Quick is epic, and I'd really love to see more of them (hint hint, Glee writers). Though I love the whole Finn/Rachel dynamic, I feel they're getting far too many storylines right now. There's a friggin' pregnant girl, for Christ's sake. And why is she still in all their dance numbers instead of sitting comfortably with her feet up and a cup of raspberry leaf tea (ahem, Puck)?


To be honest, I don't understand this. Maybe that's an understatement – I understand this about as much as I understand Rachel Berry's weird addiction to ankle socks. When did those ever look hot (I mean, apart from in Memoirs of a Geisha, because that was totally heartbreaking, and even she covered them up with some ten foot long kimono which I have to say always looked absolutely stunning)? In any case, I don't understand this at all. I'd prefer Coach Sylvester to be riding me about back hand springs or Mom trying to fit me into another white, bland, virginal outfit than having to think about this; her.

Subconsciously, I can't help protecting her. She's just there, a natural place to rest my hands or wrap my arms or for other people to touch and wonder. She's already had a million different names and faces in the short time we've been together, already looked like me or him or us. Sometimes (like when he spiked the cupcakes – that was so stupid! What if I'd had one? She could've come out with flippers, or Mr Schue hair, or something equally awful) he's in my dreams of her, of what she'll be doing when she's my age and older. The stupid thing is that I see myself wiping her face or yelling at her for dirty footprints, and I like the picture.

And she reminds me of him every day. She's a bruiser, a fighter; she turns me black and blue from the inside out and makes me wanna pee every five minutes. She makes me feel fat and unattractive, and then makes me beautiful not a week later. Like him (like me), she's all over manipulation.

"'Sup, MILF."

"Go to hell, Puck."

"You're all glowy and shit. Are you on drugs?" He suddenly grabs my arm, pulls me round a corner so my back hits a wall of lockers.

"You idiot, you could've hurt me!"

"You're not on drugs, are you?" He asks earnestly, eyes (blue like mine or green like grass, they can't seem to make up their mind). "'Cause that would be messed up, Q. There's a thing in there that's relying on you not to be crazy."

"And it's dumb as an ape baby daddy slamming me into things helps how, exactly? And you tapping Santana right in front of my eyes? And even Rachel Berry, for Heaven's sake!" I hate the stupid hormones which bring stupid tears to my stupid, emotionally receptive eyes and I duck my head, chewing on my lip as I think of something to make up for the fact that I'm practically flooding the hallway. "Do you want another kid, is that it? A boy and a girl to complete the set?"

He ignores me. "Are you crying, Fabray?"


"Yes." Puck doesn't do gentle, but he pulls up my chin like he's trying to be. "Listen, I know this sucks. I get that."

"Are you peeing like a Bieber mom in the line at a meet 'n' greet? I think not."

"I get it," he insists, tucking some of my hair back behind my ear (which isn't normal or right, but which I kinda like...I think). "I do. I think about it – her – a lot. It's like she's in my head and your stomach." He smiles. "In my head, it's like a mini you in a fish tank, but with a Mohawk."

"No, Puck. The baby will not have a Mohawk."

"Did you just smile, Fabray?"