mason hadn’t been happy in a while. 

But yet, he put on the smiling facade he was supposed to don come the holiday season, and sat at the kitchen island next to his mother while silently listening in on the conversation. He could hear his uncle and his grandfather in the living room, yelling at the television -- he may have been a Cheerleader, but football wasn’t his thing. He was more of a watcher of the players, not the actual game itself. But ever time he brought that up, well -- 

“Some things are better left unsaid, Mason.” 

Sometimes he really, really disliked his grandmother. 

He was hoping this year would be different. Hoped that maybe, just maybe, his family would be off his back. That his grandmother wouldn’t be pulling at the back of his collar, begging him to find something suitable for a wife and family, as if there wasn’t even the chance that Mason could find a husband. That his aunt wouldn’t be rubbing it in his face how Johnathan, the cousin only a few months younger than Mason and Madison, was two months away from a top-of-the-line promotion at a law firm in Virginia. That maybe Devin, the sixteen year old brother of Johnathan wouldn’t sneak off to the park down the street only to come home twenty minutes before dinner smelling like pot. That maybe his grandfather wouldn’t drink himself stupid, to the point where he felt no problem throwing every hateful slur Mason’s way because he decided to wear a dress to his aunt’s wedding. 

He was only thirteen. He didn’t see it as a bad thing. He just wanted to look pretty like his mom.

Mason could hear his cousins upstairs in the guest room -- if one could even call it that. It had been renovated so many times, Mason lost count. Once, it was a study. Another, a small library to hold the books that couldn’t go in the bookstore. One time his mother even tried to take up crafting and turned it into a walking art store. Eventually it was settled upon storage, so who knows what palace of junk the younger kids got themselves into. 

Damn his aunt and her six freaking kids. 

It was on his fifth glass as he helped his mother fluff the stuffing that Mason decided he really, really hated the holidays. 

But, then again...

Rachel always loved them. 

Rachel loved coming over in the morning of Thanksgiving, helping his mother with the vegetables because she refused to touch the meat. They’d engage in conversation about whatever was going on at school; be it the musical, the play, student council -- whatever Rachel wanted to talk about, his mother would listen, and Mason would watch on in awe. He never got to tell her, but Mason’s mother damn near considered Rachel family -- she was at the house often enough. 

If anyone asked him shortly after Mason met her, he’d say that one day, she would be a part of the family. 

But that was saved for his journals. 

Now, instead of watching in awe while Rachel helped prep his family meal before returning to her own, he watched on as his mother did it alone. He helped where he could, but the women in his family were always the better cooks. 

His grandmother’s shrill of a laugh echoed from a joke his aunt told.

The shout of his grandfather still boomed from the living room.

The pitter-patter of feet upstairs still caused the old wood to creak. 

But Mason? 

He was quiet. 

Even when he was asked to give thanks at the table, and to set a prayer amongst their family, he was silent. He passed the prayer on to fucking Johnathan, the family’s apparent pride in joy. And while he sat, doing more sipping at his wine and picking at his food at 2 PM instead of actually eating, he started filling with... 

Anger. Frustration. Determination. 

Sadness. 

But with the sixth glass, the emotions started to fade away into a comforting fuzziness. Each sip took him further and further down that rabbit hole, taking him farther and farther away from the hurt and pain in remembering that Rachel Berry wasn’t there to rescue him from his uncle’s antics. That Rachel wasn’t there to message while his aunt rambled on. That Rachel wasn’t there to compliment his mother’s cooking.

That Rachel wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there. 

And she wouldn’t be again. 

.....

It was only after his family retreated to their AirBNB’s and Mason was alone in his room that night, surrounded by photos and memories of Rachel being in the same bed as him that he let himself cry for the first time. 

------------------------------------------

It was the next day after Mason nursed his almost non-existent hangover that he decided to crawl out of bed. Even though it was the holidays, he was still a teacher, he still had an assessment plan to prep, still had midterm papers on various Shakespearean plays to grade; still had a life to live despite the fact that it felt like he was only going through the motions. 

His phone vibrated on the bedside table; the one that held various photo frames lined with sharpie-boarders and sequins haphazardly glued to the edges. 

Santana. Again. 

He stopped answering after the third call; stopped replying after the fifteenth text message. She had been trying to get a hold of him all break; whether to make plans, or to check up on him. But he didn’t want to be checked up on. He didn’t want to make plans with people he usually saw on the daily. He didn’t want to get out of bed that morning. 

What he wanted he couldn’t have. Never again.

But, then again...

He did have something he could have. Something to hold onto, something to bring some sort of happiness to the dwindling cold that he considered himself to be lately. Something to be the shining star in his world of darkness. 

Literally.

The Berry’s invited him over for tea and leftover pie. 

He knew it was a casual setting. That he shouldn’t be dressing up in a nice shirt and slacks; that he should go just as he is. But Mason didn’t know casual -- not anymore. Not when five out of seven days a week he was wearing business casual. He used to have a great sense of style, but lately... lately he didn’t feel himself. Like a part of him had been missing. 

The door to the Berry residence alone felt like an old friend. The door that he once felt was bigger than the world now felt small; like he could engulf it whole if he outstretched his arms. That suffocating feeling was in the back of his throat, threatening to close in on him as he stepped over the threshold. But there they were, both men, dressed nice and classy -- welcoming him in with open arms as if nothing had changed. They welcomed him into their home without a second thought, without a word out of place -- as if he were home. 

Rachel’s house always did feel like a second home to him.

“How are you holding up?” Hiram asked, passing Mason a tea cup. It was almost a tradition in the Berry household; a friendly tea following a big holiday. It’s where Mason found himself the morning of New Year’s Eve most years in high school and shortly after, before he’d doll himself up and head out to parties. 

“I’m... coping.” Liar. He wasn’t. But he wouldn’t tell Hiram that. He wouldn’t tell Leroy that. He wouldn’t tell either of them that because out of the three of them, Mason was the one who was supposed to keep his shit together. Mason was the one who needed to be strong. Mason was the one who had to keep his head on straight while they were the ones allowed to mourn. 

“We haven’t really heard from you since the memorial.” Leroy prompted; Mason let out a sigh. 

“I’ve been... Busy. Work, the musical.” Distracting myself from thinking. 

“I hope you’re not working too hard.”

Mason gave Leory a gentle smile, “I’m doing whatever I can to make her proud.” 

And he held true to that statement. He was doing whatever he could to make Rachel proud -- both in public, and behind the public eye. Continuing what they started; bringing chaos amongst them all in Castleport. 

But chaos could wait for another day. 

After tea, the Berry men left Mason to his own devices as he wandered the home he had frequented so often. Where his own father was absent, both men stepped in -- he hoped that his own mother was something similar to Rachel. While they occupied themselves in the kitchen, Mason led himself upstairs to the room still shrouded in yellow; still glowing that vibrant color even in what he described as a dark time. 

He missed her. He missed her more than he could ever imagine and more than any amount of alcohol could potentially numb. Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many bottles he drowned himself in, there was no escaping the sound of her voice, or the look on her face the last time he saw her. 

By the end of the afternoon he had curled himself atop her still-made bed, plastic-framed photograph of the two of them in hand, asleep. There were tear streaks upon his cheeks when Hiram found him that afternoon. 

It was obvious that this Thanksgiving wasn’t going to be like any other Bree had lived through in her past twenty seven years, and she wasn’t naive enough to believe that it would be in a good way. The holiday was usually an emotional one for her as she spent time with her family, always eternally grateful that her mother was there to partake in it all with them. It was typically a low key celebration, the three of them playing the traditional roles as the girls spent the afternoon in the kitchen with her father watching endless football games mindlessly. Some may have called it boring, but it was familiar.

And when Jordan came along? They pulled up another chair to the table and he seamlessly fit right in. From the start he had gotten along with Bree’s father more than anyone else, sometimes more than what made her comfortable. There was more yelling from the living room at the games, laughter floating through every now and then that would put smiles on the women’s faces. Ones that didn’t seem to fade throughout the day, finding herself glancing across the table mindlessly at her husband with an almost wistful expression on her face. Like she couldn’t quite believe that this was her seemingly fairy tale life.

But this year they were back to three. And instead of laughter coming from the living room there was silence, broken only by the sound of the announcers coming from the television. Her father barely greeted her with more than a grunt, despite Bree’s efforts to make it feel like it always used to. Like it should always have been. The silence stretched slowly into the kitchen, enveloping her in a way that almost made her want to scream just to break it. To yell about how she knew it was all her fault, making her question whether she should have even come home for the holiday or just treated it like any other day. Which for Bree, would involve sweatpants, piles of blankets, and a box of tissues on the couch next to her.

Her phone vibrated occasionally on the counter where it was sitting, reaching for it each time and feeling like she let out a breath of relief at the words there. She had taken Sam up on his offer to just talk, not wanting to disturb his own holiday but also needing encouragement of her own that this wasn’t going to be the new normal. That it, like everything else in her life at the moment, would require adjustments -- changes to the expectations. But that it was okay. Bree would get through it, she knew that. It was just sometimes easier to do when she had someone else telling her the same thing. And almost belatedly she realized how thankful she was to have him as her support system, knowing he had gone through the exact same thing. Not to mention all of the other benefits their friendship may have recently added.

Dinner was a quiet affair, Bree mostly keeping her eyes down as she could practically feel the waves of disappointment rolling off of her father. He didn’t know the details, just that she had been the one to make the mistake. And god knows what Jordan had actually told him; Bree just knew that he wasn’t aware of the truth. Her mother, on the other hand, was fully informed, considering she was one of her closest friends, despite it all. The fact that she always had a soft spot for Ryder didn’t hurt matters either, the apprehension over telling her the truth easier to overcome than she had originally thought. Many tears and hugs later they had wordlessly agreed to keep it between themselves, not needing it to get out for a multitude of reasons. Even if Bree had a sinking feeling that it would, knowing Castleport’s history with secrets.

The two-story house still sat the same, awning jutting out over top the door. It’s the same color, even in the cool grey of deep autumn, but she can tell her dad finally convinced her mother to give it a fresh coat. Probably during the summer. 

She was watching for something else that could’ve been new. Did they paint the front door again? Were those new mums in the garden? Who kept cutting the grass past October? 

Short legs slid out of her car and all Mercedes Jones can do is continue to look at her childhood home. It’s not too hard to see what’s changed. To tell the gate got fixed while she was gone, the metal that once scraped the pavement now hanging straight. When did her mom find the time to plant new rose bushes? When’d her dad find the time to hang the lights before dinner? Did anyone help her mom with the inside decorations?

Everything in her view felt too clear. She’d been sure the numerous people she watched walk in and out of her house, could feel her gaze. They could feel those brown eyes stare and stare. They’d just known she was watching, waiting, appraising outfits, trying to guess what covered dishes they were bringing in. And she watched a little person at the door grinning up as they entered, a smile so wide she’s sure those cheeks are going to bust open. They’ve never been the kind of family to be insular, no the Jones’ had just about an open door policy and Mercedes remembered this time last year watching from the kitchen as the cars parked along her street and guessing. 

It’s different now.

It’s sobering to stand on the street after so long, to stand and watch the people enter her home. 

And God it’s heavy to stand out there. 

She wasn’t sure when she moved but she doesn’t remember moving. She only remembered opening the door and the silence. Was that Donny Hathaway in the background? The little face felt out of place as it watched her. A sea of adults and one little girl with a face that reminded her of…

She couldn’t guess that right now.

She wouldn’t try to guess that right. When she stopped at the door, she waved. The gesture was small, unsure. Feeling strangely like the stories she’d heard in Sunday School as child. Another return home. This time there was no meeting down the road.

This time the feast was not for her.

This time she’d gambled away her fortunes and returned with nothing but herself and the heaviness on her chest. And the longer she stood and waved, the heavier it became.

Her father found her first.

When he pulled her to his chest, she’s sure she sobbed. She just knew everyone could hear the noise, wet and brittle and loud break through the music. They could hear her. They could hear the months of silent tears. They could hear her ruining the evening. They had to hear her pain. They could hear mourning.

All of Castleport could hear the death of her best friend.

She can’t see, but her feet were moving. The gusting wind of movement and that damn song in the background and the noise drifting farther and farther away the further she was pulled into her home. She can’t hear the flurry of feet behind her. Doesn’t see her mother’s worried face or that little face all screwed up in worry as they pull her past the kitchen to somewhere else.

It’s not her father’s careful hand that cradled her face. It’s her mother’s. The quiet sobs turned louder, turned desperate as she leaned heavily into her mother. Mercedes could hear the quiet shushing and she’s sure her mother is pushing everyone else out of the pantry with one hand. 

She stopped crying, somewhere along the line. Mercedes could feel her mother rocking her slow, could feel the warmth of her breath as she hummed and just past her own tight shuffle, she could hear the song had changed.

“Mom?”  She could feel the arm around her back tighten. 

“Yes, baby?” She stilled in her arms.

“How long have we been here? Are people even still h--” Before the words could come out, she’s being shushed, and this nostalgia sat. Weighed just as heavily as the songs that played on the radio. This nostalgia had past visions playing. She remembers being held, in this place.

Mercedes remembered the groove of the music. It was something old, that much she knew. But just over that old groove was that gentle hum, this time it’s just above her head. This time wasn’t in the middle of her Saturn return. This time she was five. This time her mother pulled something from the shelf as a smaller Mercedes clung to her. And she could smell her occasions only perfume. That was…

“The last time we were here was Mama June’s funeral, right?” Her voice remained muffled on her mother’s shoulder and she sighed before clinging to her mother tighter.

Just a little bit longer. That’s all they needed.

Older Mercedes pulled away and sniffled as she tried to wipe clean her face. The elder Jones woman worked in the stillness of the pantry to collect herself. The mask of familial concern faded and on came the mask of the homemaker.

“Later,” it slips, and she can see the woman who so many hugged in the hallway. “You come find me later alright?” All she could do was nod. That wasn’t a request.

When she stepped back into the well-lit kitchen, brown eyes burned trying desperately to readjust.

With the light returned Castleport’s success story. She walked back out and the smile spread across her face felt wrong, a puzzle piece jammed in place. At least this time it wouldn’t move.

She decided to put on a show. She’ll pull out the keyboard from upstairs and cut the radio and call everyone around her.

The piece almost fits. She sings and plays and plays and sing, trading actual conversations for songs. When the people around her smile, her own feels a little less wrong. When she finally stood to get her own food Mercedes could see the crowd had thinned. That little face peeked around a corner, wide brown eyes watching her.

When the guests leave, Mercedes wandered. She started outside, pulling her sweater closer as she tried to not think. The leaves crunch underfoot and she’s thankful the wind pushes her around stacked corners, makes her feet and not have to think about anything besides how to move. By the time she pulls open the patio door and begins to wander the downstairs, she runs into her father’s sleeping form. He’s sprawled out on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table and it’s all she can do but stand and watch him.

Watch each breath he took. Watch those eyes she’d inherited finally appear to relax. Watch his shoulders rise and fall.

She remembers watching Tina’s dad in his coffin and the vice grip she’d had on her father’s hand then. That pain never stopped feeling so fresh and watching her own father brought a fresh wave of grief.

Walking up the stairs in her house brought a small form of relief. That grief no longer sat in the middle of her throat. Mercedes could deal with it hanging heavy on her chest. “Mama?” She stopped short at the top of the landing and watched as her mother pressed a finger to her lips before glancing back in the room she’d just left. Tilly Jones waved her daughter closer as she pulled the door to a crack and walked further down the hallway. It’s all she can do to follow wordlessly behind her mother as they walked into her bedroom with Mercedes close behind.

She’d been quiet as she watched her mother set about for her night routine. And when the woman spoke again, brown eyes glance back up.

“You were right you know. I’m surprised you still remember that.” The confusion is evident on her face while her mother wiped her makeup off. “Mama June’s repast was here, at the house and you’d been crying all day it seemed.” Matilda paused, thoughtful and reminiscent. “I wanted to cry but you were sick all day and what kind of mother would I have been to not tend to your needs? And then I saw something of hers—I think it was a note she’d left reminding me to pickup some kind of candy for her grandbaby.”

The words tumbled out fast and when she heard her mother sniffle all Mercedes could do was pick at the bedspread she sat on. “I didn’t want to let go so you took me with you to—” The word hung in the air as her mother gripped the vanity tight.

“I did.” Matilda glanced back at her daughter, brown eyes trying to take her lost daughter in.

“It’s been tough for everyone.”

“I know Mom.” “You don’t. You haven’t been home Mercedes.” Her voice was gentle as she pulled her hair back and rose to go to her bathroom. She stopped at the door turning back to look fully at her daughter.

“At least you haven’t been here in this house.”

“Mom, wait—“

How do you say staying away felt easier?

The silence hung as the elder Jones woman flipped on the faucet and braced the counter, letting the water empty down the drain.

“I had to see my own daughter twice at funerals. And you didn’t speak to me. You didn’t even let me know you were okay.” And the words keep rolling out. “Your brother drops off a child to my doorstep and when one of us calls you, it seems you can’t be bothered to fucking answer, but the worst part is you won’t even call your father Mercedes. I don’t expect you to want to talk to me but him? He doesn’t deserve that.” She doesn’t know how to process any of it. “Mercedes, I need you to say something.”

“Robin came home?” It’s the first of the questions she can process and when the frustration on her mother’s face falls it felt rather wrong.

“He’s not here now if that’s what you’re asking.” Standing up, Mercedes abandoned her spot on the bed and stood up. “How?” Before her question can finish her mother cuts her off.

“I don’t know. He didn’t stay long. Just… dropped her off and promised to come back.” Another silence stretched over them and this time when her mother turned the faucet back on, she proceeds to wash her face and day off. Mercedes drifted out the room and paused at the door her mother had been at earlier. Pushing the hand, she stepped into the dark room and tried to study the little form in the bed. The tears drip quietly down her face as watched and she’s quiet as she pressed a gentle kiss to the little girl’s eyebrow. When she exits the room she’s met by her mother. “Leave it cracked. She gets scared.” Mercedes nodded. And when her mother reached for her hand, she lets her lace her fingers and kiss her cheek. When she spoke again, her mother’s voice is gentle.

“Mercedes. We need you here.” Brown eyes glanced back at the door behind them. “So if you’re going to go, please just do that. But if you’re staying. Stay. This town is not a revolving door.” Her voice picked up as she finished. “This family isn’t a revolving door. You understand me?”

Her one accomplishment - James Evans, safely tucked away to dry out for the first time in a decade - had been drowned out by the ripples that came from it.

Sam had been bad enough. She’d been trying to comfort herself about it, that at least she knew where they stood, at least he’d been honest about how he felt and what he thought of her, finally, a response and reaction she’d never known she needed to question.

So she’d been wrong.

It didn’t happen often, but it did happen.

(Would it ever stop being so devastating?)

So she’d been wrong about her relationship with Sam. So she’d been playing his words over, and over, and over in her head for nearly twenty-four hours now, reconciling him with the old, old memories that had become shaken loose after her trip with James. Lunchtime snacks and after-hours holiday visits…

(She never had gotten that recipe from Mrs. Evans, and no one else’s chocolate cake quite came close. She’d spent a long time trying to find one that did, before concluding that it didn’t matter how expensive the restaurant or how well-trained the chef, better than Maggie’s just didn’t exist.)

She tried to make herself feel better about it. About Sam, believing the worst of what she thought of herself on the worst of her days; the worst of what was whispered about her, the worst of what nipped at her heels and caught her up in a whirlpool that only dragged down, down, down.

To some people, she’d always be the one who dumped trash on Rachel Berry.

Apparently ‘some people’ included Sam Evans, the kid that used to practice his funny voices and impressions on her and not be satisfied until she laughed. Sam Evans, the guy who’d just - let her work at his dead mother’s bar because Quinn badly needed somewhere to work. Sam Evans, who--

Whose relationship she’d ruined and whose father she manipulated into the right choice. Sam Evans who, apparently, genuinely believed she didn’t and hadn’t ever cared about him. Sam Evans who hadn’t even been wrong when he’d accused her of only reappearing in their life because her life was a mess. Everything he’d said was etched permanently into her brain, irrefutable and damning. Sam, Sam, Sam, and the safest she’d felt in a long time, down the damn drain.

She tried to make herself feel better about it. This was, of course, a lost cause, so when that didn’t work, she banned herself from devoting any more time or energy to thinking about it. There were bigger fish to fry, or at least more threatening men to defend herself against.

She had been ready for Sam’s righteous fury, for his dropping of her like so many hot rocks. She thought she’d been ready for the rest of it, too.

She was, again, wrong.

She really didn’t care for it, being wrong.

Quinn ignored the calls. Four calls, two voicemails, and a handwritten note tucked into the crevice of her front door. The message was clear on all of them: there was no avoiding the train that was bearing down to her, and there was nowhere to go that it wouldn’t hit her, at full speed.

Still. She managed to postpone it for one full day; one full day of grace. Tuesday. She didn’t speak to anyone except patrons at the bar; Sam didn’t come into work. She got to retreat into herself, be nothing more than a girl with pink hair who served strangers drink. She got a full day to recover from the battle the day before. One day to lick her wounds and try to find a new stable ground to plant her feet on.

On Wednesday morning, when Quinn opened the door to take Shelley out, she was met with--

“Margaret?” Quinn said, eyebrows raising briefly in surprise. She recovered herself quickly and straightened, acting like she wasn’t in her pajamas, like her dog wasn’t currently begging for love from her father’s secretary.

“Good morning Miss Fabray,” Margaret said, attempting in vain to dissuade Shelley from her determined pursuit of pets. “Mr. Fabray would like a word.”

Quinn made a quiet noise of understanding, then let Shelley pull her around Margaret. “I’m engaged today. I’m unable to meet with him.”

“He, uh, ah, well, he said that if you said that…”

Quinn waited, then rolled her eyes. “Margaret, just say it.”

“He said you would meet with him, whether you liked it or not, and it would be very unpleasant if you make him wait.”

Quinn shook her head. “You’re the one he sent?”

“Miss?”

“If he wanted to threaten me or drag me in by my hair he could have sent Thomas, or Uri, or Edward. Why did he send you?”

“He--he said…”

“Yes?”

“He said that I would be best suited, since you wouldn’t be able to…”

Quinn arched an eyebrow. “Yes? What am I unable to do?”

“Fight me?”

Quinn blinked. It became immediately apparent that Margaret thought Quinn was going to challenge her to fisticuffs.

Which, okay, she had pink hair, a big dog, and a face that said ‘don’t fuck with me’, sure, but--she wasn’t violent. Why was her father telling people she was violent?

Quinn chose to be amused.

“I see,” Quinn said, letting Shelley drag her back toward the door. “Well. You’ll just have to tell my father you were unable to collect me.”

“Miss Fabray,” Margaret said, her voice coming out considerably weaker than she wanted it to, “he told me that I wasn’t allowed to return unless it was with you.”

Quinn stared at her, deadpanned. “Are you going to stage a sit-in on my porch, Margaret?”

Margaret gave a shaky nod. “I was told to do whatever was necessary, as your presence is required in Mr. Fabray’s office.”

“I see,” Quinn repeated, looking for amusement and only finding deep, overwhelming irritation. “Well, I hope you stay warm out here.”

Quinn went back inside.

Pathetic.

She fed her dog.

She ate breakfast.

She had to go to the gym.

She had to go to work.

She had to get out of her damn house, and there was a captor waiting for her just outside the door.

Why didn’t this house have a goddamn back door?

Quinn growled to herself and stalked back into her bedroom. She could climb out a window…

Instead, she found clothes.

She didn’t try very hard. When she ‘found clothes’, she truly found them - a pair of jeans she didn’t remember buying, or ruining, with holes in the knees and what looked like paint stains on them. Were they even hers? Quinn had no idea, but she put them on and they fit, so she decided it was acceptable. She grabbed a t-shirt from her ‘probably needs washed’ pile, one of her new ones that she’d cut the neck off jaggedly to emphasize the artwork, which was for some metal band Quinn had barely heard of, but she’d enjoyed the aesthetic enough at the time.

(Several things had been hilarious in New York that didn’t seem to translate to Castleport.)

She put it on, grabbed her leather jacket, slid her rings onto her fingers, affixed her black choker, and opened her front door. Margaret still stood there, like an obedient, anxious lapdog, all eyes and ears and hope/fear. Her eyes got wider as she took in Quinn’s look, which made Quinn almost want to smile.

“Let’s get it over with.”

Margaret had driven, and the only reason Quinn didn’t insist on taking her own vehicle was because she was running out of gas, and it wasn’t as though her father’s office was so removed from everything that she needed a car to be safe on her escape route. The ride was silent - Margaret didn’t even turn the radio on, which made Quinn want to find the loudest and most obnoxious station she could find.

Before she could, though, they arrived, and Quinn glared up at the building.

Once upon a time, it had been her favorite place in the world.

And now?

Quinn got out of the car and slammed the door behind her, stalked up the steps. Margaret hurried after her, trying to explain something or stop her or something, Quinn didn’t care what she was saying. Quinn ignored her all the way to her father’s office and let herself in, shutting the door behind her.

Her father sat behind his desk, and was having a conversation with a man standing next to him. The man wore a deep blue suit, had thick glasses, and had attended each and every one of Quinn’s birthday parties.

“Pat?” Quinn said, momentarily drawn up short.

What on earth was the family lawyer doing here?

To his credit, he seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Her father, if he had a reaction to her look, it only presented itself in a beat-too-long’s worth of silence.

“Sit down,” Russell said. It was not an invitation so much as it was an order.

“No thank you,” Quinn said, pursing her lips. “I won’t be staying long enough to sit. Well done on the acquisition, by the way. Really top notch sending that poor girl to stalk your daughter.”

Russell ignored her, continuing like she hadn’t even spoken. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

Yes. “I don’t have a clue why I’m here.” (He’d taught her to be obstinate and to lie when necessary when he let her curl up in his office chair and eavesdrop on his business deals and arrangement. The amount that could be gained from withholding information was mindboggling, he’d told her once, and he’d proven to be right about that, a thousand times over.)

“Pat?” Russell said, lifting two fingers as an instruction. “Show her, please.”

Pat spared Russell a glance - Quinn couldn’t read it, but something like doubt crossed his face. “Miss Fabray,” Pat said, holding out a file for her. He could have walked around the desk and handed it to her, like a normal person, but it wouldn’t have surprised Quinn to learn that her father had chained him to the desk. 

Quinn stepped forward and took the file, though she didn’t open it. “What is this?”

“A notice of legal action being brought against you, on behalf of Mr. Russell Fabray.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Legal action,” Quinn repeated. “Is it a crime to--”

“Make unauthorized purchases on someone else’s credit card? Yes, it is. I have few friends from the Sheriff’s department standing by, just to make sure.” Russell said. “Pat,” he continued, leaning back in his seat. He looked like a lion that had just dragged back the biggest wildebeest and was looking forward to getting the king’s share of the meat.

What an asshole.

Pat nodded to the folder and Quinn opened it, reluctantly. “Do you recognize this purchase?” Pat asked, and Quinn scanned the document at the top of the pile.

A list of transactions from her father’s credit card.

One was highlighted in yellow.

It read the name of the facility she’d enrolled James Fabray into, along with the amount charged to the card.

Fuck.

Quinn, though, had been raised by two newspeople with strong opinions on other people’s idiocy, and so she knew not to admit anything without her own lawyer in the room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn said, flipping the file shut, “and I don’t know why I’m here.”

Russell sighed. “Thank you, Pat.”

This was Pat’s cue, apparently, because he nodded and hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.

“You’re suing me?” Quinn finally asked. “You’re taking me to court? That’s a very classy move, Daddy.”

“Do not,” Russell said, his voice having lost every ounce of the bored professionalism it had contained when Pat was in the room, replaced with the worst sort of blackness, the kind that made Quinn’s worst sound like a kitten who’d gotten hold of a helium tank, “dare to lecture me on classy, Lucy, when you show up dressed like--like--”

“Like?” Quinn prompted, pretending that the use of her old name, her first name, wasn’t the fastest way to get under her skin. She wasn’t that girl, hadn’t been for a very long time. “Please, Daddy, tell me.” Quinn crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows at him.

“Like that.” He spat the word and Quinn tried to find it in her to be disappointed that ‘that’ was all he could come up with, instead of hurt, like ‘that’ was the worst thing he could have come up with.

“I fail to see how what I wear is any of your bus--”

“I don’t think you understand the situation,” Russell said, leaning forward. He folded his hands together and Quinn knew that look in his eye - victorious and cruel. “If I wanted to, I could destroy you with two phone calls.”

“...And?” Quinn finally said, though it didn’t come out as blase as she wanted. “What--”

“Here is what is going to happen,” Russell continued. “You are going to work to pay off that debt.” Russell nodded toward the folder. “Or I will take you to court and win, handily, and I don’t think all the god-awful makeovers in the world would prepare you for prison.”

“Pris--”

“You are going to work off the debt. You will be reporting to the Gazette’s Editor-in-Chief, Michael, first thing Monday morning. You will spend the intervening time…” Russell looked her over, “making yourself presentable.”

Quinn’s head was spinning. “I have a job. I’m not working for the Gaz--”

“You do not have a job,” Russell said, “not anymore. Your ‘job’ is not one that is acceptable for someone who, for the moment, carries my last name. It is time, well past time that you remember that you are a Fabray, and that you must comport yourself appropriately. Monday, 8 AM. Your paycheck will be garnished up until the point that I see fit, or until this debt is paid.”

So she wasn’t going to be drawing a paycheck, Quinn realized numbly.

Wait. Wait a minute. No. No.

“I am an adult,” Quinn began quietly, “and that means that I am free to dress how I want, work where I want, and do what I want.”

“An adult,” Russell echoed, followed by a derisive snort. “An adult takes responsibility for her actions, and you...have never done that, not once in your life. No. You are clearly a child. A disappointing child at that - when you actually were the age you’re acting, you had so much…” Russell sighed. “Promise.”

“I’m an adult,” Quinn repeated, her volume rising, “and you can’t make me--”

“That can,” Russell said, nodding to the folder in her hand. “Tell me. Who was this for? One of your streetrat friends from school? An ex-boyfriend? Or that profe--”

“It’s none of your business,” Quinn snapped, straightening her spine.

“It was my money you used, Lucy. That makes it my business. It would become my business would I named that...that...facility in my suit, on the grounds of accepting an unauthorized payment. I would make it my business when I bury the corporation that runs that disgusting program. It would be my business when I own them just so I can have the distinct pleasure of shutting them down.”

“...You can’t do that,” Quinn said, voice coming out very soft. No, no, no, no, it wasn’t just James in that building, there were other people, other people who needed that place--

“I could,” Russell corrected, something like a laugh escaping him that sent chills all the way down Quinn’s back. “I may choose to be gracious and allow this theft, as you will be paying it back. With interest. Beginning Monday morning, 8 A.M. You will be dressed appropriately, you will have that thing out of your nose, and you will not violate the dresscode by sporting any…” Russell dragged it out, “unnatural hair color. You will come prepared with three pitches for Michael, and if you are lucky, one may be considered.”

Every word he spoke was a nail in her coffin. She could feel it, feel the walls of her old life thudding shut around her. Prison, she thought, couldn’t have been far off from how she felt.

Goodbye freedom, goodbye life, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

“...If my paycheck is going to…” Quinn wagged the folder, “how, exactly, am I supposed to pay my rent.” Quinn swallowed, crossed her arms. “Feed myself.”

“You should have thought of that before you made this decision,” Russell said. He’d already picked up his glasses and was looking through paperwork on his desk. Quinn waited. When he flicked his gaze back up to her, he let out a noise that somehow said I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-answer-this-question without saying a single word. “I have contacted your landlord. You will be moving out this weekend.”

“What?”

“And, as you will be moving into my home--”

“What?”

“--you will not need to concern yourself with…” Russell waved a hand, “groceries and the like. Your meals will be tended to by the household. You will go to work with me every day and return home with me for dinner every evening, and you will not be permitted to socialize with anyone who has been…” Russell sniffed, “influencing you like this. Your mother and I agree--”

“Mother? You agreed on something?”

“--that this childish fit you’ve been throwing has gone on long enough. It is well past time for you to return to your life.”

Her life.

“...I want to stay with Mother.”

(It was an echo from a decade and a half ago, when they first told her they were separating. It had been as true then as it was now.)

“Your mother does not wish either of us to be in her home at this time,” Russell said, sounding bored. “Your mother and I have agreed that it will be better for you to stay with me until further notice.”

Her life, in his house, eating his food, working at his paper, writing what he wanted her to write and seeing the people he wanted her to see.

“...I...I’m an adult,” Quinn repeated, because it was all she had. She was gobsmacked. “I’m not a teenager anymore, Daddy, and I make my own decisions--”

“Then you deal with the fallout.” Russell nodded to the folder once more. “It’s your choice, Lucy. Either be here, Monday at 8 AM, or see me at the courthouse Monday, 8:30 AM. I’m sure there’s a public defender that would be awake at that hour, assuming they aren’t exhausted from defending the town drunks against public indecency charges. Which, speaking of indecency, how is your friend’s father? The one who owns that moneysink of an establishment? Mr. Evans?”

Quinn bristled and she bit down against the whip-sharp retort. He was trying to needle her, and he was succeeding.

“Is there anything else.”

“I’ll see you Monday.”

Quinn stalked out of the office, and the building, and the property, and kept walking.

And that had been Wednesday.

By the time Thursday rolled around, her unbridled fury and fear had given way into numb acceptance. All the time she’d spent carving herself out of the expectations placed on her shoulders. All the time she’d spent looking for what she actually wanted. All the time she’d spent trying to convince the people in her life that she wasn’t like that, that she was getting better, that she was a good person. All the time she’d spent to overcome the tragedy of her birth, and for what?

For nothing. For less than nothing. It not only hadn’t mattered, but it had insured that her future, for the rest of her life, was even worse than what it would have been if she’d shut up and fallen in line when she’d had the chance. She was going to be her father’s prisoner, and for what?

Quinn was doing laundry when she remembered why. A little piece of paper fell out of the back pocket of her jeans, and when she bent down to pick it up, tears welled in her eyes.

For what? For this.

Quinn crumpled the paper and finished throwing her clothes in the washer. Her clothes for her new look needed to be clean before she put them into vacuum-sealed bags and stored them in big storage totes for the rest of forever. Because she was apparently moving this weekend.

Thursday, though, was Thanksgiving. She’d been planning to do what she could to prepare for her own personal hell, then drinking a lot and watching the dog show before she fell asleep on her own dog and had to stumble to her room hours later to sleep it off.

That wasn’t in the cards.

(Why did she think she’d get anything she wanted, at this point? Really?)

Her phone rang.

For a moment, she thought it would be fucking Margaret, calling to yank yet another rug out from under her, some other thing Quinn loved that she’d have to give up in just over 72 hours.

She nearly ignored the call.

But her mind drifted to Santana, and she wondered what trouble she was getting into today, so she turned her phone over and--

“Shit,” Quinn hissed, hurrying to answer the call before it went to voicemail. “Carole! Hi!”

“Quinn!” Craole’s voice was as chipper and sunny as a day in June on the other end of the line, and Quinn literally felt some tension ease out of her shoulders with just that one word. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Quinn replied rotely, because that was what you say to people who wish you Happy Thanksgiving, especially people who had no idea that your list of things to be thankful for was getting shorter by the minute. “I hope you’ve been resting?”

“Please,” Carole tsked, “it’s not like Finn would prepare dinner. He’d go out for Kentucky Fried Chicken and call it set.” She laughed, and so did Quinn, because - well, Finn hadn’t ever really exactly excelled in the cookery department.

“Is everything alright?” Quinn asked, as their laughter died down. “Is Finn okay?”

“Oh, yes, he’s fine, or he will be, if he’s let off in time for dinner. Otherwise he may stage a riot right there in the office, which will be nothing compared to the fit I will throw if they try to keep my son from coming home at a reasonable hour on a holiday--”

Quinn refrained from reminding Carole gently that crime and criminals didn’t take the day off, because at this point she was well-familiar with Carole’s feelings regarding her son’s occupation and how frequently it cut into their family time.

It still caught her off guard, hearing a mother genuinely care about her child.

“Anyway,” Carole said, cutting herself off with a huff, “what time will you be here?”

Quinn blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“What time will you be here?” Carole asked, which didn’t make any more sense the second time around. “I’m planning for everything to be done by five. Do you think you could make it by then?”

Quinn opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Thanksgiving was a day for family, but her family had conspired to shackle her to their plans and she had a Fabray-shaped knife dangling over her head, and she had never been less happy to be a Fabray, and Carole--

Tears welled in Quinn’s eyes and she quickly cleared her throat. “Yes,” Quinn answered as quickly as she could, “yes. I’d love to come. Thank you.” Thank you, thank you, thank you. “Should I bring anything?”

“Nothing but your smiling face! Oop, I need to stir. See you later! Happy Thanksgiving!”

The line went dead and Quinn set her phone down dumbly.

There went her plan. She wasn’t going to be getting very drunk and falling asleep anywhere while the Macy’s parade ran on repeat in the background.

She was going to Thanksgiving. To a family Thanksgiving. Hosted by the woman who had become more of a mother to her than her biological mother could even try to be.

She was going to Thanksgiving.

(Maybe she had a little bit to be thankful for after all.)

Quinn hadn’t been planning on making any stops on her way to Carole’s. She’d been planning on a bee-line, so she could be there for as long as possible and soak up every bit of comfort she could from the cozy Hudson house, but she found herself at a standstill - literally.

She stood in front of the church - her church.

She’d found her old silver cross necklace when she was digging through her room. She’d gotten it as a Confirmation gift from her great-grandmother, and she hadn’t worn it regularly since high school. She hadn’t worn it at all since college.

But now it hung around her neck, tucked beneath the hem of her shirt, resting against the hammering of her heart.

She needed it, now, more than ever.

Quinn walked up the steps and went inside.

It was more or less deserted, which Quinn was relieved about - she didn’t have the strength to explain herself to anyone with questions about her presence there, or her hair, or anything at all, so she hurried down the aisle before someone could appear to irritate her, and--

And what?

Quinn stopped, staring up at the figure of Jesus Christ on the cross. He was sickly thin, with blood painted as oozing from His hands, His side. The crown of thorns sat sharply on His head.

It must have been so awful, being up there like that, Quinn thought, not for the first time. It was grotesque, the image in front of her, one repeated in different styles and designs all over the country, the world - but there was a reason it persevered as one of the most recognizable symbols of the religion.

There was something compelling about sacrifice.

Quinn knelt in front of the statue, her pink hair falling forward as she bowed her head. Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned…

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, just that her knees were sore and achy by the time she stood back up. She was about to leave, really, she was, but she saw--

Quinn made her way over, rummaging her purse as she walked. By the time she arrived, she’d come up with a dollar, which she slid into the donation box in exchange for a long matchstick. She lit it off one of the many candles burning on the altar, and carefully caught another candle’s wick, watching as the fire jumped from match to candle. She blew the matchstick out once she was sure the little flame had caught, then set the matchstick in the trash bucket beneath the altar.

Please, Quinn thought, as strongly as she could, as loudly as she could, please, God, or Mary, or Jesus, or someone, Quinn’s hand found the silver cross and wrapped around it, tightly, please, God, help us. Help me. Please.

She watched her little candle catch and dance in the air currents, then forced herself to look away. She tucked her necklace back beneath her shirt and hurried back out of the church, suddenly more anxious than ever to get where she’d been going.

(Was it too late to look into the local convent? Quinn bookmarked that thought for later.)

Arriving at the Hudson house was sort of - not strange, exactly, because she’d been there dozens of times, especially while Finn was enlisted. She’d visited every time she came home; sometimes she’d come home just to visit with her. She knew Carole was lonely, and consumed with worry for her baby boy, so Quinn would find excuses to bake something and bring it over, and let them both be distracted for hours with a bottle of wine and shared memories. They caught up more than two people who emailed all the time needed to, but Quinn was not complaining - she loved Carole.

And Carole loved her.

(It seemed the list of people who loved her was also getting shorter by the day.)

The only strange part was going to be having Finn there this time, but--Quinn wasn’t really nervous about that, not really. Finn was like a Great Dane, or a Mastiff; big, intimidating, and more comforting than the most expensive security system money could buy. The way Finn took up a room, the easy way he smiled, how he acted when he was around his mother…

Quinn smoothed her still-very-pink hair down and let out a breath, then knocked on the door.