Faberry fanfic
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Quinn's P.O.V
Direction is redundant without a compass.
It's the same, all-too-familiar feeling. Creeping. Ebbing. Gnawing its way back into your life. The dormancy only temporary, ostensibly so. What an arbitrary thing, you dote quickly. The bitter-sweetness of its return is enough to give you a cavity and a throat infection instantaneously, but remarkably, either consequence isn't as terrible as it sounds. It's conceivable because you know what it's like to not be able to breathe and it trumps all. Everything.
Imperceptibly, you lift up your glasses so that it sits further on the bridge of your nose. Perhaps, it makes you look younger, you muse. Or, more despairingly, that it highlights less the severity of your poor eyesight. Snapping off your glasses, you stride into the kitchen. The faint outline of the hallway in your periphery touches a gentle reminder into your mind that- if only momentarily you were to lose balance; there would be something you could lean onto. You can't help but ponder and quite wistfully, your wife had undoubtedly made that so.
The kitchen is bright once you turn the corner and you forget the esoteric, philosophical garbage you often bring home from work. Your wife hovers at the fridge door. Her dark, but solidly brown hair falls below her shoulders in oppressive, sensible waves and it comforts your racing heart. She turns when she hears your footsteps, and it's neither too late nor early because you feel yourself calm if that is anymore quite possible.
"Quinn", she says and it sounds breathless but full too.
You lock eyes with her, seemingly like how a bull locks eyes with its victim, and its only because you're hungry. You're hungry for contact; her touch, her hands, her body and mostly just her. In spite of this, you keep your distance.
"We're out of wine." She says and looks to you for an explanation. Unintentionally, you feel a frustrated brow rise.
"I missed you." You say, darting a shaking hand behind your back. You know she knows, all too well, the self-imposed guilt you battle with everyday and often, it is the result of your wife's worry she displays too unabashedly. She takes bitten steps forward- short and swift- and holds you in a way that never usually startles you but you jump nonetheless. It's an embrace, you hold onto. Where, it walks the fine line of body against body and touching at arm's length, and done in an effort to not impose; if your space need be. The embrace grants both intentions. But, strangely no matter the distance it never fails to be intimate and you know because you always feel it right there, a place you cannot name or point to, that just strikes you. A tiny zap somewhere inside of your body that has experienced, probably, almost too much peril and you feel- if only fleetingly, restored.
"It's okay." She promises. "It's okay." You feel her slide into you, the way you both had always naturally fit, and you can't help but weakly think through a sudden wave of dizziness, perhaps she and you were meant to be.
"It's okay." She repeats, a hand steadies you as it laces around your waist. You fight a bout of nausea merely so you can look at Rachel's face another time. It's pinched with worry, but what was new- which in fact was very old, was the smile she always just manages to wear in these moments. It always had a way of looking unused and genuine, that you found yourself looking for it more often.
"I'm sorry." You whisper, because it's the only thing you can think of to say. She tut-tuts in response, leading you away from the kitchen to the couch. It takes you awhile to realize your ribs are hurting, and maybe, your lungs are constricting in that well known and disgustingly grotesque way. But it seems, Rachel is already aware of this because she's hastily coming back with some freshly brewed tea and cough medicine.
"I'm not coughing." You resist with a hint of hesitation. She shows no sign of it affecting her mood though and it relieves you a little.
"I know." She nods. "But you were coughing last night." And you look to your shirt, as if to offer blame but it's all too silly for the moment. Cautiously, with the help of Rachel, you step out of your thick tracksuit pants and Yale sweatshirt combo and into something less sweat inducing. All in case of you developing a fever, which seems more likely as the hours pass on. Layers are key. Rachel never fails to remind you that. Wear less in bed and add blankets for warmth, and then take them away if need be, which usually is the case. You never really bring up the notion that it also serves other purposes conveniently, but that is humor saved for another day.
When the TV screen blares with another, overtly in-your-face commercial, Rachel gently picks up the remote and powers it off. You somewhat carefully sit up from Rachel's generously offered sprawled body and crawl to the other side of the couch so you can dip your feet into your ugg boots. She doesn't say anything, as you pull yourself up on your own with a jaw that is locked so hard that you're sure Rachel could see it strain from that distance away. The pain is not unbearable, but unbearable enough to make you want to cry out. You don't though. Unsteadily, you make your way to your room and it's only until you pass the corner and into the long corridor (hallway) that she follows you. Without words, you know that it is because she values your stubborn need to be independent. However, you also know, she wouldn't blink to quickly overlook that if you were to show any signs of it compromising your health. Either way, you love her so. Sometimes, it's the only thing you're sure about.
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You dream about the accident. The vast coming together of glass, metal and nerve-numbing pain. But, the impact is the element that shocks you. Your teeth chatter as your lurch forward, the steering wheel spinning is what catches the brunt of your head as it tumbles forward and then your back. In what seems like someone had reached into you and strangled your spine, is compressed from its side. Your left shoulder hurts too, but soon you feel the crushing pain of the dashboard jutting into your ribs and you believe you scream. No one hears you or even can. You're alone, living the unforgiveable moment when you would permanently lose the ability to completely save yourself. Your heart wants to stop, maybe it does.
"Quinn," she says. There's a cool, soft cloth being pressed onto your forehead and you jerk awake. You feel yourself lying in a pool of sweat and you're not sure if it's the nightmare to blame or a fever. The reality doesn't burn as much as it used to- that now in order to save yourself maybe you need her too. It just isn't possible to battle this in the morning alone and maybe you no longer want to because you have her. She's beautiful, ridiculously caring, committed and perfect. You grimace at the pounding headache and then switch to a forlorn gaze as Rachel gently slots a thermometer in her mouth.
"I measured your temperature earlier." She says levelly. Nodding toward the bedside table at the device that is to be placed in one's ear and you stifle a shiver, which isn't an impending cause of the fever. She squeezes your shoulder, knowing how much you hate that thing. She only uses it when you're asleep and mainly because it's reliable.
"It read 102." She says disbelievingly and with a hint of worry. Eyes glazed over by a fever, still, you regard her with utter amazement and bewilderment.
"What did I do to deserve you?" You say. She looks at you only momentarily, averting her attention from the steadily rising mercury levels of the thermometer. You can hear yourself beginning to wheeze, but you hold your breath so she's not distracted enough to leave her gaze. She seems mildly disturbed.
"You needn't do anything to deserve me Quinn. I love you." She says finally.
"But-" You try to interject, but she's quicker only today. Only because you're sick and your mind is scrambling to work through a haze of fever-clouded thought. And, you're slowly but surely running out of breath.
"You're just enough. Always. Even though, you've done so much more than to just deserve me." You gasp in a wheeze as your breath ends and the thermometer falls from your lips. Rachel catches it swiftly and examines it carefully, sliding her fingers away from the mercury as much as possible so as not to tamper the result.
"103.5? Wha-" She breaks out, with shock evident in her posture too because she's already leaning more forward, her eyes inches away from the glass thermometer. She almost turns to use the device you dread, but instead she steels her face towards you.
"Quinn." She says, softly. It nudges you gently. You know what she's asking and there's a part of you that wants to say no out of fear. But there's a greater part of you, a better part of you that urges you to do as she asks. Shakily, you attempt to push yourself up, and this time Rachel doesn't hesitate to help as she jumps to your aid. Slowly you find your shoes, and she hands you an inhaler. You attempt to pass her a questioning look, but she's already speed walking around the bed to your dresser, deftly searching for appropriate clothes. You use the inhaler despite not really knowing how to and consider walking up to Rachel to help her with the clothes, but your legs are heavy like weights and you still feel like you can't breathe.
The world spins briefly as she marches you out the door, but never once do you entertain the possibility of falling down because Rachel refuses too. Her hands a firmly wrapped around your arm as she steers you to the car and seemingly tucks you into the back seat, gently pulling the seat belt over you that it doesn't place too much stress on your chest. Your wheezing louder now, as Rachel falls into the driver's seat slightly breathless. She looks so worried as she regards you through the rearview mirror that you almost force yourself to feel good enough so you can step out of the car and come to her side in reassurance. But that doesn't happen. As the car pulls away, she finally to talks to you since measuring your temperature upon your awake and rushing out of the house.
"I love you, Quinn." She says, and there are tears in her eyes- shadows of fear and hysteria bubbling at the edge of her waterline and of course the concern is there also. But more importantly, you have learned well to find- amongst all that- the love that's there too. So as your eyes begin to droop, you attempt to tell her that exact same thing, albeit, through fits of coughing and raspy breathing until you realize your body won't let you. Yet somewhere, between arriving at the hospital and being pulled away to get an MRI, miraculously, your hands finds hers and you say to her possessively- a tone you don't take enough- I love you too. That, you will learn to do even better.
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Let me know if you want me to continue or not. Just comment:) Might do Rachel's P.O.V next?