#hell yeah headcanon

You read a few emails on the way and pay your fare, climb out as gracefully as possible. They have an admittedly gorgeous brownstone right next to the park, and you'll never say it aloud, but Quinn's penchant for these soft colors and stylish, clean lines make the interior, like, lovely. In any case you're just glad that Rachel ended up letting Quinn take the lead on that one—there are a few framed playbills on one wall in the living room, but they're the small versions, and only shows Rachel has actually been in; the rest of their place manages to be minimalist but comforting, and, yeah, Quinn doesn't have the worst taste, whatever.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the front door—you've had a key to Quinn's place(s) since college—and slip your heeled boots off; it's been rainy lately and you know Rachel will throw a fit if you track dirt onto their perfect hardwood. When you pad into the kitchen to get lunch ready, you're unsurprised to see Quinn asleep on the couch with Nora resting on her chest. Both of them are annoyingly graceful sleepers, and neither you nor Megan really want kids, so Nora is as close as you really have—for as much shit as you love to give your best friends, that little girl is one of the most amazing things you've ever seen, and you don't even care that you spoil her as much as possible; she's already growing up with so much love, and for that you'll never be apologetic. 

Nora coughs just a little and Quinn's raspy breathing hitches, and you take the opportunity to start taking plates out of the cabinet, making as much noise as you can. Quinn groans, kissing the top of Nora's head with a little bit of disorientation, so you say, "Aren't you just a joy today?"

Quinn tries to bite out a confused, "Fuck you, Santana," but it gets lost in a cough and Nora's reaching toward you. You pause your divvying up of lunch and walk around the island to pick her up, and Quinn slumps back into the couch.

You don't say anything to her, only hum to Nora and bounce her up and down, but you pay attention to Quinn's breathing, her posture, whether or not she successfully hides her grimace. She moves stiffly to stand up, and you're pretty sure she's not fully awake, and she's bundled in these absurd sweatpants and one of Robert's stolen sweaters, a pair of Rachel's socks covering her feet.

She shuffles to the island without incident, though, and her breathing seems okay, so you don't push any questions for the time being. Quinn checks her phone while you put more food on plates, and you catch her roll her eyes with a very stupidly sweet smile you've gotten more and more used to over the years.

"Rachel send you nudes again?" you ask, putting Nora's bib on.

Quinn doesn't dignify you with a response, only sits down on her barstool and grabs a pair of chopsticks. 

You laugh, ruffle her hair as you walk past her. "Come on, Lucy Q, you can't be that grumpy."

She clears her throat and then sighs. "I just don't feel good," she says, and it's petulant and whiny—it's a strangely good sign, because when Quinn is actually seriously ill or hurt, she tries to hide it so she doesn't scare anyone. Pathetically sick Quinn is mostly amusing, so you rub her back once before putting her food in front of her before sitting down across the island and starting to feed Nora pieces of your soy orange chicken.

Quinn seems to relax a little once she eats a bit, and you're even more relieved; there are times that you wish you didn't care about Quinn, about Rachel and their family—sometimes their intensity scares you; sometimes you're struck with fear of what would happen to either of them now if the other wasn't there; you adore both of them, really, and Quinn has been your best friend for longer of you usually acknowledges, but you have Megan, and even the thought of losing her makes you verge on distraught.

And then Quinn is sick, and then Rachel is making a film about dying in a fucking concentration camp, and the way they keep falling in love is as beautiful as it is terrifying, because you know you'd be there in the fallout.

But then Quinn sighs happily and straightens a little, asks, "How's the Castello case going?" with very genuine interest. 

Nora babbles randomly while you tell Quinn all of the details you legally can, and it's one of your biggest cases in a while, so her unwavering attention makes you love her a little bit more. You watch her try four times—with a very, very serious face—to get her chow mein noodles wrapped around her chopsticks in a coherent fashion, but her coordination is entirely shot, and she sighs in frustration before putting down her chopsticks and taking off her glasses, closing her eyes. She's dealt with random spurts of double vision and some mild aphasia since she was seventeen, and they still embarrass her, but you're used to it for the most part, so you just grab a fork from the drawer and hand it to her without comment. 

She takes it with some resignation, but she's much more successful, and you check, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she mumbles around a mouthful of noodles, and you scrunch your nose.

"Manners, Quinn," you say, in a perfect imitation of Rachel, which makes Quinn laugh and get spray noodles at you. Nora bursts into laughter then, and you fight a smile.

"Your mom is a fucking slob, Nor," you say, pulling your hair back in a ponytail before you lean forward to wipe off her face—she loves tugging on hair, and to Quinn's infinite amusement, yours seems to be Nora's favorite.

"Can you say hi to Aunt San, Nora?" Quinn asks, standing and stacking your plates.

"Hi," Nora says, and then says something along the lines of "Aunt San," which sends Quinn off into a fit of clapping, exceedingly proud mom that she is. But it almost makes you cry and Nora says it a few more times—then claps for herself, and yeah, she's Rachel's kid—and you kiss her forehead.

"That's right, I'm your Aunt Santana, and I'm the coolest person in your life by a longshot, kid, don't worry."

She laughs amid a little cough, and Quinn smiles softly and says, "She needs another dose of tylenol—it's by the sink." 

You spot the little bottle and syringe and get the right dose as Quinn puts things in the dishwasher, and Nora takes it like a pro, which you congratulate her for afterward, because the shit looks nasty.

You look pointedly at Quinn when she breaks out into a few deep, disgusting coughs, and ask, "Have you taken your tylenol?"

You know the answer already: Quinn resists taking care of herself unlike anyone you've ever known—once a Fabray, always a Fabray—and when she doesn't answer, you hand her Nora with an eyeroll and shoo them to the couch, turn on the tea kettle and find the tylenol in their immaculate and alphabetized medicine cabinet, get out two pills and bring them over with a cup of tea for Quinn. 

She takes them without a word of protest, so she must actually be both exhausted and actually sick, and she lays down with Nora again when you turn on whatever obscene and violent HBO miniseries she's marathoning at the moment—Quinn writes on "award-winning television" for her professorship, so it always gives the two of you an excuse to watch whatever you want, even though you're starting to think Nora is getting old enough to pick up some words.

Both of them are out way too fast for you to even comment on how much better Claire Danes' boobs are than Quinn's, which is disappointing, but really—they're kind of beautiful, Nora's head tucked into Quinn's chest, Quinn's arms cradling her protectively. You're entirely sure you don't want kids—you don't have the time or energy or patience or fucking bravery to raise a child in this world—but you are glad, every day, that Quinn and Rachel have those things in spades.

You grab your Mac and do some work on your latest case while the TV plays in the background, and Rachel gets home about two hours later, thin and drained as usual for this film, but then she sees her wife and child asleep gently on their pretty couch in their pretty home, and she softens and strengthens in the same breath.

"They ate okay?" she asks, and you nod, then stand.

You don't even bother trying to worm your way out of a hug—sometimes you wonder how you avoided them for so long, because Rachel's hugs are awesome—and you say, "Yeah, they seem okay. Gross coughs but other than that they're both pretty pathetic and whiny, so everything seems safe."

Rachel laughs and nods—she plays into Quinn's pouting and shuffling entirely but you know she doesn't take it too seriously—and then tugs off her hat and coat, rubs a hand over her hand, sits in a chair with a sigh, props her feet up on the table. 

"How's work?" she asks, and you roll her eyes and indulge her with the juiciest version of any story you have—Rachel is still under the impression that your job mirrors something like Law & Order, and you both know she doesn't want to talk about filming, so you exaggerate every possible case you can.

Eventually, you realize you have to go to make your early dinner date with Megan—you don't even know when talking to Rachel became so enjoyable, but it did—and you stand, rub Nora's back and then give Rachel another hug. She holds you tightly, with a bit of an aching familiarity. "Thanks, Santana," she says.

"Yeah, yeah," you say, although you squeeze her just as tightly. "Just like, all of you get better, okay?"

She smiles crookedly. "Four days," she says.

"Quinn won't let me forget it." You're looking forward to the end of filming too, though—mostly so you can give them as much shit as you want again.

You gather your things and tug on your boots, and Rachel gives you another hug as you're about to leave. "Give Megan our love, okay?"

But you climb up the steps to your brownstone wearily. All you want right now is to kiss your daughter goodnight, heat up the leftover pad thai Quinn had made last night, have a beer and cuddle with your wife on the couch. You’re in one of Quinn’s cashmere sweaters—it’s soft and the sleeves slip over your hands, and it smells like her, and you need all the comfort you can get. You unlock the front door and drop your keys in the small bowl on the table there, slip off your boots, pad into the open living room and kitchen. You don’t bother to check your reflection in the mirror—you don’t want to think about it, want to be held and vulnerable instead of how removed you’ve been lately. You know that Quinn wants another child, and you’ve been thinking about it, or at least having a pointed conversation about trying, but you hadn't been anywhere near a space where you could think of anything to say about that. Tonight, you feel like you’d been ripped open earlier, but you realize that you’re home and that it’s warm and safe, and you focus on that.

Quinn walks out of her office and smiles tiredly but sweetly when she sees you, says, “Hey honey,” and kisses you hello without any hesitation.

“Hi,” you say, and wrap her in a hug before taking a deep breath and then a long sigh. She hums happily—she’s missed you, you know—and holds you gently, rocking back and forth a little. “How was your day?” you ask into her shoulder.

“Lots of bureaucratic bullshit and students who didn’t do the readings,” she says, then laughs. “The usual.”

You smile, smell her old, worn tshirt unabashedly. She loves her job, you know, but she gets frustrated from time to time with the parts that take away from learning, as she says. She backs up a little and you pout at the lack of contact, which makes her reach out and stroke your cheek with the pad of her thumb, then kiss you gently, sucking your lip into her mouth. You haven’t really kissed her in a few days, and you realize how much you’ve craved it. 

“How are you doing?” she whispers between kisses.

“Now?” you ask, kiss her again. “Or how was my day?”

She laughs into your mouth. “I’m more interested in now, but if you have something really important to share—I mean, Nora is asleep, so—”

You step back and grin, loop your arms around her neck, reach one hand into her hair. Missing yours makes you love the softness and silkiness of Quinn’s even more, and her eyes flash excitedly. “You’re horny, Quinn Berry-Fabray, aren’t you?”

You love that she’s thirty-two and has been married to you for four years but her cheeks still tint pink when you say it. “Maybe,” she says.  

You grin and take a step back; you’re sometimes still floored that she wants you like she does—she’s still the prettiest girl you’ve ever met—but especially now, you’re always flattered that she touches you with the same longing as always.

But then all of a sudden she recoils—takes a sharp breath in, eyes wide and flashing like you’ve never seen before.

“Quinn, baby, what’s—”

“The number,” she chokes out. 

“What?”

“On your arm,” she says, “your—the—number, Rachel.”

“Shit,” you say. Your sleeve had slipped up and you’d forgotten to wash it off when you were done filming; it’s a direct replica of a concentration camp tattoo, covering two inches on the top of your right forearm, slightly messy, green. You yank your sleeve down and try to reach for Quinn, but she backs up toward the couch, trembling. She’s been remarkable, really, in keeping it together for you this whole time, but you know Quinn, and you know she’s about to break.

And she does, quietly, right in front of you—she sits down on the couch, puts her head in her hands, and starts weeping.

You don’t really know what to do, because obviously this is uncharted territory for you, and you stand unsteadily, hovering between turning around and going to the kitchen to wash it off, or going to hold your wife. She’s crying silently, shaking, and you start to shift your weight backward in the direction of the sink, but then she reaches out and tugs on your wrist. You still, and she stands up, and then she kisses you. Kisses you. Quinn has always been an amazing kisser, but in all for your entire life, you’ll always think of this as the most profound kiss you’d ever experienced. She kisses you like you could’ve died; she kisses you because of suffering; she kisses you like she’s breathed the entire improbability of your existences in this place in one moment. It makes your heart drop and lift at once, and she tastes like salt, and you don’t know quite what to do other than kiss her back. 

She backs up after a while, after she breathes into your mouth before barely, barely brushing her lips against yours once more, and then laces your fingers together and leads you silently to your bathroom, lifts the sweater up over your head. She skims her hands over the press of your ribs, then tugs down your jeans and traces your hipbones. You’re not comfortable with your weight, and it’s been hard for Quinn too, but tonight she takes off her clothes in a flash and then shuffles you both under the stream of the shower. You’re pretty sure she doesn’t want to make love, and you’re proven right when she takes the bar of soap and then lifts your forearm and washes it so, so gently it makes you start to cry.

“I love you,” she says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The ink rubs off fairly quickly, and you take the shampoo you haven’t needed to use in two months and work it into Quinn’s hair slowly. Her eyes are pressed shut so it doesn’t drip into them, and it makes her look infinitely younger and less seriously, and it seems, in a moment, to lighten everything, because her nose is scrunched up and you can’t help but smile at her.

She rinses out her hair—which is always sexy, but not your priority at the moment—and when she opens her eyes, she smiles a little at your expression. You kiss her on the edge of a laugh, and then you tickle her side, and you sort of trip out of the shower, turning the water off quickly while Quinn squirms away from you. But you take a towel and wrap it around her, meet her eyes, and say, “Okay?”

She swallows, lets out a breath, but eventually nods. She rubs the pad of her thumb against the shell of your ear and then playfully runs her hand over your hair, spraying both of you in the face with little droplets. “I’m just glad you’re here, weirdo.”