I have had the longest, shittiest day in the all history. All I want is to come home, eat dinner, and lay in bed with my beautiful wife until we fall asleep. And yet, it just keeps getting worse. The strap of my purse gets caught in the revolving door, the elevator is down (again) so I have to walk up ten flights of stairs because neither of us like the ground floor and I'm starting to think we're crazy for that, and then I, of course, drop my keys as soon as I actually get them out of my purse.
Great freaking day.
When I finally get it unlocked, I drop my keys next to hers on the stand we were originally going to use for mail and kick off my shoes, shouting, "Rachel! I've had the worst day of my entire life, so it would be great if we could skip our usual showdown on Scrabble tonight and just relax. I promise to kick your ass tomorrow." I drop my briefcase next to the couch and yank off my coat, catching her enter from the kitchen in the corner of my eye. "You would not believe how horrid it was in there today. I mean, first I get in and my assistant tells me my boss canceled my morning meetings, so of course I'm thinking, 'Shit, I'm getting laid off' and then I find out he really wants me to spend the whole morning working on training a bunch of interns, which you know I hate because they always ask the dumbest questions and I seriously wonder if these kids were in the right building, because dear God."
"Quinn," she says softly, but I'm not in the mood to be calmed down.
"They were like a bunch of lost sheep. In fact, they kind of reminded me of a room of Finn Hudsons. Like you want to be nice and patient, but they're so annoying you just can't do it." I huff, leaning against the arm of the couch. "So then, after I'm done with them, I'm on lunch break, right? Wrong. Because I didn't do my morning meetings, I had to literally call every one of them and explain the situation, because Janet can't handle being yelled at—the girl reads romance novels at her desk, for crying out loud."
"And of course my boss couldn't have just had her explain the situation when she called to cancel. So I spend like half my afternoon getting reamed out and then I still have filing and all this other shit to do, half of which has to wait until tomorrow because I wasted so much time with those interns, and then I practically ran my heels off at the end of the day trying to hunt down the lady from HR who's been giving me the runaround about time off so you don't have to be going to these doctor's appointments alone; so I could really use a foot massage later, if you don't mind, baby." I kiss her forehead. "But when I catch up with her, it's time for both of us to clock out. But don't worry, I'm not going to let her keep doing this to me, okay?"
"Yes, baby?" I smile, feeling the tension of the day work its way out of my body now that I'm home, with my gorgeous wife, and all of that nasty stuff is out in the open and off my chest. I soak in the pleasant atmosphere of our apartment, and only then do I smell— "Bacon? You made bacon?"
A smile lifts the corners of her lips briefly before she says, "Yes, but—"
I grin and grasp her hand, tugging her into the kitchen with me, where I see she's set the table quite nicely: two high candles, a lovely centerpiece with gardenias, a bottle of champagne, each of our favorite dishes on each side of the table, and even a tablecloth, which we usually don't bother with considering that that table has been on the receiving end of some heavy loads before. Suddenly I'm a little nervous. Did I forget an anniversary, or something?
I couldn't possibly. I always remember. Unless today drove me so crazy that—
"Quinn. I have something to tell you."
Oh, God. What happened? I face her, instantly worried, and she struggles for a moment, biting her lip.
"I went to the doctor today and, um…"
There are suddenly butterflies in my stomach, because God, this has to be a good thing, right? All the other times, we never made fancy dinners like this, we only held each other, reaffirmed our love for each other, promised to try again. Before I knew it, I was squeezing both her hands tightly in mine.
A small smile lifts her lips, and she gives me a little nod. "I'm pregnant."
For a moment, all I can do is stare while my heart beats in my ears and I stare at the woman I love. And then it sets in, and I'm squealing and scooping her up in my arms until her feet are no longer on the floor, and she laughs and hugs me as tight as she can, and I'd be absolutely, perfectly happy in this moment if I could just taste her lips, so I lean back to do just that, but can't help but pause to grin at her sparkling eyes. She grins back.
"For-for good this time?" I ask, frightened and excited for the answer, and she bobs her head so cutely; it's a habit she never lost from high school, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
"She said I'm about two months in, and I'm in excellent health. Barring any unforeseen complications, this one's a keeper," she says tearfully, and I squeeze her tighter, kissing her as many times as I can without actually taking my lips away.
"God, I love you, Rachel," I murmur against her lips, claiming them again shortly.
She pulls back from me, cupping my cheeks and gently stroking my skin, running her fingers through my hair. "I love you, too." She kisses me sweetly, then says, "Now put me down so we can have a proper celebratory meal together. Since I can no longer partake in the delights of alcohol, I intend on getting you very drunk, Mrs. Fabray." She grins cheekily.
A mischievous smirk rises on my face before I can stop it, and I heave her higher in my arms, until her legs are around my waist. "I have a better idea," I purr, and it takes me only three minutes to get her to stop lecturing me about how long it took her and how we're wasting good food. Which is, by the way, a record.