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“MA I CAN’T FIND MY LUCKY HOODIE! HAVE YOU SEEN IT?” Bridget’s room is a mess, and when Quinn appears in the doorway she almost has a heart attack - or faints - something, because she feels dizzy and has to clutch the door frame for support.
“Oh my god, Bridget what did you do to your room?” The contents of every drawer in her dresser are spilled across the floor and her closet has been turned out. Even the laundry hamper is upturned.
“I’m looking for my lucky hoodie.” The duh is implied. “Where is it?” More clothes go flying and the mess of Bridget’s red hair disappears under her bed, along with half of her torso. “Seriously ma, where is it?” Her voice is muffled coming from under the bed and Quinn isn’t sure whether the laugh she lets out is because the whole situation is horrifying or hilarious.
“Um. Which one is that again?” She regains her composure when her daughter pops out from under the bed with this look that could rival both of her mothers’ darkest expressions.
“Seriously? You know which one. My … my Agent P hoodie.” She chews on her lip and flops miserably to her butt between a stack of magazines and a pile of clothes, hopefully clean ones because she’s leaning back against them like they’re a chair back.
“Right. That one. Um… it’s in the wash.” Quinn says quickly and tucks her hands behind her back, a guilty tell that she hasn’t managed to drop from her quirks since childhood.
“MA SERIOUSLY?” Bridget launches up off the floor, toppling the magazines and almost tripping over her nail polish tower.
“Well… not in the wash, per se, but it’s somewhere, ready to go in once you go to bed.”
“Moooooom.” She whines and tiptoes over a pile of wrapped presents in the middle of the chaos. “You know I need that for my test tomorrow.”
“Sweetheart, it’s too small. And it’s filthy. You could barely make out Agent P on the front.”
“You can barely make him out when it’s clean. You KNOW my A plus juju comes from wearing that thing through all of my finals. Why would you wash it?”
“Oh Bridget, you don’t really believe a stupid jacket-“
“-hoodie is the reason you make such amazing grades on your finals.” But Bridget levels her with this gaze that says ‘oh no you fucking didn’t’ and Quinn sighs. “You’ve had it since sixth grade, baby, it’s time to let it go. Phineas and Ferb isn’t even playing reruns any more.”
“Yeah so it’s like, retro and awesome. But that doesn’t matter. I need it. It’s… it’s a-“
“It’s a superstition. A gross one. Like your Uncle Puck’s unhealthy habit of wearing the same pair of unwashed underwear for every game of the football season.” She shudders and pushes off of the door frame. “You will make a fantastic grade on your test tomorrow.” She says it in her even-toned psychologist voice and Bridget groans and rolls her eyes.
“MA I NEED THAT HOODIE YOU DON’T GET IT.” She rushes forward, easing around an open jewellery box with its jumbled contents pouring out, and stares at Quinn with big, watery green eyes.
“Seriously Quinn just go get the damn hoodie from where you hid it.” At some point Rachel must have emerged from the linen closet down the hall because she’s standing behind Quinn with that look of contained frustration that Quinn usually associates with the moment before she gets topped in bed.
“Uh. Rachel. She’s seventeen. She doesn’t need a lucky hoodie. Specifically one that hasn’t been washed in two weeks.”
“But it’s her thing. Like gold stars are mine. And you should know better, you’re a psychologist.”
“I know but… it’s just so gross, babe.”
“Yes, but even I’m okay with that. So please go grab the hoodie and let her be.” She points down the hallway, towards the stairs, and Quinn can hear the echo of the foot she doesn’t stomp. She turns her attention back to Bridget, who is all watery eyes and messy hair. Even though Bridget was adopted as a newborn, she’s the emotional duplicate of Rachel, and it is a source of endless frustration for Quinn and Elliot.
“Ma, please. It’s my last winter final before I graduate. I want it to be perfect. I promise, we can throw it away as soon as I get home.”
“Can we burn it in the chiminea instead?”
“Whatever you want ma just please.”
Quinn is gone in a huff and Rachel gives Bridget this look, half way between sympathetic and proud. She just smiles, her Tony winning smile, and reaches out to squeeze Bridget’s hands.
“Oh sweetie, sometimes I don’t even believe you were adopted.”
“I wasn’t, mom, I’m an alien and implanted those memories in your head.” Bridget says it seriously and wiggles her fingers so Rachel will release her grip.
“You really need to stop spending so much time at your Aunt Brittany’s dance studio, it’s making you weird.”
Bridget pulls a face and then Quinn arrives from the downstairs, a plastic bag dangling from her fully extended arm. Bridget rips the bag from Quinn’s arm and pulls her filthy hoodie out. It’s almost solid black except for the faint outlines of blue and orange and brown, a few white flakes where there were once eyes, and something that looks like a ketchup right down the front.
“Maybe I should wash it before we burn it.”
“Nah. Burning it dirty is like, symbolic or something.”
“I never thought that stupid platypus hoodie would mean so much to you,” Quinn sighs heavily and takes the plastic bag back away from Bridget. “If I had, I wouldn’t have bought it.”
“He’s not a stupid platypus, ma, he’s a semi-aquatic egg laying mammal of action. And he’s still cool, ask Aunt B.” Bridget puts it on the coat hook next to her door and turns back to her room. “Great, now I have to clean my room. I think ma should help me since it’s her fault it’s such a mess.”
She whips around at the sound of a door slamming and neither of her moms are in the hallway any more, just the faint giggling coming from their bedroom down the hall.
“OH REALLY MATURE YOU GUYS!” She slams the door with a huff and kicks the nearby pile of clothes for good measure.
Imagine your OTP becoming unlikely allies and then Person A goes on to become the best friend Person B has ever had.
I think that already happened, imagineyourotp.
"How about…one sided, Rachel, she is fully aware of how in love with her Quinn is, but she can’t help but wishes that they could be real friends. Cause she just admires Quinn SO MUCH… instead she had to keep Quinn at arm’s length so she doesn’t get the wrong idea, or misinterpret her motives. Maybe she [Rachel] is not reciprocal with the feelings because she’s honest to God straight, maybe because Pezberry, whatevs."
"Can’t we just go back to being friends?" Rachel is embarrassed by the tears welling in the corners of her eyes, but she’s tired and frustrated and just wishes things could be normal for once.
"Rachel I-" Quinn steps forward, reaching for Rachel even though the other girl is already stepping away from her.
"No, Quinn. It’s not fair.” Rachel waves her hands at Quinn, unable to fight off the tears any longer. “I just want to be your friend, you know, spend time with you and not worry about leading you on or hurting your feelings.”
“Do you think I want to love you?” Quinn exhales shakily and folds her arms across her chest.
“Wh-love?” Rachel swallows hard and leans back into the podium. The stage suddenly feels too small and too warm and Quinn is too close, her eyes too intensely hazel.
It’s too much.
Rachel can feel her phone buzzing in her jeans pocket, a text from Santana asking where she is most likely, and a jolt of guilt rockets up her spine. She should be at the Lopez’s house, drinking wine and celebrating Santana’s acceptance into the University of Chicago’s graduate program. Instead she’s standing on an empty stage with Quinn, who can’t stop looking at her with the same warm, expectant gaze she’s worn since 10th grade.
Quinn opens her mouth to speak, but Rachel’s phone jangles to life.
I get so emotional baby, every time I think of you. I get so emotional baby, ain’t it shocking what love can do.
“Santana. I know.” Quinn’s voice has gone from that thick-I’m-about-to-cry deepness to her standard cold. She clears her throat and motions to Rachel’s pocket.
“I’m sorry, Quinn. I just … love her.” She fishes the phone out of her pocket and steps off of the stage, leaving Quinn alone on the stage to wonder where things went wrong, again.
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