Faberry Week | Day 4 & 6 (Age Difference/ Doppelgangers)

12-year-old Rachel babysits the 6-year-old Quinns  [F]

Faberry Week | Day 4 & 6 (Age Difference/ Doppelgangers)

12-year-old Rachel babysits the 6-year-old Quinns  [F]

(via jennception)

mollykatheryn:

Faberry Week
Day 1: Scars
Day 2:
Meeting Frannie

“Never look her directly in the eye – always aim for her eyebrows. Don’t ever even think about wearing red – she reacts in a very bullish fashion. Don’t you dare make her repeat herself – I swear to god, not ever. If she gives you five minutes to do something, that means you should have it done in two and a half. Her espresso should be scaldingnot just steaming, trust me. And last but certainly not least – you must never ever ever not ever…call her Lucy.”

“Wah…what?” Rachel stuttered. “Why would you even say that?! I wasn’t planning on calling her Lucy, and now that’s all I can think of!”

The other woman smiled evilly.

“Oh, just forget it, then.”

But obviously, Rachel couldn’t.

Never before had Rachel experienced a stranger orientation to a new job. It had been a whirlwind seven-minute tour thus far, and she already felt completely inundated.

Suddenly, a small, flighty Asian woman streaked past them, bumping into both women’s elbows as she hurtled down the hallway.

“What on earth—” Rachel started.

“She’s coming!” The woman’s long, black hair was a horizontal wave behind her, she was moving so quickly. “They lost the appointment for her wax! She’s coming!”

Rachel’s tour guide and fellow assistant sighed dramatically, pausing for a second – but only a second – with her hand covering her eyes. Rachel awkwardly tried to look anywhere but at the other woman, and this feat in and of itself was not particularly difficult as there was a lot to look at – all up and down the hallway, people were flying from one room to the next; women were changing tops and shoes and reapplying mascara, men were frantically retying ties to perfection and fixing their hair, a stack of magazines toppled over and no less than six people rushed to pick them all up at once.

It was pandemonium.

“Tina is normally over-dramatic, and so we ignore her. But if there really was a scheduling mishap, then our asses are going to be toast.”

Our asses?” Rachel questioned.

The woman dropped her hand and literally snapped. Rachel was suddenly worried about loss of limb and whether or not her new insurance would include worker’s comp – or even if she would get insurance at all.

“Yes, our, you insignificant, strangely dressed imbecile. We’re in this together now, whether you like it or not.” She turned and began to power walk down the hallway, back towards the elevators. “Don’t talk to her directly unless she asks you a direct question, don’t hiccup, sniffle, or sneeze, and don’t even think about smiling.”

They came to a stop just to the right of the elevator.

“All right, no bodily functions, got it,” Rachel mumbled.

The woman’s eye twitched as she whipped her head around to glare at Rachel. She whisper-yelled, “And no sarcasm!”

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

And the most stunningly chic woman Rachel had ever seen in her life elegantly stepped off the elevator and whipped her glasses from her face, tossing them to her right. The assistant who had been giving Rachel the low-down caught them expertly in midair and then fell into step behind the woman as she began to briskly make her way towards her office.

Rachel had heard lots about Quinn Fabray and even more about the woman’s empire, but she had not been adequately prepared for the human hurricane she now beheld.

“I don’t have time for tales of your ineptitude. The next time there is an error in my schedule, my wrath will be complete and devastating, understood?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. And as she walked – as she glided, actually – she plucked her black gloves from each sensuously long, tapered finger and whisked them over her head. The other woman gestured frantically as the gloves soared through the air, and Rachel nearly had to dive to catch them – but catch them, she did. She ran a few steps to catch back up with the other women, and she received not even a cursory nod for her athletic feat. She nearly pouted.

“Reschedule the appointment – somewhere new. Make it that place Scarlett mentioned last time she was in. Get me DK on the phone immediately. Tell Tom he’s out of the September issue. And call that bitch Meryl and tell her she’ll never grace our pages again if she gives me the diva attitude I saw on her yesterday.”

They had made it to the main office, and Rachel’s new counterpart was scribbling furiously as their boss lowered herself into the winged black leather beast of a chair behind her massive mahogany desk.

“That’s all,” she said, literally shooing them away.

Rachel’s eyebrows were halfway up her forehead as she cautiously backed out of the room without daring to show the nape of her neck to the ferocious woman. She watched as Quinn Fabray ran a hand – ran those exquisitely long fingers – through her short, blonde locks of hair, every strand falling back into their individual places in the perfect golden wave.

It was oddly mesmerizing. Rachel shook herself.

She had made it just around the edge of her desk – a mirror image to the other assistant’s – when the boss’s sharp voice called out, “Frannie!”

Rachel looked quickly left and right, not actually sure who Frannie was.

Then her eyes landed on her tour guide, Assistant Number One. Rachel could almost imagine smoke pouring out of the woman’s nostrils.

Dare she think it? The woman looked…quite bullish herself.

“Coming!” she called back, making her way into the office. She quickly hissed, “And it’s Francesca to you, nerd.”

Rachel’s eyes were very wide. She quickly narrowed them once she noticed, afraid of them getting permanently stuck – she saw the very real possibility in this, if the rest of her time at this job was going to be anything like these first twelve minutes.

She couldn’t help but hear the voices from the large, open office.

“Quinn,” Francesca nearly hissed – which in and of itself threatened to knock Rachel off of her feet. Where had her fellow assistant found the nerve? “You know I don’t go by Frannie anymore.”

Rachel could almost envision the woman sitting at her desk, effortlessly flicking her wrist in a gesture of apathy.

“Whatever you say, Fran. What on earth was that thing shadowing you?”

“Your new assistant. Your new second assistant.”

“Whatever happened to Splenda?”

“Sugar?”

“Frannie…” Quinn nearly growled, obviously under the impression that the other woman should be capable of reading her thoughts by now.

“You fired Sugar five days ago. It’s taken this long to find a replacement who isn’t utterly inept and who is at least minimally capable of taking some of my personal workload.”

“I don’t care so much about that.” From outside the door, Rachel could hear the turning of pages, as if even the conversation Quinn herself had started hardly had her full attention. “What is its name?”

“Rachel.”

“Well, send it in.”

The clacking of heels heralded Frannie’s – Francesca’s – return.

“She’ll have a word with you,” she harshly whispered. Rachel felt her eyes go wide again. “Don’t screw it up.”

Rachel gulped.

Frannie smirked.

Eleven seconds later found Rachel standing stock-still in front of Quinn’s desk. Her boss was leaning back in her chair, legs and arms crossed, with her fingertips resting against her chin. Rachel made a mental note to not look at the woman’s endless expanse of leg. Within seconds, her best conscious efforts had failed miserably – multiple times.

“My sister tells me that you’re Rachel.”

“Your…sister?” Rachel twisted around, looking back out into the hallway. The bullish similarities were clearer than ever. She suppressed a chuckle as she turned back to her boss and answered the question. “Yes, I’m Rachel.”

“And you’re not from New York.”

It wasn’t really a question.

“No, I’m from Ohio.”

A strange look, nearly bordering on distaste, crossed Quinn’s face.

“I see.”

“It’s really nice in the springtime, actually.”

The silence was acutely painful.

“How…quaint.

“Yes,” Rachel agreed, nodding slowly while still trying not to ogle thigh.

“You don’t enjoy fashion.”

“Oh, I actually very much do—”

“No,” Quinn interrupted, her eyes taking in every thread on Rachel’s body. “That wasn’t a question.”

Rachel kept silent this time.

“And you’ve considered a nose job before, obviously.”

But now, she could not keep quiet. “I’ll have you know that my nose is part of my proud heritage, and it is scientifically proven that people with large noses have fewer issues with breath control and—”

Quinn raised her hand in a very clear gesture for silence. “All right,” she said, “keep the nose. Just don’t cause my office to crash and burn. Are we clear?”

Rachel took a deep breath, a little embarrassed at her outburst but also feeling completely justified.

And, somehow, she hadn’t lost her job.

“Crystal.”

The second Rachel was outside of Quinn’s office, she pressed herself close to Frannie’s desk and  whispered, “She treats you this way and she’s your sister?!”

Frannie huffed and rolled her eyes spectacularly. “God forbid she give anyone special treatment.”

“Huh,” Rachel quietly exclaimed.

“Do keep your opinions to herself.”

Rachel felt the beginnings of a twitch forming in her own eye. She turned and made her way to her desk.

As she was even with Quinn Fabray, with twenty feet and an imposing desk between them, her boss looked up. Rachel’s steps faltered, and she stopped for only a moment. Those eyes, they were so chilly, so piercing – but Rachel saw that there was something else, too: a chink in the woman’s armor of ice, the tiniest beginnings of a coldness, melting… Or maybe she was just imagining it – people had always called her dramatic.

Rachel bit her lip. She remembered Frannie’s voice – no smiles or other bodily functions allowed – but the corners of her lips tilted upwards ever so slightly, and she stood still, the rest of her body mostly paralyzed. The ice queen before her did not move even a muscle, but after a second or two, Rachel found she was still alive. She willed herself to breathe again, and to move, and she made her way back to her desk.

As she sat, Frannie snapped, “Do you not have DK on the phone yet?!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Rachel replied, frantically opening the contacts application on her computer. After only a couple of seconds, she despondently muttered under her breath, “Who the heck is DK?!”

Several days later…

“You’re to be entrusted with a ridiculously important task. And the only reason I can’t do it myself is because we have a family function tonight, and I have to represent both myself and my darling sister—” the word ‘darling’ looked like it physically pained Frannie to utter it. “The prints from this week’s shoots will all be ready at seven o’clock. You’re to deliver them to Quinn’s home. Here is the key. You go inside, set them on the foyer table, and you leave.”

“Will she be home?” Rachel asked, accepting the key from Frannie and pressing it dutifully into her palm.

“Who on earth knows? Just get in, do your job, and get out.”

Rachel should have known then that it could never be so easy.

Several hours later…

“Heh-hello?” Rachel called into the expansive foyer of Quinn Fabray’s impressive New York City apartment. “Anybody…home?”

There was no answer. Rachel hesitantly stepped further inside. There was a table up ahead on her left. But as she neared it, she realized that there was another table, equally a part of the foyer, and she realized that she didn’t know which table was the right table.

“Oh dear,” she breathed out.

“Frannie?” a voice called.

And it was a voice that Rachel had become very familiar with, but it was a voice a shade warmer than she was used to hearing it. Or perhaps a shade wearier.

“No,” Rachel called out, pointing herself in the direction she thought the question had come from. “Not Frannie. It’s me, Rachel. Just delivering prints. I’ll be off now.”

“Rachel?” A slight tinge of confusion. “Come here.”

Rachel almost said where? But instead figured that she would probably be best off if she shut her mouth and made the best of the situation – as well as her admittedly limited sense of direction.

She found Quinn’s study in record time. And the sight was not exactly what she had expected.

The colors were full of creams and gorgeous burgundies, far lighter than the mostly oppressive color tones of her office. There was a plush couch in the middle of the floor and an expensive-looking stand against one wall; it was topped with glasses and a decanted bottle of some liquor Rachel was fairly certain she could never afford even a sip of. Along the opposite wall was an impressive bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran the entire length of the room.

And between that wall and Rachel, there was a chair. And in that chair sat Quinn Fabray.

Rachel stepped into the room with the barest hint of trepidation. “Good evening,” she softly spoke.

Quinn tilted her head back. Her eyes swept over every inch of Rachel – surely taking in her sweater from three seasons ago and her worn heels. But Rachel kept her head high. There was nothing else for it. Anyone’s outfit would pale in comparison to Quinn’s perfectly tailored slacks and barely-there silk blouse.

Those pale fingers Rachel had become familiar with – from a distance – lifted a glass to full, pink lips, and Quinn drank deeply before standing. She moved across the floor, slowly covering the distance between them. She didn’t stop until she was merely a few inches from Rachel.

Rachel gulped.

“I was wrong about the nose.”

They were so close, Rachel could practically taste the oaken aroma of the liquor on Quinn’s breath. Rachel’s eyes traced the outline of full lips, the angular tilt of cheekbones, the spectacular coloration of the woman’s eyes… Rachel’s lips parted. Her tongue reached out and slowly wetted them.

“I know you were.”

“Mm,” Quinn hummed, “have you ever been short on confidence?”

“No,” Rachel replied, daring to smirk, “just on height.” She looked up with all the courage in her small frame to the other woman’s eyes, several inches above hers.

A perfectly sculpted brow arched, and Rachel was pretty sure she wasn’t imaging the beginnings of a smile – in the woman’s gaze, if not trickling down to her lips.

“Rachel…”

Her name came on a breath, nearly silent. And her body responded of its own volition. She tilted forward, ever so slightly, and Quinn’s hand reached out, brushing against her arm in answer.

“I…” Rachel was at a loss. “I’m not sure…”

“Oh,” Quinn exhaled the syllable against the side of Rachel’s face, her words now alighting against the sensitive skin where her jaw line and ear met. “But I always am.

And that was that, really.

Several more days later…

Frannie knew what she was seeing. Her brain was simply having difficulty processing things at an adequate tempo.

There were now looks. And touches – there had never been touches before, she knew for a fact! And when was the last time she’d seen her little sister crack even the faintest trace of a smile?!

“Oh, no,” Frannie mumbled to herself as she heard Rachel’s giggle float out of the open office. She dramatically groaned as she actually heard Quinn’s laugh follow on the heels of Rachel’s happiness, Quinn’s version more subdued but still too intense for Frannie’s liking.

A few minutes later, Rachel walked out, heading for her desk. She quickly noticed Frannie’s look of repugnance and a look of sincerest apology washed across her features. She shrugged contritely as she took her seat directly across from Quinn’s sister, and carefully added, “I guess some people get special treatment after all.”

Frannie dropped her head to her desk, willing her insides to remain inside.

“Welcome to the family,” she grumbled, sure that she had spoken quietly enough that her sister’s plaything wouldn’t have noticed.

But the coy smile on Rachel’s face as she set about organizing the next week’s major photo shoot said that she had heard every word.

It was an unorthodox introduction to the family. But Rachel found she didn’t mind.

(via faberryweek)

skywarrior108:

The Girl with the Most Cake
"They look so much alike—the strong jawline, striking blonde hair, and incredibly expressive eyes."
For the Faberry Week 2014 prompt “Meeting Frannie.” Set in the same ‘verse as Softer, Softest. g!p
Read on FF.net
Read on AO3

skywarrior108:

The Girl with the Most Cake

"They look so much alike—the strong jawline, striking blonde hair, and incredibly expressive eyes."

For the Faberry Week 2014 prompt “Meeting Frannie.” Set in the same ‘verse as Softer, Softest. g!p

Read on FF.net

Read on AO3

(via faberryweek)

asker

Anonymous asked: Hey Poetz, are you posting a Faberry fanfic for Scars?

poetzproblem:

Even after all these years, Quinn hates the puckered, pale lines that crisscross her body. The stretchmarks that she’d dreaded at sixteen are invisible beneath the angry map of scars left by broken glass, twisted metal, and a surgeon’s scalpel. Every mirror has been her enemy for years.  

No matter how many times Rachel has told her that she’s still beautiful, inside and out, or reverently kissed each and every scar and whispered words of gratitude that Quinn is still here. stronger for being broken, Quinn has never quite believed her.  

Until now.

With her lips trailing a slow, careful path along the six inch scar that mars the otherwise perfect skin of her wife’s belly, Quinn trembles, remembering the fear and helplessness as doctors had urgently spoken of fading vitals and emergency surgery—as what should have been a happy event turned life-threatening. Rachel breathes beneath her, sifting her fingers through Quinn’s hair as her belly rises and falls steadily under Quinn’s mouth. The soft coos of their two month old daughter tickle their ears from the crib in the corner of their room.  

And Quinn finally understands the beauty of a single scar.

elly-bells:

Rhyme or Reason

Four scars, four stories, countless memories. Jotkor one-shot for Faberry Week Day One: Scars.

4824 words. At FF.net.

(via faberryweek)

mollykatheryn:

Faberry Week
Day 1: Scars

Judy Fabray and Maribel Lopez were long-time friends. Once upon a time, they had gone to William McKinley High together. College had sent them in different directions, but they had both landed close to home in the end – Maribel came back to Lima, and Judy married a waspy banker and ended up in Belleville where she was raising two darling girls. But once a year, over Fourth of July weekend, the Fabrays made the short trip a township over so that Judy could reacquaint herself with the town that had always been first in her heart.

“Stop picking at your headband, honey,” Judy clucked at her eldest daughter as they all piled out of the family SUV.

Frannie rolled her eyes and haughtily straightened out her bright red dress before stomping off to play with some of the local Lima kids on the basketball court. She had never particularly liked dressing up, not like her little sister.

Lucy, who was several years younger, extricated herself from the backseat of the vehicle in a much daintier fashion than her sister. She meticulously patted out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress during the forty-five minute car ride, and then she looked up into her parents’ faces with a charming smile.

She may have been young, but she already knew exactly where the buttons were and in what order they needed to be pushed.

“Run along, sweetheart,” Russell cooed, “I see some of your little friends over on the jungle gym.”

He pointed towards the giant red, blue, and yellow beast of playground equipment. Lucy kept her smile in place as she looked in that direction, and still she smiled as she turned back, nodding at her parents.

“Just stay away from that Berry child. We know what sort she comes from.”

“Yes, dear,” Judy agreed, “best to play with Santana and her friends.”

Lucy did not understand this request that sounded like a warning, but she nodded dutifully and skipped off anyway.

But the farther she got from her parents and the closer she got to the other children, the more Lucy’s steps lost their false pep.

Interactions with other children her age, she had already come to notice, were typically far from ideal. There was that Jonah Alms kid in her class who always made fun of her for eating homemade cupcakes at lunch – even though she was sure he was merely jealous. And then there was Taylor Barrows, the most popular girl in Lucy’s whole grade, who had made it habitual, the act of knocking Lucy off the monkey bars any time she dared to give them a go. And, last but certainly not least, there was Elsbeth Karofsky, one of the biggest, scariest, meanest kids in all of Belleville – and she was, simply put, an absolute terror.

The kids at McKinley seemed kinder. Sort of. There was that Kurt Hummell kid, and he was nice enough – he always wore really snazzy, festively colored clothes to these Independence Day celebrations, and Lucy could respect that. Finn Hudson was pretty impressively tall, for their age, but he seemed like a teddy bear. Brittany Pierce was in Frannie’s gymnastics class, even though she was several years younger, and Lucy always thought she seemed very talented, sincerely kind, and a true blue friend.

The problem with that, though, was that Brittany was the truest of friends with Santana Lopez. And Lucy was horrified of Santana Lopez.

The girls’ mothers were best friends – or at least, they had been, once. Adult friendships were strange, and Lucy couldn’t pretend to understand them. The moms talked once or twice every few months or so, sometimes less, Lucy guessed, and her mom’s side of the conversation never seemed really real, but who was Lucy to judge? She was only ten years old, after all, so she was kind of working under the assumption that people didn’t really say everything with their words that they actually meant in their hearts.

Anyway, Lucy and Santana had been forced from a very young age into a friendship that both of them found quite uncomfortable. The way each girl responded to that discomfort, however, was very, very different. Lucy always did her best to meld into the background or to simply hide under whichever solid object was closest, reading a book or making up her own stories in her head to pass the time she was supposed to be spending with the other girl. But Santana – Santana would talk, and she would talk incessantly. And a lot of the things she would say were simply not things Lucy wanted to hear – things about her parents, things about other kids at school, things about Lucy herself that, however untrue, hurt quite a lot. And when Lucy wouldn’t listen – indeed when Lucy would not partake in the bawdy gossip of her fellow tween, Santana had a way of snapping out and bringing low those around her that was really quite impressive for a child of such small stature.

But Lucy, today, of all days, was going to try and be brave.

She reached the thick plastic tubing that separated the rest of the playground from the jungle gym equipment. Daintily, she stepped over and onto the woodchips. Success, she thought – but she thought too soon.

“Oh, great. Look who it is. The squirt from Belleville.”

Lucy instantly knew the drawling, sing-songing voice was Santana’s. It only stood to reason – no one else could so effectively quash the teensiest of good feelings Lucy dared to let herself have.

She sighed. “Hi, Santana.”

“Did I say you could address me personally, pipsqueak?”

Lucy looked up. Santana was walking towards her, hands on hips and ponytail flipping dutifully back and forth, from one side of her head to the next. It almost made Lucy chuckle.

“Did I say something funny, you insufferable peon?”

Lucy instantly suppressed the grin that had started to emerge.

Santana’s best friend appeared suddenly over her shoulder.

“San, what’s a peon?”

Lucy did her best not to make the roll of her eyes noticeable – she didn’t need to invoke anymore of Santana’s anger.

One of Santana’s eyebrows arched before she replied to Brittany – rather patiently, Lucy thought. “It’s that thing when there’s an evil queen who rules all the lands, where the people bow to her and bring her presents and food and shiny things and whatever else she wants – like, those people. Those are peons.”

“So Lucy is, like—”

“That’s right,” Santana interrupted quickly, a devious smirk on her lips and a scary glint in her eyes as she looked back at Lucy. “She’s, like, supposed to bow to us. Because we’re the queens. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”

“I don’t think—”

“I know you don’t, but I didn’t really ask.”

Lucy bit the inside of her lip. Be brave, she told herself. Then she defiantly held her head aloft and made a move to walk around the girls and towards a set of stairs leading to a slide that did look rather fun, if she did say so herself.

Excuse you, where do you think you’re going?” Santana barked.

“To play,” Lucy replied.

By now, there was quite the audience of ten and eleven year olds hanging about, watching the show, eagerly anticipating the conclusion. And there was one set of bright eyes peeking through a set of wooden slats with great trepidation.

“I don’t think so!”

Santana moved forward quickly, much too quickly for Lucy to even turn around and defend herself, and shoved Lucy squarely between the shoulders.

The girl flailed spectacularly, the blue and white stripes of her skirts flying around her as her body was propelled forward. She winced as her body hit the ground, her hands catching her with a jolt.

A collective gasp resounded from the jungle gym, and the silence that followed was only broken by the beginnings of a sob escaping Lucy’s lips, and an angrily muttered, “Oh, fiddlesticks!”

Santana fled, with Brittany close on her heels, and the other children went back to playing, as the curtain had clearly fallen on the show.

Only one child – quite smaller than the rest, Lucy would later note – moved towards the fallen girl.

“Here,” she softly said, reaching out to help Lucy sit up. “It’s okay, it’s all right.”

Lucy grimaced as she managed to lamely roll over and then sit up, with the girl’s help.

“Thanks,” she muttered, grimacing at the stinging pain she was now feeling.

The damage to her body was immediately obvious – her hands were skinned and bleeding, with little bits of woodchip stuck in them, and her knees were similarly gross. She didn’t like blood, she didn’t like blood one single bit. And it was made all the worse being her own and all.

“I always carry antiseptic wipes and band-aids in my fanny pack,” the girl said. And it was only then that Lucy properly looked up at the girl who had come to her aid.

She was tiny, and she had pretty dark hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders. Her eyes were kind, and her touch was gentle as she unzipped the bedazzled, pink fanny pack that was clasped around her waist. She gently began to clean and bandage Lucy’s playground wounds.

“This doesn’t look too bad, not really,” she reassured Lucy. “This bit here, though,” she carefully plucked a piece of debris from a cut on Lucy’s knee, “that might leave a little scar.”

“What?” Lucy gasped. “A scar?!”

They were the first coherent words she had said to the girl, and they elicited a humored look.

“You’re so silly. Yes, a scar. Scars aren’t the end of the world.”

“I’ll be permanently disfigured, is what you’re saying.”

The girl chuckled sweetly, and Lucy blushed.

“You’re a very pretty girl, Lucy.” This statement caused Lucy to look down at her bloody knees, her brow furrowed in thought. “But—” the girl continued, prompting their eyes to connect again “—you’re a lot more than that.”

“Huh-how do you know?” She hadn’t meant to stutter. She really hadn’t.

“Well, that’s easy,” the girl, stranger with every passing word, bent her head again to finish bandaging Lucy’s wounds. “You’re quite brave, standing up to Santana like that. And I know you’re smart, since you rolled your eyes at the need for an explanation of the word ‘peon’. You’re kind, thanking me for doing something as simple as helping you. And you’re very interesting.”

“Why do you say that?” Lucy asked, genuinely curious.

“Because you have a book hidden in your dress.”

Lucy gasped. “I-I-I was…just hoping to have a chance to read another chapter, that’s all. I’m to a really good part.” She pulled the paperback out from where she had stuck it down the back of her dress and showed it to her new friend.

“Oh! Have you only just started reading the series?” The girl was nearly squealing with excitement.

“Yes,” Lucy replied, now equally as excited, “Yes, I have! But I love it so much. It’s very exciting, a school full of magic. And, oh, can you imagine what the library is like?”

A twinkle came into the other girl’s eyes. “Yes, and talk about a fantastic scar…”

Lucy’s eyes twinkled in return, and they both smiled brightly at each other.

“Don’t worry, Lucy, scars give you character. They tell a story – or at least, they can start one.”

Lucy tilted her head to the side. “What’s your name?”

“Rachel, Rachel Berry,” the tiny girl chirped before replacing her items in her fanny pack and hopping up. “I’m off to eat hotdogs – kosher, of course – with my dads and my cousin Noah’s family. We’re right over there—” she pointed “—and you’re more than welcome to join us if you’d like.”

She smiled one last time, and Lucy returned it, in spite of the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Rachel skipped off, and Lucy looked down at her hands, wondering what shapes the scars would take, if they ever dared to form.

But she knew she wouldn’t follow the girl, her parents’ warning reverberating inside her skull…

Perhaps the scars were already there.

Lucy remained sitting, alone, beneath the jungle gym. And she turned to page one hundred and forty-three…

(via mollykatheryn)