Title: Unexpected Expectancies

Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.

Summary: "But for now, for now Rachel wants to carry the child. It's her biological clock that feels like a ticking time bomb ready to explode and if she isn't bearing a child soon she feels as if her nest will forever be empty."

A/N 1: This is just a place to drop Faberry pregnancy plot bunnies as they plague my mind. Although, this chapter turned out a lot wordier than I was expecting. I'll try to treat each chapter as a stand-alone so if I don't come back to the fic for some time, I won't be leaving it on a cliffhanger or something important. It takes place in the Someone I've Been Missing (The Better Half of Me) verse, about seven years after the ending of that fic.

A/N 2: Here's the thing, unpopular opinion, but I loved the whole Lucy Caboosey debacle so I put it in the fic. However, I tweaked it a bit. Let's just pretend Lucy was a blonde. ;)

A/N 3: As always, I'm writing and posting at late night/early morning hours, so fair warning for grammatical/spelling errors. And I think that's all I have to say. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

The Fight

Quinn narrowly misses the elevator as her heels clack threateningly across the marble floor of the seven story corporation she proudly works for. Cell phone jammed between her neck and shoulder, she tunes in and out of Rachel's ranting as she jerks her left arm chest level to take a peek at her watch. She has less than five minutes to get to her office. She glides into the crowded elevator with a bit of effort before punching her floor number in.

"Quinn? Quinn, are you there? Lucy Quinn Berry-Fabray, answer me!"

She grits her teeth, regretting—not for the first time—the day that Rachel and her sister ever met. They had travelled to Lima together before the wedding and as soon as they arrived, a photo album with embarrassing naked baby pictures of Quinn was placed into Rachel's hands. And another picture that Quinn could have sworn she had burned all the copies of. You didn't tell me you were this cute and chunky as a child, Quinn, Rachel had said with an exuberant laugh as Quinn sulked in a corner, glaring daggers at her sister. Oh, no, no, no, Rachel. That's not Quinn, her sister said teasingly. That's Lucy. The two had hit it off and although Quinn will forever hate her sister for telling Rachel her real name, she couldn't help but be excited that they seemed to get along well.

The elevator gratefully dings open and she's out like a shot, nearly shoving another woman to the side to get pass. Her pace quickens with both annoyance and haste as she rounds the corner to her office. Once inside, she closes the door and opens her mouth.

"Rach, honey, honestly? You know how I feel about this. It's starting to become a sore subject and even more so a subject I shouldn't be discussing at work and you shouldn't be discussing on the phone with me in between takes. I'll call you later." She hears her wife huff indignantly on the other line before Quinn quickly disconnects the call. Sighing quietly, she slumps back in her black leather, cushioned chair, head throbbing.

Rachel wants a child. A year after their marriage she had commented that she 'felt her biological clock ticking at an alarming rate'. Quinn couldn't have been happier. After years spent of not even thinking she'd get married and have a family, the thought of Rachel wanting them to have children together made her kind of giddy. It's just, well…Rachel already had a person in mind for who would donate sperm for her impregnation. Jesse St. James.

Quinn instantly blew up. Sure, she and Jesse had managed to bury the hatchet after he openly tried to steal Rachel from her numerous times. They had to. Rachel was working with him at the time and they ended up seeing a lot of each other. A mutual understanding that Rachel was off the market had to be quickly formed or Quinn would have tried her best to rip his head off. Or get Santana to do it. Whatever. They shook on it one day. He was to stop hitting on her fiancée at the time and she was to stop hating him so everyone could get along. It worked. So well in fact that after the Tony Awards—when Rachel lost for best actress—they all went out for drinks afterwards. You were too young, Rachel. Honestly that was the only reason. You were going up against seasoned veterans. Give it a few more years. You'll win. He had said all of this in a drunken slur before going off to dance with some girl and that's when Quinn began to see him in a new light.

Rachel eventually bid farewell to Jesse and Spring Awakening, picking up Elphaba in Wicked. But they kept in touch. Rachel would occasionally invite him over for dinner and the more time Quinn spent with him, the less she saw him as a threat. He was a friend and she liked him as a friend but him being a father to their child was a step too far. The very idea made her stomach churn.

She slumps forward in her seat, rubbing her temples in an attempt to ward off a migraine. It's Friday, and she's determined to make her last day of the week a productive one.

Except her phone rings again. And it's Rachel. Again.

Her jaw tightens but she slides the touch screen to unlock it before putting it towards her ear, saying nothing.



"I'm sorry. I don't want us to fight over this. I just…wish you would consider it, is all."

She sighs quietly, all the fight gone from her with those few words. "I don't want to fight about it either, Rachel, but you know where I stand on this. I don't like the idea of him fathering our child."

"Can we talk about it later?"

Her voice sounds kind of urgent and Quinn perks up, if only a little. "Sure. I'll see you later on tonight. Talk to you lat—"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

The call ends and Quinn chuckles quietly to herself, marveling at how Rachel can end an argument with a few well-placed words, and a quick 'I love you'. The sad thing is, she falls for it every time. But she supposes it's a good thing because despite how much she can carry on an argument, she'd rather not argue with Rachel.

She instantly relaxes, shoulders pushed back with confidence as she finally presses the power button on her computer to start her day.

Rachel isn't demanding. Well, she is but she isn't. She just knows what she wants and Jesse St. James more or less fathering her child is one of them. She has her reasons and they're all valid ones. But sometimes she just wants Quinn to trust her for a change.

"Another run through in ten minutes!"

Her head whips around to the director with a curt nod. She sifts through her pocket for her phone, thankful that they were cut slack and didn't have to dress in costumes for rehearsal.

How'd it go? – Mercedes

She frowns, instantly reminded of the conversation she just had with Quinn.

Still a no. :( - Rachel

She has her reasons, Rach. – Mercedes

As do I! She can't shoot this down so easily! – Rachel

Have you ever tried to put yourself in her shoes? – Mercedes

She huffs quietly. Ninety-nine percent of all their arguments consist of her 'putting herself in Quinn's shoes' in order to resolve the situation. It's been five years and she feels if there's any argument Quinn should ever let her win it's this one.

Has she ever put herself in mine? – Rachel

She regrets the text as soon as she hits send. It sounds bitter and selfish and not at all Rachel Berry like.

I can't answer that, girlfriend. That's an argument for you and Quinn. – Mercedes

Well, we're going to talk about it again tonight. Tell you about it later. I have to go now! Bye! – Rachel

She frowns at her phone, placing it back in her pocket. She's twenty-eight and she wants a damn child. And sure, Quinn could get pregnant. She eventually wants Quinn to get pregnant because lately she's been fantasizing about taking care of Quinn while her stomach is swollen and she's running Rachel ragged with cravings that can only be found in very specific stores and instead of finding it scary or revolting, she's excited for the day that Quinn smiles tearfully at her while mouthing the words 'I'm pregnant'.

But for now, for now Rachel wants to carry the child. It's her biological clock that feels like a ticking time bomb ready to explode and if she isn't bearing a child soon she feels as if her nest will forever be empty. And to Quinn's credit—Rachel muses—she understands. That's one thing about them, no matter how opposite they seem, they understand each other completely. It's just that…they don't always agree on things completely. And the particular topic of who will father their child is one thing they absolutely do not agree on.

"Alright, everyone on their mark! We're starting in two minutes."

She pushes her own issues to the back of her mind because she's a professional and that's what professionals do. She wanders across the stage to land on her mark, choosing to sing away her troubles, if only for a little while.

It isn't until seven in the evening when Quinn manages to get off work. Her cell phone buzzes as soon as she steps foot onto the busy New York sidewalk. She groans. Santana.


"The fuck have you been? B and I haven't heard from you in months!"

She sighs at the exaggeration before walking toward the parking deck. "It's been a little over a week at the most. And I've just been busy with work. No big deal." She bites her lip at her own lie. She's been avoiding Santana like the plague because of her troubles with Rachel. She wasn't ready to tell her best friend and have her weigh in on a sensitive subject with her insensitivity and crass words.

"Yeah, that's what a cheating senator that taps his foot in the bathroom stall tells his wife," she quips, cackling madly at her own joke.

"You would know," Quinn fires back, already knowing she's hit a nerve.

"What the fuck ever. Get your busy ass to the bar! Britts and I came to get our mature drinking on."

"I can't drink tonight. Rach and I have something important to discuss and I'd rather do it sober."

"Then come watch us drink. Duh. And bring your hobbit wife."

"Watch your mouth about my wife. Besides, she's working." She pulls out of the parking lot and in the direction of the bar. Rachel isn't going to be done with rehearsals until another couple of hours and rather than sit home and stew about their current predicament, she's going to hang out with her two friends instead.

She's at the bar fifteen minutes later. Santana thrusts a martini in her hand while Brittany wraps her in a hug, patting her head like she's a lost and newly found golden retriever. "Quinn, we haven't seen you or Rachel in a super long time," she laments. "We've missed you guys. Where is she?"

"I know B, we missed you guys, too," she tells the taller blonde with a warm smile. "Rachel's at rehearsals. But I'm here now." She frowns down at Santana, whom couldn't be bothered to lift herself from the stool she's sitting on to greet Quinn. "I told you I wasn't drinking."

"Martinis are like, baby drinks." She slurs softly on her s sounds and Quinn laughs a little.

"Baby drinks, huh?"

"Shut up."

"San, I'm gonna go dance," Brittany chirps. She downs the last contents of her glass before sauntering off.

"If a guy gets handsy point him in my direction!" Santana yells after her. She turns to Quinn. "'Sup with you?"

Quinn shrugs, now perched on Brittany's unoccupied stool. Her fingers gingerly trace the lip of the martini filled glass before Santana snatches it away, tossing the drink back. Quinn gives her a look. Santana shrugs. "You were tempting me."

She rolls her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her. Her eyes scan over the array of alcohol behind the bartender, tempted. A few years ago, hell a few weeks ago, she would have ordered something. But now—with all the baby talk floating around—it just doesn't seem right. Especially since she plans on presenting a detailed argument to Rachel later. Can't do that drunk.

A slap on the back of her head breaks her out of her thoughts. "Ouch, you bitch!" she growls before thinking better of it.

Santana frowns slightly and Quinn holds her breath. After drinking a lot of alcohol Santana tends to turn into a crier but Quinn's hoping that a few martinis hasn't done her friend completely in yet.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Quinn's shoulders slump in relief at the welcomed sneer on her friend's face. Anything is better than her crying.


"Uh huh." She purses her lips. "The last time 'nothing' was wrong, you were frantically calling me two seconds later to come to the bathroom because you managed to rinse your wedding band down the sink while washing your hands."

"It loosened up on me. I couldn't predict that!" she hisses back quietly as if Rachel was in earshot.

"Tell me what's wrong or I'll tell Berry all about it."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, Quinn," she replies smugly. "I think we both know I do a lot of things."

Her lips press into a hard line, remembering her bachelorette party. Santana had gotten her three strippers. Two that entertained her and Brittany while the other one straddled Quinn for a lap dance. The dance had quickly gotten out of hand and Quinn gripped the stripper's waist to politely ask her to move. A moment later a blinding flash had gone off and Quinn's eyes had gone wide. Santana laughed drunkenly as she waved her phone back and forth, the photo of Quinn caught in a very compromising position flashing across the screen. She swears to this day that she has no idea how the picture made it to Rachel's phone via text message but Quinn thinks she did it just to give her poor wife a heart attack.

"You're still a bitch for that," she grumbles.

Santana lifts her hands in innocence. "Hey, I don't know what the fuck happened with that. I must have butt messaged her or something."

"That's not even possible."

"Sure it is. Now, tell aunty Santana what's wrong."

She runs her fingers through her hair. "Rachel wants to have a baby and—"


"What? Why?"

"Because I always thought you'd be the one to get knocked up. Rachel has Broadway or whatever and something about you just screams 'I'm a fifties housewife who's only job is to pop out children.' I think it's the blonde hair. And, you know, your occasional old fashioned choices in clothing."

Quinn rubs her temples. "I'm choosing to ignore everything you just said." Talking to Santana is sometimes like talking to Brittany, Quinn has to ignore about fifty percent of what they both say or her head will end up exploding.

Santana shrugs. "I'm just staying. I thought you'd be the one to carry the child."

She nods. "Well, yeah, she and I both did, too, actually. But she says her 'biological clock is ticking,'" she emphasizes with air quotes. "So, she wants to carry this child and I'll carry the next one."

"How many are you going to have? A children's band worth?"

"I don't know. Two, three."

Her hand lifts like a dead weight, rubbing Quinn's shoulder with a little more force than necessary. "Well, that's great. Really, I'm happy for you and Berry. B and I are going to be like, the best god-mothers ever. Your kid's totally gonna love us more than you."

She scoffs, with a sarcastic, "I'm sure." Her mirth sobers a moment later. She initially didn't want to talk to Santana about this. But part of her wants to get her reservations about this whole situation off her chest and another part of her is hoping Santana gets so wasted as the night continues that she won't remember their talk in the morning. "It's just that…she wants Jesse to father our child."

Her drink flies from her mouth, clear across the bar, narrowly missing the bartender. Santana clutches her stomach as she breaks into a fit of hysterics, howling loudly with laughter. Quinn sinks further into her seat with embarrassment and anger.

"Wait, wait just a—" she trails off into laughter again. "What the fu—" more laughter. She wipes at her eye. She's heard a lot of funny things in her life, but this takes the cake. "Okay, wow, I was not expecting that. Phew." She dabs at her eye again. "That was funny."

"It's not funny, Santana," Quinn instantly roars back. "My wife wants to have a baby by some guy that used to have a crush on her. Oh, and really, he's not just some guy, is he? He's the guy she starred with in a play for years. She's kissed him for years. He's felt her naked breasts in his hands for years."

"Damn, Q, chill—"

"I'm not gonna chill!" she fires back. "Does no one have a problem with this but me?"

Her chest heaves with anger, her tunnel vision of only Santana widening to notice a few curious and concerned eyes glancing in her direction. She turns her back on everyone, looking away from Santana and facing the counter top of the bar once more.

"You need to calm down, Q," Santana tells her after a moment. "I get your shit's all in a bunch because apparently your wife wants to bone her side piece, but honestly. Chill."

Her heart twists. "You think she wants to sleep with Jesse?"

Santana rolls her eyes, flagging down the bartender for another drink. This was going to be a doozie. "No. I don't think Berry wants him, but that's what you were implying."

"I wasn't—"

"You so were. I'd reevaluate that little important thing in a marriage called trust if I were you 'cos yours is lacking."

"I trust her," she says firmly. "It's him I don't trust. Besides, it's the principle of the matter. He obviously had feelings for her and okay, yeah, we're all friends now but that doesn't mean she can simply ask him to father our child."

"Then go to a sperm bank."

"That's what I'm saying! I keep telling her to do that but she insists that Jesse has to be the donor."

"Listen," Santana levels her with a look. "I'm bored. I wanted you to come here to unwind because you said you've been working a lot but your ass is about as tight as an NFL tight end right now. Go home to your wife. You're killing my buzz."

Quinn opens her mouth to protest but Santana's already off the stool, walking on shaky legs to Brittany in the middle of the dance floor. She stares after them, admiring how carefree they are, just simply enjoying each other. She wants that with Rachel, not awkward tension and fighting. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a few bills to place on the bar despite the fact she didn't have a drink. She's out of her seat a moment later, heading for the exit.

Rachel's already home. Her car is in the driveway and when Quinn unlocks and opens the door, she already feels on edge. "Rachel?"

"In here, baby!"

She smiles slightly before walking through the living room to their bedroom. They had bought the house two years ago when she and Rachel had set aside enough money to take out a mortgage on a house that suited Rachel's high maintenance. Quinn had to admit she liked it, the bedroom was huge and the kitchen was spacious, with an up-to-date stove and oven. She mentally rolls her eyes, feeling like the fifties housewife Santana had called her.

"Hey," she says softly as she crosses the threshold of their bedroom.

Rachel's eyes dart to her quickly before she sits back on the bed to peel off a pair of jeans. "How was your day? I was surprised that you weren't here when I got home."

By surprised she means worried, Quinn guesses astutely. "It was okay. And I went out with Santana and Brittany. San called me when I got off work to hang out."

Rachel smiles. "How are they?"

Quinn walks further into the room, a little at ease. She quickly disposes of her jacket, working on the zipper of her skirt. "They're still the same. They miss us though."

"We should plan a double date of sorts. I miss their company as well."

She pulls on an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts before turning to Rachel. She shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, not knowing how to proceed. It's not like they haven't argued before, but this one seems bigger than arguing about which is more terrible: forgetting the anniversary of their first date, or forgetting the anniversary of their first time being intimate with one another.

"I think we should talk about this," she says calmly.

Rachel rises from the bed to rummage through her drawer for socks. "Okay. Allow me to preface by saying that I do not have any romantic feelings for Jesse."

"I think you do," Quinn says quietly. She denied it to Santana but that was simply because she didn't want to feel her friend's judgemental eyes on her. Truth be told, there was a small part of herself that she hated that was telling her that Rachel had feelings for Jesse.

Rachel pauses, unsure if she heard right. When it finally clicks into place her head spins. She turns to glower at Quinn. "Excuse me? How can you even insinuate—"

"I get it. He can act, sing, everything you love to do. You have common interests. Hell, you spent the better part of four years making out with him on stage while he groped your breast."

"Is this going anywhere?"

"You have a bond! There's something there!" She gestures wildly with her hands, stalking closer to Rachel. "The two of you share something that you and I don't. And that scares me," she finishes quietly.


"And adding a child into the mix will be yet another something that you and Jesse share that I won't."

"You'll be the mother, Quinn. You'll be just as part of our hypothetical child's life as I or Jesse. More so than Jesse because our child will be living with us, Quinn. Do you hear that? It'll be our child, not mine and Jesse's."

"Then pick someone else other than Jesse to father the child!" she yells exasperatedly.

"Quinn, you don't understand!" Rachel stresses.

Quinn runs her fingers through her hair in frustration. She had cut it after she graduated college in an attempt at new beginnings. She always said she liked it, Rachel thought she looked more mature, would help the business world take her even more seriously, but she never kept the cut. It had grown back over the years, gently passing her shoulders and steadily crawling towards the middle of her back once more. Rachel almost gets lost in it but the frustration in Quinn's voice brings her back to the present. "Tell me what I don't understand."

She sighs, walking over to the bed and sitting down. She pats the space beside her and is joined by a reluctant Quinn a moment later. Her eyes fall down to the blonde's hand resting against the navy blue bedspread. The brilliant golden band, shining on her ring finger. Rachel smiles a little before clasping her hand over Quinn's, stroking it softly. "I harbor no feelings for Jesse that are romantic in nature, Quinn," she says seriously, her eyes meeting hazel. "He and I have had a platonic friendship since day one and it is still the same."

"Then why do you want to have his child?"

"You make it sound much more intimate than it is."

"Asking a friend to father your children is a very intimate request."

"And if he wasn't a friend? Just a random stranger?"

"Then we wouldn't be having this discussion. Honestly, Rachel there are sperm banks for this kind of thing."

A wounded expression flickers through her eyes before Rachel puts on her best show face and if Quinn hadn't have known those chocolate eyes since she was twenty, she probably would have missed it. Her eyes narrow, trying to figure out what she could have possibly said wrong.

Rachel ducks her head a little, biting her lip. "Suppose we do go to a sperm bank, Quinn," she says quietly. "We pick a specimen that comes from possibly the healthiest, most musically gifted man they have to offer and impregnate me with it. We have a child, boy or girl, and love them with every fiber of our being. They hit puberty, learn about sex education and the fact that it is impossible for two women to procreate. Or even better, some child looks at them wish confusion, asking why they have two mothers and wondering where our child's father is. Then we get the question 'who is my father?'"

Quinn's mouth opens in realization, wanting to kick herself for how insensitive she's been this entire time.

"I –I don't want our child to ask us questions like that, Quinn. I don't want our hypothetical boy or girl to constantly wonder where one half of their heritage came from. To scour the country, possibly the world for their father, only to be heartbroken when that person isn't who they wanted and needed them to be. I want our child to have a father that they can look up to, one that will be there so when our child is old enough to ask—actually, I don't even want our child to have to ask. I want them to know without a doubt in their mind that they have a father that loves them."

Rachel's quiet for a moment, brow furrowed and lost in her own thoughts and Quinn leans forward, wrapping her arms around her. "I'm sorry, Rach. That was really," she takes a breath, "really insensitive of me."

Rachel smiles softly, returning the embrace and burrowing her nose in Quinn's hair. She had long ago come to terms with her mother, Shelby. That doesn't mean that she'd knowingly make the same mistakes her mother did. If Rachel can help it, she never wants to put their child through what she went through as a child.

"It's just…where am I going to fit?" Quinn mumbles into her shoulder. "Jesse's the father. You're the mother."

"And you're the mother," Rachel hums softly into her hair. She tugs on Quinn's shoulders as she leans back until she feels the cool comforter beneath her. Quinn hovers over her slightly before flopping down next to her, resting her head on Rachel's shoulder. "Why Jesse?" Quinn grumbles and Rachel rolls her eyes at how feisty her wife still manages to be.

"Do you know of any other males in our lives?"

"Of course I do!" she exclaims, wanting to find someone else, anyone else other than the man that used to have an intense crush on her wife. "There's…uh, I'm sure we know—"

"No one," Rachel deadpans in a know-it-all tone of voice. "The only male in your life you were close to was Noah Puckerman and the two of you didn't keep in touch after college."

"I can call him."

"That would be awkward."

"I can call Santana. I'm sure she knows a lot of guys. Between her and Brittany, easily a twenty mile radius worth."

"But are they respectable and…clean?"

Quinn makes a face. She grumbles some more before settling back down on Rachel's shoulder. The whole Jesse St. James is going to knock your woman up is still uncomfortable for her, but seeing it from Rachel's point of view quelled most of her anxiety. Rachel doesn't seem to have any real feelings for him and the prospect of a hypothetical child is already giving Quinn butterflies, already causing her heart to ache if their child ever came to her with tear filled eyes because they met their father for the first time and he wasn't the man they were expecting. Besides, Jesse seems to be a respectable guy. Respectable enough for her child, she muses.

"I don't like this idea," she whispers.

Rachel continues to stroke her hair, placing a kiss to her forehead. "I know, baby."

She shifts onto her side until she's hovering over Rachel, eye to eye. "But I hate the idea of our child crying because they don't know their father."

Rachel nods. "I hate that idea, too."

She leans forward to place a kiss against Rachel's lips. They had been arguing about this for a week and needless to say, neither was really up for putting out. Quinn's hand snakes down to the hem of Rachel's shirt, deftly sneaking under to touch the warm expanse of her belly. She traces the defined abdominal muscles reverently. A child was going to be growing there. Not just any child, their child. She mentally growls because Jesse better be taking a backseat if he thinks for a second he's going to be taking care of her wife while she's pregnant.

Her thumb brushes over Rachel's navel and the brunette shivers a little before Quinn moves lower, stroking her womb. "If I could get you pregnant, I would," she whispers against Rachel's lips.

"I know, baby" Rachel breathes, arching in an attempt to get Quinn's fingers lower. She's pretty sure those are the hottest words Quinn's ever uttered. Her arms wrap around the blonde's shoulders, nails digging slightly in an attempt to make her desire clear. "And I would happily bear your children. But just because you can't get me pregnant doesn't mean we can't practice still."

A sinful smirk touches Quinn's lips and Rachel doesn't resist even the urge to bite it away. Quinn moans into her mouth as her hand slinks lower. She pulls back, her lips caressing Rachel's ear. "Yes," she whispers. She tugs gently on the lobe and Rachel writhes in place on the bed as Quinn dips into the waistband of her underwear, past her curls. "He can be the father."

Rachel groans as two fingers slide into her swiftly, starting a rhythm that's quickly going to finish her. "And you'll be the mother."

"And we'll be mothers," Quinn says back as she ups the pace.

"I love you," Rachel chokes out.

"You better," she growls.