A/N: This has been sitting in my laptop for ages. I've been so remiss with my stories here. I've had the worst possible break up so lol my woes are far from over.
Anyway, here is something that I will update in bits and pieces as a not-so-sequelish series of one shots for The Loving Kind. Someone very wise took the time to send me a private message that she/he personally thinks Quinn and Rachel should have not ended up together because the relationship was toxic. In hindsight, I shouldn't have given it a happy ending because yes, it was a toxic relationship. I think now, I gave it such closure because of my own personal circumstances. But I don't regret what I gave.
How much for an hour will never be shelved. That much I promise for those who still have hopes for it.
If you care to commiserate with my heartache, I'm finally on Tumblr (again) after years of deleting my old one—tragicstorytold.
A/N 2: I've had experience with family therapy. This is the closest I can think of. Please bear in mind that different methods exist.
Rachel huffed in annoyance because Quinn was once again being, well, Quinn— closed, derisive, and stubborn. All these, while precious minutes were being wasted for their hour and a half, once a week, marriage counselling.
The blonde crossed her leg, rested her elbow over her thigh, and cupped her cheek in a display of boredom. "We've gone through over and over, doctor. It's a never ending issue. I don't understand why she still blames herself for my accident—it's been a hundred years since that happened."
Dr. Abbot, their psychiatrist, gingerly raised his hand, effectively stopping Rachel from a potential tirade. The brunette sank to her seat and rolled her eyes. The graying senior doctor gave the diva a smile then turned his attention once more to Quinn. "How exactly does Rachel show her guilt?"
"Where do I begin?" Quinn drawled. "From the time she pretended to be attracted to me right after the accident or—"
"That's not fair!" Rachel stamped her foot, along with her protestation, for good emphasis. "We've fixed that issue."
"I'm not saying we haven't gone past that chapter, Rachel," the blonde replied haughtily. "Dr. Abbot asked how you show guilt, and it's only proper for me to clarify."
The marriage counselor cleared his throat in an attempt to referee the brewing conflict. "Let's take a step back, shall we?" And in what seemed like an eternal pause, the doctor waited for the couple to both nod in agreement before continuing. "Alright, my understanding is, Rachel realized her attraction to you, Quinn, while you were in the hospital—"
"No, Doctor Abbot, no, no, no," the blonde emphatically denied amidst Rachel's dramatic groan. "It all started when my best friend opened her huge mouth-in a fit of panic-told Rachel about my feelings—"
"What are those?"
"That I was in love—"
"Was?!"
Quinn gestured wildly in frustration. "I still am," she said pointedly, before a subtle assurance was thrown Rachel's direction by way of a genuine, albeit, small smile. "We're talking about—anyway, as I was saying, Santana—that traitor of a best friend—told Rachel because she thought I was going to die blah blah blah. And that's when Rachel began treating me differently."
"Quinn—"
"Rachel," Dr. Abbot interrupted, "let's give Quinn the time to talk, and then you'll get to give your perspective on these events after."
"And then what?" Both women asked simultaneously.
"Then we process all of these, find a common ground, hopefully lead to greater understanding. Marriage counseling is not for me to find solutions—that's really on you two. I can only guide you to a direction you may or may not opt to take. Of course, the ultimate goal is to save this marriage, and we must not lose sight of that."
"Three years. I can't believe we're here after three years," Quinn uttered.
"If you count the fact that we have lived together for years back in college and—we've been practically married forever— minus a few years of you spreading your wings to the benefit of New York's finest lesbians and bisexuals," Rachel bit back.
"Hey! I slept with only—"
"I do not want to hear how many."
"It seems," the psychiatrist interjected, "there are layers of issues we need to peel slowly. So let's continue with Quinn's perspective on the accident, first—and as promised Rachel," he smiled at the diva, "you'll have your time as well."
"Right," Quinn nodded then breathed deeply. "I really don't like retelling this—I—there's just a lot of things that—but okay, okay, that's what we're here for," she mumbled before sighing in surrender.
The blonde gnawed her lips nervously and refused to look at her wife. She knew Rachel too well. She knew that Rachel's on the verge of crying; equally broken by the knowledge that their bond is dangerously weakening once more. It was Rachel who first acknowledged this glaring fact. Quinn, of course, was the master of denial. Her refusal to admit that problems are piling up were fueled by her fear of losing Rachel once more and her own parents' broken marriage. Her apprehension was also aggravated by Rachel's fragility in relation to the Berry men's own divorce.
"I've always been in love with her," Quinn started over, visibly more relaxed than the beginning of the session. "I mean, well, not always—I—"
"When did you begin to develop feelings towards her?"
Quinn scratched her head and laughed. "I really can't pinpoint the exact moment. I just began realizing it junior year, then went on a panic mode…then I just came to full acceptance latter part of senior year. By that time, Finn…Rachel was too in love with him that, well, she wanted to marry him."
"So you just kept it to yourself?"
The blonde shook her head. "Well, Santana...but I had no intention of telling Rachel."
"Why?"
"Because Rachel was in love with him. I mean, Finn. She…uh, he's gone now.
"Gone as in?"
Quinn rubbed her forehead and glanced at the brunette. Rachel instinctively reached for her wife's hand and gripped it tight. "He passed away," the brunette said, her words clipped.
The psychiatrist nodded sagely and waited for Quinn to continue. She stared at the doctor as silence enveloped the room. Exhaling loudly, the blonde looked down and massaged her temple, realizing what the stillness was for. "Right, going back…I was afraid of rejection. More specifically, I was afraid of Rachel rejecting me. There were many reasons—I just couldn't handle the thought. I knew she would."
"What reasons?"
"I bullied her. I was—you know, stupid high school hierarchy—I was the head cheerleader and Rachel—Rachel was…she was everyone's favorite person to make fun of. I mean," Quinn smiled nervously, "She was the daughter of the most known, openly gay, couple in Lima. That…that in itself gave her unwanted attention. And she was, she was very sure of herself—her talent—that was her ticket to anywhere but Lima. And everyone wanted out."
"Most especially you?"
She gave a genuine smile this time, amused at the psychiatrist's ability to read between the lines. "Most especially me," she repeated in confirmation. "I guess it started as envy," she shrugged, "then I, uhm—does this have to be in detail?"
"If you believe it to be relevant, those details have to be openly discussed, then."
"Right. After a series of …encounters, I began to, uh," the blonde closed her eyes in embarrassment. "Notice her…physical attributes. Like, like, yeah—I found myself consciously stopping myself from thinking about her…you know."
"No, I don't know," Rachel said quietly, breaking her promised silence.
"You know," Quinn said through her gritted teeth.
"No…I don't," the diva said with a smirk lurking around the corner.
"Her lips…more specifically kissing them," the blonde begrudgingly admitted. "I couldn't—her face just kept popping up no matter how I tried to… it was frustrating. I became angrier at her…at myself, then at her again, then—it was an exhausting pendulum of emotions. Until I wasn't angry anymore."
The counselor nodded in understanding. "What made you stop being angry?"
"My acceptance. When I finally understood where all the anger was coming from—anger towards Rachel, I mean."
"But that did not make you face her."
"No…no, like I said, she was—Finn proposed to her and she said yes, and uh," Quinn gave Rachel a quick side-glance, "it sort of created a friction between the two of us. I didn't—our friendship was the only thing I had of her. That's why I agreed—last minute—to attend her wedding."
"And then the accident happened."
Both women nodded solemnly and an eerie silence took over, allowing the counselor to write down a few things in his pad.
"I never blamed you, Rachel. You know that," Quinn quietly said.
"I know, Quinn," Rachel sighed.
The psychiatrist paused from his note taking and shifted his focus on the brunette. "Why do feel responsible for the accident?"
The diva frowned. "I made her go to my wedding. If I had not done that, she wouldn't have almost died."
"But Quinn is here, alive and seemingly well. She is," the doctor opened a Manila folder and bristled through some papers, "a student of sociocultural anthropology in Columbia." The doctor looked up and gave a grinning approval, "Master's Degree, huh?"
Quinn leaned forward and exclaimed, "That is exactly what I've been telling her! I'm alright and—"
"Quinn, you're not!" Rachel interrupted with equal ferocity. "You," Rachel paused and breathed deeply to effectively calm herself. "You're not."
It was the blonde's turn to be refereed by the counselor in order to give the diva time to talk. Quinn gripped her knees and turned away, refusing to look at her wife.
"How could I not be burdened by this guilt, doctor? I see my wife grimace and wince in pain the moment the weather gets cold, or she makes a wrong step."
"It's a natural occur—"
"It's not natural for you to feel that much pain, Quinn. And it certainly isn't natural for you to constantly try and hide it from me."
"I try to hide it from you because I know that this is exactly why you feel guilty. I'm telling you—I've been trying to assure you—that it's something I can live with."
"Can you please tell her to let me talk for now?" Rachel huffed petulantly.
The blonde raised her hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, okay, okay. Go ahead."
"Thank you." The diva sat up straight with more confidence. "It's not just that. You still get nightmares. While you refuse to talk to me about them, it's not like I don't hear the words you mumble in your sleep. Those horrible dreams were about the accident, one way or another. I know there are a number of times you've lost sleep after being jolted awake. And…and I know there are times you get panic attacks that's why you've stopped driving again."
"Rachel, which is why I have a separate therapy for that. Recovery is a long road."
"I know that. But I'm being asked to explain why I feel this heavy guilt. Because I see all these things, Quinn. I see how you're struggling and I—these things, you don't deserve these things. And yet they're yours to deal with. And it's all because of my request."
"Rachel—"
"I'm not done, sweetheart."
"I—okay, I'm sorry."
"When me make love—"
"Rach!" Quinn groaned and covered her face in embarrassment. She felt the burning of her face and was more than sure she was redder than tomato at that point. "That's an unnecessary detail", she hissed.
"It isn't unnecessary," Rachel countered with a hint of a playful smile. "As I was saying, when we make love, I see your scars—"
"They disgust you?!"
"Far from it, Quinn! Will you let me finish?"
Dr. Abbot cleared his throat as a not-so-subtle attempt of refereeing, nodded and took notes again; effectively making the squabbling lovers silent and curious. Both women aped each other's expression as they stared at the unintimidating man in front of them. "Oh," the psychiatrist finally looked up, "go on."
Rachel glared at Quinn for good measure before proceeding. "Your scars remind me of a time when I got so lost." Her shoulders sagged and muttered sadly, "and hurt you badly in the process. You're perfect to me, Quinn, scars and all."
"May I ask a question?" Dr. Abbot interjected and waited for the two women's consent before moving forward. "Quinn, have you verbally told Rachel you've forgiven her about the accident?"
"There is nothing to forgive, Dr. Abbot. It wasn't her fault!"
Rachel swiftly reached out for Quinn's hand; cold and shaking. "Sweetheart, please don't lose your—"
"I'm not mad," Quinn said hotly. "It's just so frustrating that we keep going back to that."
"Why do you think it keeps going back to that incident?"
The blonde took a deep breath and closed her eyes, mentally counting to ten. She focused on Rachel's soothing touch. "I guess," she finally said after feeling a lot calmer, "I guess…" She sighed, "Our relationship is anchored on that. I…I wish it isn't the case."
"But it is. And the two of you seems to see that incident differently…except the part where it jumpstarted your romantic involvement."
"Which in itself was rather problematic," Quinn laughed humorlessly.
"Oh for the love of—"
"That's for another session, would that be alright?" The doctor said with a gentle tone.
"Actually, no." Rachel countered. "I need to get something off my chest, and then…and then I agree we shelve it for another time. But this has to be said."
"Hmm, Quinn?"
"Sure, go ahead," Quinn sighed in exhaustion.
"I've gone through lengths to make that up to you, Quinn. I know even up to now, doubt still lingers if you have a hundred percent of me. But just so we're so clear on this matter, I love you. I want you. This may come across as very shallow, but everything you do turns me on—"
"Rachel." The blonde sank slowly in her seat like an embarrassed child. "I don't think—"
The diva however deliberately ignored her wife's plea. "I don't pretend to understand a single thing you do for your career. Everything you write about is Greek to me…or, or Chinese—whichever is more difficult to learn—but dear god, that last conference you made me sit through because you delivered a lecture—"
"A paper."
"That. I couldn't think of anything except attacking you on stage and make love to you right there."
"I…Rachel, uh, maybe you should, uhm…" Quinn glanced at the doctor. To her relief, the psychiatrist kept a professional facade and showed no hint of his own thoughts about Rachel's outburst.
"Don't you get it? When you wear your glasses, I get turned on. When I see your eyebrows knitted, you absentmindedly chewing your lip, and whirling your pen over your thumb, I get turned on. When you're just sitting there all embarrassed, I. Get. Turned. On. I see a Moleskin, I think of you. I come across small coffee shops, I think of you. So forgive me if I feel like I'm the one who doesn't have you a hundred percent because you're living in the past."
Rachel then exhaled loudly, "But that's for another time."
