You're In My Veins

I Love You

Wake up, its time, little girl. Wake up.

All the best of what we've done is yet to come.

"You need to promise me, promise you'll let me explain it all before you make a judgement. Please," Quinn whispered, tears shimmering in her hazel eyes, Puck's hand warm and comforting against her cheek. She was going to tell him the truth, because after everything, Puck was the only person that had stuck by her side, and he deserved the truth. No matter how much she hated talking about it. There was only Santana who knew, and it had been so long since she opened up about it.

"I promise, Q. I'm right here, babe, I'm listening," Puck murmured, stroking his fingers along her cheekbone gently, hoping to comfort her.

Quinn nodded her head a little and let out a quivering breath, kissing his fingertips before threading her fingers through his and holding his hand tight in hers. "The night of the fire, when you left to get the condoms, I waited for you for a few minutes, and I heard something outside, in the garden. I went into the closet to grab some clothes and a flashlight, when I heard it again. I went downstairs, thinking you were trying to scare me, and I found that there was nothing there. So I went back up to my room, and I decided to finish off clearing out the closet. You were gone for so long and I was just tidying up, and the next thing I knew there was smoke coming into my bedroom, and fire everywhere. The fire alarms never sounded, and I was terrified. I hid in the closet, and I prayed for you to come back, prayed for you to come and save me. I knew you wouldn't leave me behind," she sighed, licking her lips nervously and taking his hand in hers, sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

"No, I wouldn't," he agreed softly, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing her knuckles, silently encouraging her to go on.

"At first I believed it was just some teenage kids, you know? Trying to cause trouble. We went to the motel, do you remember the motel?" she asked, waiting for him to nod that he did before she continued. "It was three in the morning, and I asked you to go get me a bottle of water, remember? The people at the reception called whilst you were out, said I had a caller, and connected the call. He was so proud of himself, gloating about how easy it was for him to set the fire, how easily he almost killed us. He told me how he had seen us that night at dinner, told me that I was dirty, and shameless, and that I deserved to burn for my sins. He told me he wanted us both to burn for what we've done," she breathed, closing her eyes tight for a moment, her free hand finding her bump and stroking it a few times to soothe herself and the babies sleeping inside of her.

"Who did, Q? You need to tell me who did this, and why you covered for them," he urged, cupping her face gently and turning her to face him, her eyes fluttering open. "Who set the fire, Quinn?" He asked again, though the clenching of his stomach told him he already knew the answer, that the voice on the phone really was who he thought it was.

Quinn sniffed quietly and studied his eyes for a long moment, soothed by the feeling of his thumb stroking her cheek.

She couldn't lose him.

Not again.

"My Dad," she confessed, her voice no more than a breathy whisper that he strained to hear. "My dad," she repeated, stronger this time, firmer. "He told me that I was to encourage you to believe that some teenage kid set the fire, and next time, I wasn't to get in the way. If I failed, I was supposed to take the blame for him. I just wanted my Daddy to love me, Puck," she cried, tears dripping down her cheeks as her lower lip trembled. "I've spent my whole life trying to be good enough for him, but I never was. There's always been something wrong with me, something he could never beat out of me. I wanted him to look at me with love in his eyes, the way other fathers look at their children, instead of the hatred that I've seen there ever since I can remember. I was no good, Puck. I was fat, and ginger. I had braces and glasses and acne. I wasn't good for the family, wasn't one of God's children. I was the devil, that's what he told me. When I was five years old, I tripped over and smacked my head open on the floor. My parents were so worried- about their new cream carpets. I was five years old, and when my Mom went to get another glass of wine, he leant close to me, and told me I didn't deserve a doctor to take the pain away; I was the devil's child, a mistake he didn't want. That my red hair was a sign of the devil in me, and I guess I proved him right, huh? I mean, there must be something wrong with me, for him to hate his own child! I thought if I covered for him, I could show him I was good, that I could be good, be someone he was proud of," she whispered, shaking her head a little and staring out of the window for a long moment.