Chapter Text
Under normal circumstances, Quinn secretly loved Christmas. Lights blinking against the windows, bells jingling in the hallways, cinnamon rolls in the cafeteria—even the bitter Ohio wind and the way her toes froze in wet boots seemed tolerable when there was an excuse for peppermint cocoa. The past two years had changed everything. Last year, she’d spent the holidays pregnant, sleeping wherever she could, counting the ways she’d managed to destroy her life. This year was technically better—she wasn’t pregnant, wasn’t homeless—but things still felt off. Stupid Finn had talked her into quitting the Cheerios, and she’d broken up with Sam, which seemed mutual on paper, but left her colder than the December air.
It was mutual, she supposed. He wanted to try things with Mercedes, and Quinn had seen the way Mercedes watched him when she thought no one noticed. Quinn wanted Mercedes to be happy, even if that left her alone at Christmas, without Sam’s easy affection trailing after her. The holidays weren’t awful, exactly, just… emptier.
And as if fate wanted to put a cherry on her sundae of joy, Mr. Schuester decided they’d do Secret Santa. Twelve days of forced cheer, starting thirteen days before break. Each glee clubber buying “meaningful” trinkets for someone else, making nice whether they wanted to or not. Homemade or cheap was fine, as long as it “showed they cared.” Quinn, skeptical, didn’t see how a $2 ornament could bridge the yawning gaps in the club.
Santana asked the obvious question. “So are we supposed to break into each other’s lockers?”
Mr. Schuester, flustered, insisted he’d handle logistics: “I have stockings for you—just bring your presents in at scheduled times. I’ll keep them until the big reveal.” He watched his clipboard with the same intense confusion he always brought to show choir setlists.
Quinn cut in when he referred to the “Cheerios practice” for her time slot. “We're not on the Cheerios anymore,” she muttered, not quite meeting his eye.
He looked apologetic. “Sorry. I’ll…fix that.”
She let him off the hook. “It's fine, we'll come in early.” It wasn’t like she had somewhere better to be.
Assignments handed out, time slots noted, it was name-drawing time. Quinn counted the seconds until her doom, running through the list of people she could almost stand gifting something. Of course, when her turn came, she drew the name she least wanted—Rachel Berry.
Just perfect. Rachel, who had blown up her life last year, who had stolen Finn and then played the innocent as if everything was forgiveness and hugs. Rachel, who’d beam in her hideous sweaters and pretend to understand everyone’s pain. Quinn barely stopped herself from groaning; she handed Mr. Schuester the card and slunk back to her seat, arms crossed tight.
Rachel pranced up for her turn, flashing her card at Mr. Schuester with a little secret smile. Quinn rolled her eyes. Probably got someone easy, like Brittany, whose tastes were predictable as puppy videos.
Now Quinn had to buy a present for Rachel Berry. She scanned through Rachel’s likes: music, being the center of attention, more music. Maybe that was actually a blessing. Sheet music could be found online; “thoughtful” enough on paper, meaningless in reality. Cheap, easy. Exactly what the assignment deserved.
Sam, Santana, Tina—the others faded to background noise. Quinn felt herself slide into autopilot. Survive, submit, don’t make waves.
When she got home and homework was finished, she half-heartedly searched for sheet music from Funny Girl. Printed, folded, and stuffed into her bag in less than five minutes. “Thoughtful.” Or so she convinced herself. Maybe last year she’d have felt bad about it, but last year felt irretrievably distant.
Monday morning brought icy wind, soggy socks, and no improvement in her mood. Mr. Schuester gave her a slightly disappointed look when she handed him the sheet music, but said nothing. Quinn shrugged it off, hoping this would be the end.
It wasn’t. At the glee club gathering after school, stockings were displayed with fanfare. Quinn waited until last to retrieve hers, expecting nothing at all. The package was small, lightweight, neatly wrapped in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of how her mother used to do it. Inside: a pair of red earmuffs, the kind that looped behind your head, practical and surprisingly soft. There was a note, written in a slanted script:
‘To keep you warm and snug this winter—and to muffle the idiots you’re constantly surrounded by! –SS’
She let out a snort and couldn’t help testing the fit. Perfect. The warmth blossomed over her ears and (maybe, just maybe) under her skin, too.
She risked a look across the room. Rachel was sitting, posture rigid, just holding the loose sheets of music in her lap. All around her, the others were pulling out toys, candy, comics, even the occasional questionable “diet” product. Quinn’s gift looked like an afterthought next to them.
So, after dinner that night, she set her books aside and tugged on those earmuffs. Maybe “thoughtful” could be improved. Maybe Rachel deserved something just a little better.