A/N: I've been in love with City and Colour, a group I've only just discovered in recent times. They've a song called, "We Found Each Other in the Dark", which, after 'On My Way', took on so many Faberry feelings for me that I've been wanting to incorporate it into something since that episode aired. So, here we are and here you go. Subtle Faberry. As always, thanks for reading and please review!

Disclaimer: "Glee" is not mine.

We Found Each Other in the Dark

I heard the church bells from afar…

It's a blaze of glory—almost literally. That's how you've always wanted to go, ever since you lost weight, dyed your hair blonde, and moved to Lima, right? Somehow, in some way, it would give importance to your life—even if only as a PSA against texting and driving.

You're vaguely aware of hands gently removing you from the car but what catches your eye, through the growing darkness clouding your vision, is the songbird flying overhead. You think of Rachel, and with your last vestiges of strength, you will her on her way. You will her to New York and stardom, with or without Finn but always with your love. You hope she knows that and you lie to yourself saying that she does. You're dying now. You realize that as much as you realize you've lost time and you're strapped to something and the sound of whirring a whirring helicopter deafens what senses haven't been numbed by blood loss, trauma, and shock.

You're dying.

But we found each other in the dark…

Your eyelids are unbelievably heavy and difficult to force open. Irrationally, you wonder how your face hasn't been crushed by their weight but then what happened registers and you're angry with every person that has ever used the phrase, "I feel like I've been hit by a truck", because they couldn't possibly fathom the excruciating pain that has just rushed her body.

The realization that the pain doesn't extend to your legs makes your heart race and you can hear the rhythm of the heart monitor speed up with your panic. The difficulty of opening your eyes seems insignificant now as you glance frantically through swollen lids for some sort of reassurance.

Then you feel it, a hand tightly wrapped around your own and you cling to it for dear life and you can hear your heart begin to slow as the hand squeezes back

"Quinn," somebody breathes and whoever it is made your name sound as important as the oxygen you can feel being pumped into your lungs. It's hard to focus on keeping your eyes open to see who it is, and your head feels like you've been dunked and held under water so any auditory clues are out the window. "It's okay. Sleep. You need to rest."

You catch a glimpse of brown hair as your eyelids flutter closed on their own accord and the darkness takes over again.

And when the smoke does finally pass
we will rise above all the ash…

Your throat is still raw from the ventilator, but thank God you're breathing on your own so you can actually rasp out the occasional response to the doctors, your mother, and what few other visitors you have. Really, thank God you're breathing. From what the doctors tell you, that's a pretty big frigging miracle.

Even if you are paralyzed from the waist down.

They call it an injury to your T12 vertebrae, but no matter how they try to mask it with medical jargon, it still means the same thing. You are never going to cheer, dance, not to mention walk again. You still can breathe, though. You're alive. You still can think and talk and listen, too; at least, when you aren't as high as a kite on morphine and whatever else they give you for the pain.

You're alive.

'cause we're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
We're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
We're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
at last...

When you are finally moved out of the intensive care unit, you find out that the glee club took turns visiting you one at a time, with your mother's permission, until you finally woke up. Everybody except for Rachel has been to seen you since that moment over the course of the last few weeks. When Santana and Brittany step into your new room with early afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows to illuminate bouquets of flowers and several stuffed animals lining every surface space, you make a note to ask them about that. Brittany, with her kind and empathetic eyes, bounds toward you and sits on the bed next to your legs that you can no longer feel. She has a cat-shaped plushie this time and she hands it to you. You smile and accept it as Santana scoots the chair beside your bed closer and takes your casted left hand while Brittany takes the right. Together, the three of you have always formed the Unholy Trinity, ready to take the world by storm.

You feel more ready now than ever, which seems contradictory for a cripple.

You ask Santana why you've seen everybody else from New Directions except your captain—the one that always seems to encourage unity and camaraderie among the original members. Santana looks away and it's Brittany—ever-so-observant Brittany—that answers. She tells you that Rachel is heartbroken over you, and the look of confusion on your face has to be priceless. Santana clarifies that the girl is heartbroken with guilt and your body sags in disappointment and you expel a huff of air that you didn't know you had trapped in your lungs.

"She's heartbroken over you, too," Brittany insists. "She loves you more than Finn, even if she doesn't realize it yet."

You look away because you don't really want to hear this. You're already torn up on the outside; you don't need to be torn up in the inside by false hope and idealizations of love, too.

So bright, the flames burned in our hearts,
that we found each other in the dark…
Like beasts out in the wilderness,
we are fighting to survive and convalesce…

You doubt it's a coincidence that Rachel appears in your hospital room the next day during visitor hours. You just finished a particularly exhausting physical therapy session after a particularly frustrating therapy session and a nurse is helping you back into your bed. You've been exceeding expectations in mobility and function and while your body still hurts, it's far from the pain you experienced when you first woke up.

"Hi, Quinn," she greets softly and it hurts to look at her—not because you blame her for what happened to you but because of the guilt you can see written across her face. You can't help but notice the diamond ring is missing from her left hand, too.

"Hi."

"How are you?" She blinks several times before shaking her head. "That's probably a stupid question, isn't it?"

You shake your head and meet her gaze. "It isn't. I'm doing okay, actually. It's really good to see you."

She cracks a small smile and hesitantly moves to sit in the chair that Santana left pressed against the side of your bed. You don't stop her and instead move your hand to the edge of the bed. She understands what you're offering and cradles your broken hand—it's your entire arm, really—with hers.

"Quinn, I just want to say I am so s—"

"Don't," your voice cracks. "It happened. I just want to move forward. I can still go to Yale… you can still go to NYADA." It's hard to force the hopefulness from your tone, your continual urging for her to do and to be more.

Her eyes drop to your hand in hers as she speaks without eye contact. "Finn and I ended the engagement. After everything… I just—I need you here with me. You're more important than me being silly and rushing into marriage with my high school sweetheart, no matter how romantic and autobiographically important it could be."

You give her hand a squeeze and she returns it and it hits you that she was the one with you the first time you woke up. When she finally looks up, you try to convey every emotion that you've kept bottled up over the last year concerning her. It's love and desperation and admiration with hints of jealousy and frustration—but mostly love.

Something like recognition flickers in Rachel's eyes and she looks away.

"I should go," she whispers and you want to cry as she lets go of your hand and you lack the strength to hold on and the ability to go chasing after her when she swiftly exits the room.

You do cry when she's actually gone.

Maybe being alive isn't all it's cracked up to be.

But we're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
We're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
We're gonna live, we're gonna live, we're gonna live…
at last…

A week later, you're rolling yourself through the hospital halls in your new, shiny, Cheerios red wheelchair. It's a struggle but you're doing it without any help, even if there's an attendant trailing along behind you in case you need assistance. You're maneuvering back into your room when you see Rachel sitting at the window, bathed in the early morning glow, and you silently wave the nurse away.

"Rachel, hi."

She moves slowly as she turns from the window to look at you. Her eyes aren't sad but they aren't shining with happiness either. You wheel as close to the bed as you can and follow the movements you've been practicing to transfer yourself back into it without help. Rachel watches you like a hawk, waiting to jump to action if the situation calls for it. It takes you longer than you think it should but you manage.

Once you're settled, Rachel finally looks ready to talk. "It makes sense now. Everything you've said and done over the last couple months. Maybe even all the way back to last year when we were writing our original songs."

You remember that confrontation and it hadn't gone the way you had intended just as the results of it did not go the way you had wanted.

She takes a deep breath, standing from her seat by the window and settling on the bed beside your legs instead. "Part of me knew, had to know. Part of me… I wanted you at that wedding more than I wanted to be wed, Quinn. I was willing to jeopardize my relationship with Finn for you, and in hindsight, I am not sure if I can pinpoint the moment in time my relationship with you became paramount to my relationship with him."

Even though you are on far fewer pain medications, your head seems to be swimming and you can't comprehend if Rachel is telling you what you think and what you hope to God she is telling you. You've already been blessed with one miracle this lifetime, and even if Rachel Berry actually loving you back is rather insignificant compared to being given another lease on life, you aren't sure you're that lucky.

"What I am trying to say, Quinn, is that some part of me reciprocates the feelings you so clearly expressed, albeit non-verbally, to me yesterday, and what with your lack of vocalization and protest, I would assume I did interpret those facial cues correctly. That isn't to say that your eyes are not extremely expressive and quite beautiful, if I might add." Her jaw clamps shut and you smile at the familiar rambling.

"You aren't too bad looking yourself, Rachel, and this is coming from the girl with the partially shaved head and a cast that's immobilized from the waist down." Rachel frowns so you do too. "Too soon?"

"A little."

You sigh quietly and press the button on your bed to raise it so you can sit up properly without exerting so much energy. "Will you sing for me?"

"This hardly seems the place to—"

"Please?" you plead, and she nods. It's barely audible, but you recognize the lines from one of your favorite City and Colour songs.

Through the black starless water,
and the cold lonely air.
On the rock restless seas,
the vessel in deep disrepair.
And I swore they started singing,
but then oh, rejoice!
I can still hear your voice…

When your day of discharge arrives, you're beaming in gratitude toward the doctors and nurses that saved what life you had and prepared you for the life to come—as best they could anyways. Your hand is still casted but most of the bruises and the cuts are gone. Some will scar but you know those will fade in time, just like the stretch marks that are hardly visible these days. You've a permanent reminder as you sit in your wheelchair but you'll adjust; you really don't have much of a choice in the matter.

As small, warm hands settle on your shoulders before moving to the handles of your chair to push you out of the main lobby and to the hatchback stuffed with flowers and get well gifts, you remember that good things can come from tragedy, too. After all, there's only one way to go when you've hit the worst moment of your life at age eighteen and that's up—or forward. And you think you're ready to do that as Rachel leans forward, presses a kiss to the top of your head, and reaches for your hand.

You grin and roll your wheelchair forward just a little bit more to transfer yourself into the back of the car. You can do this. You're alive and in love and you still have a future. That seems like a pretty damn good place to start if you have to start anew. This is it.

Then I heard the church bells from afar
but we found each other in the dark…