Chapter Text
Everyone thinks Judy Fabray was part of the cheer team. This is a lie, but an important part of Judy. Lying is something she becomes good at telling- herself, and anyone else who asks. Judy Fabray: mother of two perfect children, owner of an immaculate front lawn, an excellent liar. This is a skill she learns early on, but takes a lifetime to unlearn. Later, Judy will learn that lying is hereditary, just like dark hair, hazel eyes and freckled shoulders.
-
Judy knows this, too: that the day that Quinn- then her baby, her Lucy- cries about the rotten little cretins that make her eyes rim red over her soul-name, is the day she swears up and down she will not have this same hate fester in her house.
Some part of Judy knows that in Russell, the same ugly shouting lives, a constant in the beat, beat, beat of his sometimes too-rough hands or sidelong glare. The same hateful beat, beat, beat that lived in her mother and her father; that finally beat, beat, beat down her own defenses. Judy learned long ago that sometimes you can't fight hate with love, sometimes, all you can do is do is put your head down and ride the tide out.
Judy teaches her Lucy-Quinn practical things: how to hide, how to be safe, how to protect herself. Judy is the first to start calling Lucy Quinn. She gives Quinn a pretty brown leather bracelet that will hide the pretty writing on her wrist. Judy helps Quinn talk Russell into allowing their little girl a nose job, and Judy very helpfully readies a bottle of water for Quinn's early morning runs. Judy hopes Quinn's soul-name will fade in time.
It happens, Judy knows, because she hasn't had need for a bracelet since it happened to her own name in college. Sometimes, Judy still traces the spot where a beautifully calligraphed Max once sat. For the most part, she's stopped thinking of what 'Max' could have looked like, sounded like, loved like.
If Judy drinks for nights and nights, chasing away the ghosts of her mother's derision and her own head telling her of history repeating with the burn of scotch, then that isn't anyone's business but her own. If she can't look her daughter in the eye some days because of what Judy has helped her become, then, well, that's her own problem, and not anyone else's. Judy Fabray will protect her own, at any cost- of this, she is sure.
-
Judy was, actually, well-built and fast; and played center for the girl's lacrosse team at her high school. This much is the truth. Until her mother declared her 'too muscular' and had to turn in her mouthguard for a cheer squad application.
She never made it in, because the girls on the squad tittered the same way her mother would at her lacrosse medals and sun-kissed shoulders. Seventeen year-old Judy was fine with this, she supposed, because she decided that she had already learned everything she needed to learn in lacrosse.
Protect your own, her coach used to shout at them as they would run up and down the field, practicing drills and bashing against each other, her mouth filling with a familiar copper taste. Keep them covered.
Protecting, like lying, is what Judy learns well in her years, and what she uses to keep those near and dear to her heart safe.
Judy thinks of her children, her precious girls, one away from home and drifting further every stilted phone call, and another trapped in her own thoughts, too far to be called back.
Still, Judy straightens, puts on her pearls, and reapplies the veneer for another day. She has been a mother for almost two decades now, and a mother learns ways to keep her children close without looking too closely at the cracks splintering down their spines. This is what Judy does, half-inebriated, and half watching her youngest girl brood in different parts of the house, and mostly trying not to think about the reason why.
Quinn, to be fair, has been doing alright, school-wise. Her grades are still excellent, and is still top of the pyramid on the cheer squad.
But some days, Quinn comes home with stormy hazel eyes and a set to her jaw so completely Russell's, that the noise in Judy's ears starts to sound like pleas and cries and the sobbing of a dark-haired little Lucy of long ago. The red of her uniform becomes something less polyester and more protection, and Judy sees through all of it, but refuses to look.
Here and now, Quinn is doing well. But Judy knows, a mother always knows- a mother always knows.
-
Quinn finally stops leaving at the dead of night to go gallivanting with the Puckerman boy, and as far as Judy knows, has made new, more suitable friends than a delinquent at school. Her sophomore year seems to be off to a stellar start so far: Quinn is still head cheerleader, a feather in her very unpredictable coach's cap; Quinn is still very studious; and Quinn has said nothing about soul-names for a very long time.
There's even a boy, a lumbering beanstalk of a boy, coming around and taking Quinn out. Judy thinks that will go well, thinks that maybe, Quinn's name will fade. Maybe it'll even be replaced- she's heard stories, and maybe her Quinnie will be the first in Lima to have a new name. Another thing to be immeasurably proud of.
This goes on for weeks, all while Russell flits in and out of Judy's existence. Quinn is tense around him, and she's thankful Russell is usually too busy or too drunk to notice. Frannie calls a grand total of three times in two months, two of which are for Quinn. Ever since she found her name-bound, Russell hasn't acknowledged Frannie, and Quinn seems to talk very little on the phone calls she used to wait for. Judy barely says anything at all, just the usual questions of proper eating, studying. Frannie says almost as little back. Still, this is what passes for happy in the Fabray household, and is made more tolerable by the alcohol Judy practically pours down her throat every night.
But then, Quinn starts coming home angrier than ever. Finn stops coming around, and Judy thinks that her baby girl may be sulking over a breakup.
"Quinnie," she tries, one afternoon, soft strains of Etta Jones floating through the house. Music always helps to calm Quinn down, ever since Lucy discovered the radio in the car played more than three stations. "Honey? Have you been feeling alright?"
Quinn, standing in the kitchen and cutting up some fruit, stops for a second and seems to get lost for a moment. Judy waits. Lucy did this too.
After a beat, Quinn exhales and the thump, thump, thump of the knife against the chopping board continues. "I'm good, Mom."
"Well, forgive me for prying, but I believe bananas are to be peeled, not murdered on a chopping board."
Judy attempts a smile, and Quinn startles, finally realising what she's doing. Instead of laughing though (her Lucy would laugh, Judy thinks to herself; her Lucy would have laughed and made a silly joke about fruits), she frowns, first at the cutting board, then into a point just ahead. Her hazel eyes, Judy's, through and through, are hard and cold and worryingly empty. Judy tries to wait, but then seconds pass, and then minutes. "Quinnie?" Judy tries.
"I'm fine, Mom," Quinn says suddenly, with the sort of force that has her father's anger bleeding through and into it, and Judy stares at the facsimile of her daughter in the kitchen.
"Really," Quinn continues, softer, finally looking up. An apology, if Judy's ever seen one. "Cheer practice is just rough some days."
Judy nods, accepts this, and subtly removes the rest of the fruits from around Quinn lest they be subjected to the knife.
Judy makes Quinn a fruit shake, settles in to watch whatever could be on at opposite ends of the couch, and promptly declares Quinn's mysterious moods solved.
-
Whatever belief that Judy held that Quinn was fine is shattered when she comes home, two days later, with a colorful bruise blooming on her jaw. Judy was minding her own business, shifting through channels, and the peace her afternoon had is gone with her baby girl, her Quinnie, sauntering in with a bruise decorating her soft skin like it was just another pen mark absent-mindedly left on.
"Santana," is all Quinn offers, but all Judy can see is Russell turning purple and shouting about the Lopez girl and shouting at Quinn. "It's fine, Mom, really."
Judy hears nothing but shouting in her ears, nothing but the beat, beat, beat. She quietly gives Quinn an ice pack, asks her to wait in her room for dinner, and tries to calm the panic in her chest. Judy almost tells Quinn to put concealer on her bruise, but instead, she tries to smile and promises that they'll come up with something to tell her father. Quinn smiles, just a little, and heads up to her room without a word more. Judy, alone in the kitchen now, counts to ten. She tries it again, and finally fishes the wine out from the fridge. She takes a long swig from a dainty glass, counting to ten, letting it fill her up and hoping Russell will be kind.
-
All is moot when Russell comes home.
He smells of something else, something floral, as usual, and Judy absently makes a note to burn another of his shirts tomorrow afternoon.
Russell comes home, sits at the table, and tries to smile at Judy, and Judy tries to smile back, tries to ask about his day. She can't hear him, all she can hear is shouting- and a constant beat, beat, beat.
Quinn comes down the stairs, and Judy sits at her own place.
Beat, beat, beat.
Russell looks up from the table, looks at Quinn.
Beat, beat, beat.
"What in God's green Earth happened to your face?"
"Nothing, Daddy. Just a slip up at cheer practice."
Quinn's seat scrapes as she pulls it out to sit, and Judy notices her baby's hands are shaking. Russell's hands shake from across the table, but Judy knows that shaking, knows how different it is from Quinn's.
Russell stares, and Quinn tries to smile. Quinn has his smile, his watered-down affection, and Judy takes a long sip of the wine at the table.
Beat, beat, beat.
"You think I don't know the shape of a fist on my little girl's face?"
"Daddy, please."
Russell's chair scrapes much louder than Quinn's, and both women flinch, but Quinn is looking right at her father where Judy is looking at the table.
"Let me see."
"Daddy, really, I'm fine. Please."
"Lucy Quinn Fabray."
Judy closes her eyes then, breathing deep, wine clutched in her hand so tightly she thinks she can feel it splintering under her fingers. Deep breaths, shallow breaths. Judy opens her eyes, and drops her glass.
Russell is standing, Quinn is standing, and Russell has her baby girl's hand held tight, pulling her closer so he can inspect the bruise.
Judy stands too, both of them are looking at her now, and Quinn looks so scared in that moment that all that is Quinn melts away and Lucy is all Judy sees. But Judy moves too slowly, and somehow, Russell's rough hand is catching the pretty brown bracelet on Quinn's arm, and she is still too far away to stop it, but she sees it all. The bracelet is slipping, the R is showing, and Quinn is frozen, and Judy is trapped in slow-motion.
(The day Lucy turned thirteen, Russell never asked about her name. He got her a bracelet too, a pretty one, gold and heavy on his little girl's arm. Soul names didn't matter to men like Russell, even in a world where they drove the lives of many and meant so much. He'd always thought they were a waste of time. He never asked what hers was either, and never asked why it wasn't there when he finally saw an empty space where a name should be. Anyone else would ask. Russell didn't. Judy has always been half-thankful for that.)
"What is this?" Russell whispers.
"Daddy-"
Judy finally moves, but it's too late. The bracelet is on the floor. Russell has his hand heavy on Quinn's arm, the pretty scrawl of Rachel open for all to see. Judy has never really had the time to look at it properly, and now, it's striking black ink across her daughter's wrist is staring them all in the face.
Everything is frozen, nothing seems to move in the deathly stillness of the Fabray household. Quinn is staring at her father, tears already rolling down her face, while Russell's face is a brilliant shade of red but completely unreadable at the same time. Judy stays still, afraid to move, afraid to make a sound.
Then, Russell just lets go of Quinn's arm. Judy isn't sure who sighs first, who sighs louder, but there is a sigh of relief in the dining room and only the shift of fabric in Russell turning away from the dinner table and heading up the stairs. He disappears into their bedroom, and all Judy can do is to stare after him while Quinn finally collapses onto the floor in tears.
Judy, to her credit, is woken from her trance then, rushing over to her daughter's side in a flash. She gathers her daughter in her arms, only seventeen and already so heavy with all this heft that no one else seemed to see but Quinn herself, and lets her cry into her shoulder. Quinn sobs there for a good eight minutes, and Judy tries to soothe her with occasional shushes and hums. It's almost like Lucy again, and Judy could cry herself, but this is Quinn now, Quinn who needs her mother, and not her thirteen year-old girl.
-
Judy sleeps fitfully that night, uncomfortable with the heat and the scent of the other person in her bed, but she decides that's better than not sleeping at all.
-
In the early hours, when the sun has barely risen and birds themselves are still asleep, Judy is woken by a car engine and soft, muffled thumping.
Blearily, she gets up, and briefly tastes the wine of before from her mouth. She sleepily wipes her bathrobe sleeve on her chin, and goes to her vanity to try and contain her sleep-mussed hair before going to inspect the noise. Briefly, Judy notes the dark hair growing at the roots of her scalp, and makes a mental note to get them re-dyed.
Satisfied, Judy plods to the hallway, and down the steps.
She only gets halfway when she's met with the sight of her husband and her daughter, facing each other, and a few bags that look full to bursting around Quinn's feet.
Immediately, Judy gets a sick feeling in the deepest reaches of her insides. She comes closer, but not too close, and clutches her bathrobe tighter.
"Russell? What is this?"
He doesn't answer, and his turned-away body makes it harder for Judy to tell what's on his face. Quinn, only in a Cheerios hoodie and black track pants, barely dressed to go anywhere, is crying, her nose red and cheeks just as. Judy isn't sure why she asked at all, when what she should be doing is kicking and screaming for him to leave her baby alone.
Instead, she waits, quietly, her knuckles turning white with how tightly she gripped her robe. Quinn wasn't looking up, at all. Russell wouldn't turn around. Silence settled over them like a familiar friend.
"This girl is leaving our home," Russell finally says, his tone tired but hard. Beat, beat, beat, Judy's mind whispers. "I will not have my child walking around with sin gracing her hands all her life."
"Daddy-"
"I will not have my child living in sin," He continues, forcefully. Quinn is crying louder, and Judy notes, for some reason, that even in tears, her daughter is perfect. Always has been, and always will be. But she keeps her mouth shut, because what she hears in her head is a beat, beat, beat. "If both you and Frances insist on this life, then I will have no children at all."
Quinn stops then, her sobs turning into quiet wheezes. No one moves, until Russell turns away in a perfect parallel of the previous night, shoving past Judy to return upstairs. She briefly notes tear stains on his cheeks, but decides she doesn't care, not when her girl is being thrown out.
"Oh, Quinnie," she says, wrapping her arms tight around Quinn. Her body had changed, and Judy realises everything about her Lucy had been changing so fast that she had always been powerless to stop it. Quinn isn't crying anymore, but still welcomes the embrace. They stay that way until Judy feels tears finally pricking her eyes, and she buries her face in Quinn's blonde hair, the scent washing over her. "My baby, I'm so sorry."
Quinn stays quiet, and Judy finally notices the keys in Quinn's hand. Russell, it seems, is letting her take her car at the very least. The little black Honda sits outside, humming quietly, and the smell of the engine running is making Judy sick.
"It'll be alright," Judy says, finally pulling away, and looking her daughter in the eyes. She brushes some stray hairs from Quinn's face, and holds her cheeks as gently as she can. "Your father will calm down, and he'll realize how extreme this is."
"You think so?"
Quinn sounds so small that Judy can barely take it. She tries to smile, at least, for Quinn, her smiles are almost always genuine.
"I hope so, sweetheart."
-
Quinn drives away, bags packed, at seven forty-two in the morning.
It has only been fifteen minutes, and Judy knows it's less than appropriate, but her worry is greater than her sense of propriety at the moment. So she picks up the phone, and calls Mrs. Sorrell from bridge club. It's an early hour, but Mrs. Sorrell sounds awake already, so Judy stutters through less apologies than she thought she would need to.
She tries her best to explain Quinn's situation, as detailed as possible without actually telling her why Quinn couldn't stay at their house for a little while, and tries, as humbly as she can, to ask Mrs. Sorrell to take Quinn in for at least a couple of days. Judy reasons all her family are out in Dayton, and that she wouldn't do for Quinn to miss school over anything.
Mrs. Sorrell agrees, amiably enough, and Judy tries not to think about how easily she had agreed, how a situation like this had almost seemed expected. Everyone knows about Frannie, about Jordan, but she hadn't thought they would titter and gossip about her youngest in the same way, too.
For now, Judy just tries to be grateful, and ends the call with profuse thanks, and a promise from Mrs. Sorrell that she'd call Judy back once Quinn had come to her house. Judy goes to the kitchen and fixes breakfast for herself, barely holding out on the urge to put crushed glass in Russell's mug. She drinks coffee, for the first time in years, and thinks about calling Frannie. The phone is still on the counter, glinting pearl in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Judy, for some reason, also thinks about calling the Berry household. The Lopez family, at least .But she squashes the notion down with another swig of her coffee, and tries to go about her day as if nothing had changed.
She avoids Russell, both of them ignoring each other, but Judy holding her breath until after he leaves for work. She busies herself with as much as she can, and tries not to sob at the photos of her babies, her perfect babies that she failed to protect, that she passes in the hallways and every corner of her home.
Judy is in the middle of storing all the photos of Quinn and Frannie framed in places of the house, hiding them from Russell, when the phone rings from its' spot in the kitchen. Judy all but runs to it, and breathlessly picks up the phone.
"Judy," Mrs. Sorrell says, sounding all too upset. Beat, beat, beat, Judy hears, and swallows. "That number you gave me for Quinn, I texted it. And, well.."
"Yes?"
"She wrote back, just a bit ago." There's a beat of silence, and Judy hears a phone being fiddled with. "She said, when I asked her to come here at your request, she said, 'thank you, but I'm with a friend.' Didn't say who, either."
Judy stills, not knowing what else to do. She thanks Mrs. Sorrell, apologizes for the trouble, and again, thinks of calling the Lopez home. Just to check, just to make sure. But there are half-stowed photos of Quinn and Frannie in the living room, empty bedrooms upstairs, a husband that smells of perfume that isn't hers- so Judy slides down against the floor and finally, finally cries.