A/N:
Summary: Quinn-centric. A run through nightmares and how people shift around our experiences. Goes from Quinn's childhood to early adulthood. Faberry at the very end. Otherwise, there's Judy, Frannie, Russel, Finn, Puck, Santana, Mercedes, Sam, The Mack (Skanks), Brittany, Joe, Spencer (Yale). Oh and also Sue Sylvester. Where would the world be without her? :) An attempt to see the best people bring us even when they're not entirely good for us or it's not the love that burns flames. Also, this isn't very development-based, rather just glimpses into moments. Pavor nocturnus literally means nocturnal fear or fear of the night, it's also the medical term for night terrors.
If you're wondering, I still occasionally have bad dreams and I still don't know where to put (not put) my commas. I hope you don't have either of those annoying problems.
References:
Linklater's Waking Life
A. A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh
(also a sweet little mockery about the weight of paper as described in another drabble of mine, push&pull)
Song of the day: Lera Lynn's cover of Wolf Like Me
open my heart
and let it bleed onto yours
[pavor nocturnus]
She knows she's screaming before she knows why.
Then she does.
In the nightmare, a giant monster, something like a huge hammer with legs was chasing her relentlessly. It had the voices of all the kids at school who called her a fattie, who found her ugly, who deemed her unworthy of friendship and affection.
"Mom, mom, mommy!" she yells.
When her mother peaks at the door, she gasps. Lucy is very little, she seems like a small stuffed toy lost in a humongous bed. But her eyes are red from crying, her tiny fists are clenching to the sheets and she shakes like a wild forest wind. She looks like a ripped stuffed toy, all her soft, pretty insides laid bare to the horrors of life.
"Shh, baby, shh, " Judy singsongs in a sweet voice as she cradles her daughter, "It's all going to be okay, I promise, it's all going to be just fine."
"Lucy, you have got to be more quiet," Frannie, her older sister instructs, "Just… cry in the pillow, okay? Dad won't wake up that way, it's not gonna matter."
Lucy looks up to Frannie, who is significantly taller at that age, with hopeful eyes. Maybe if no one hears her it's not real, maybe it's all just pretend and she has to keep pretending a little while longer.
A little while longer doesn't last that little. Lucy keeps having bad dream and the kids keep teasing her. Frannie isn't helping much either. Frannie is actually pleading with her,
"You can have my favorite doll, Lucy," Frannie points to a pretty blonde Barbie dressed in all pink, "You can talk to her at night and she can keep your dreams safe."
She doesn't – Lucy talks to the doll but all she gets is plastic eyes and an empty chest.
Frannie is still trying to find peace but Lucy doesn't know for whom,
"Cut it out, alright?" Frannie pushes her, not so lightly but not too harsh, "You're a big girl now, keep it to yourself."
She's heard that phrase before, keep it to yourself, from her dad. He's a big cold man and he scares her. Her mom doesn't come to her anymore and Lucy knows it's because he's not letting her.
"Tough it up, kiddo," Frannie adds with another shove.
Lucy's pillow is soft with feathers the girls prays to fly away with one day but then she's not sure praying is the answer. Her tears fill up the pillow and all the feathers become heavy. Lucy doesn't think she could fly even if she had wings.
"What else do you want, Quinn? What else could you want? UNGRATEFUL!" her father yells and shuts the door loudly.
The words echo in the girl's mind. The reflection in the mirror is not yet familiar. The curve of her nose, the way her jawline looks firmer, more closed, the cleanliness of her face, it's all new. Her body is different too. It is as if she's started inhabiting a new house. It's not yet a home but she could make it be one, maybe. Maybe she could learn to move it and wield it like her own.
Quinn runs. She wakes up early anyway from the bad dreams (that's what she calls them), and she runs.
Her feet burn, her muscles tear, her shoes wear out. She changes pair after pair, her legs shape up, her curves settle into beautiful lines. She knows the pavement and the bumps of the track that you can't even see, she knows them by heart. It's only in the early mornings when there's something in the air, something light and almost promising, that she can breathe.
Her father hits her once and once only after a bad dream. Quinn doesn't scream much anymore but sometimes she bolts up and hits things or stuff falls and the noise can wake someone up.
Russell comes with angry furrowed brows and asks in a stern voice what happened.
"I dreamt that you left me all alone and I was lifting to the sky, nothing holding me to the ground, like I could fly all the way up and never stop – it scared me so much." Her voice cracks and her words are rich in pauses, in hidden hopes, in desperate intonations, in hushed fears.
He slaps her.
She feels his fingertips leave the surface of her cheek, she feels his palm fire into her skin.
"I would never leave you," he hisses. "You are my daughter."
He's never been an overly caring parent but the tears come readily to Quinn. She thinks it's finally love and she thinks she's been so utterly foolish to not see the feeling this man has for her.
It's years later when she learns that Russell Fabray would go long ways to keep up his good image on show. Of course that would mean displaying his beautiful, talented and charming young daughter on the parade of masks – in front of neighbors, with business partners, among members of their church.
It's years later when it hits her that what he meant is you belong to me and that he's not once said I am your father, I am yours. When she sees it, she doesn't cry. She's been through far too many nightmares to keep on crying.
Quinn opens her eyes and inhales sharply. The air that her lungs draw in isn't cold but it startles her. The realization that she is awake now creeps in painfully. There's cold sweat on her skin and she's trembling.
Finn is sleeping, half sat on the floor, back laid against the edge of the couch. The xbox game still going but her boyfriend is lightly snoring. Quinn takes a quick look at him, then she looks at the book in her lap. They'd both fallen asleep, it had been a tiring day.
She can't look for comfort in him, besides what could she ever say to begin to explain herself.
She sighs. Usually people try to sleep their bad thoughts off but there's no escape for her. No place to run, no place to hide. She holds her own hand and tries to count slowly, perhaps get her beating heart to quiet down for a bit.
"Babe… babe? Are you okay?" Puck is looking up at her. He's lifting himself up on his elbow and with his other hand he is caressing her forehead, casting a stray hair aside. His chest is all naked and exposed, the contours and muscles of his body looking ghostly and dim in the half-light of the night coming from the moon.
Quinn tries not to wince in pain and muster up a smile. She still doesn't know what's happening, she's still in that place between the nightmares and the real.
Her head, of course, is pounding. It's the too much alcohol. High school and coolers mixed in with all sorts of ethanol, what else could it be. It's ironic and cliché and just the oldest game in the book.
The memory comes to her, what they've done in this bed. But Puck, although visibly inebriated and not that coordinated, pulls her in and runs his nose up and down her cheeks. It's almost childish and she finally manages to smile.
"You're cool with me, a'ight?" He murmurs lightly into her skin, his breath smelling like cheap wine.
Quinn now knows that her mother tried, that Frannie did too, although neither could succeed fully, neither could get to her, and both would be too scared. This boy next to her isn't going to do it either, but she understands Noah meant to tell her she's safe and nothing bad is going to happen in his arms. For a second, she lets her foolish, silly young blood believe him, so she closes her eyes and tries to sleep.
The second time she wakes that night, she's quie., Puck doesn't stir and keeps on sleeping. She could nudge him carefully and ask him to hold her, ask him to take care of her. Instead Quinn just looks at his open face, at his absurd hairstyle. He's told her she's beautiful, she's beautiful, she's beautiful. He kissed her eagerly and wantonly and all very drunk with eyes that couldn't focus. But when they finished, he kissed her once, all soft like those feathers of her pillow that she wished she'd fly away with to some far away land. In the blurs of their minds and frenzies of their bodies, in small seconds, she felt beautiful.
When she remembers the nightmare, when she is awake and the images embed in front of her eyes, she can't catch her breath. She's running, always running, from tall masked figures calling her out, yelling at her, "Liar, liar, burn!"
She looks at Puck one more time and a tear rolls down. Of course he would say she's beautiful, now that she had a nose job, the perfect body she sculpted every 5am of her teenage life and the social status to go along with everything. How could he see her, the real her, when she herself has no clue who she is supposed to be?
She gets her blouse and throws it quickly, she tries to close the door without making a sound, then runs down the stairs and runs back to her house. She runs the whole way barefoot, the cold of pavement the only thing she can feel.
"Are you very sad, Quinn?" Santana murmurs into the blonde's hair, holding the girl tightly in her arms. The Latina wishes her arms were stone, silver, steel and could keep her safe. But she's pink and blood, just like her weeping friend.
"No, I – no, I'm not," the words are shuffled with whimpers and gasps for air, breathing is always hard when your body is shaking. "Well, only sometimes," Quinn adds after a little while.
Santana gently strokes the silky hair scattered around her neck, belonging to that lost, wrecked young woman. She squeezes tightly in a hug she tries to make as gentle as possible.
"Oh, Quinn," the Latina says. She's looking for the words which mean, you're allowed to feel that way, and it's okay, or it's going to be okay but those words don't come out. Santana knows more about screaming and crying than she does about being tender, so what she can do is wish, wish really hard and strong. "You can come sleep in my bed tonight, Q, no one will find out."
Santana holds her for the rest of the night, Quinn doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't sleep. When the sun lifts up above the ground, the blonde girl finally sighs a sigh that sounds like the song of giving up and dozes off. Her fingers twitch and her chest expands up, up, cautiously, like asking for permission, so am I allowed, slowly, then goes down.
Santana knows that Quinn is very sad. Her eyes are mountain lakes frozen in wishes for corals and warm waters that never come. She was also wishing Quinn would admit that.
When Sue Sylvester's alarm rings off and wakes up all the Cheerios, it's training camp as usual, drills and cheap thrills of splits and twists. No one can tell that Quinn's smile is plastered fake bijou. No one can, because no one has seen different.
"Quinn," her mother hushes, "this is such a nightmare!"
The blonde girl wants to laugh, because yeah, her life feels like it. She's packing her bags, the sting of Russell's voice telling her to leave still wrecking her.
"It's all going to be okay, mom," the pregnant daughter manages to mouth, "It's all going to be just fine."
"Hey girl," Mercedes is standing at the foot of her bed. Her voice is really tender, like it could be broken off in half by a slight breeze. "I heard you wake up and it's not even 3am, so I just wanted to check if you're okay…"
The words fade out, Quinn shivers, closes her eyes, opens them again.
"Yeah, yeah, no stress, just the baby kicking."
"Are you sure that's all? Cause, I mean…" her friend pauses and thinks for a bit but eventually lets it rest.
A few minutes later the door creaks open again and Mercedes leaves a tray with cookies and milk.
"Used to help me, you know," the girl adds before going back to bed.
Quinn really, really hoped she was done with tears by now but as she takes a chocolate chip cookie there's no way for salty rivers not to plague her face.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam offers, "I'm good ears."
She can't help but roll her eyes. Who else but this sweet country boy would say they're good ears?
"I'm okay, Sam. Tell me that Na'vi sentence again?"
"But Quinn, I know it hurts –"
She cuts him off with a hug.
"Knowing you care is enough."
"Pink looks hot on you," Michaela smirks. "You know what else would look hot on you?"
Michaela – Mickey – also known as The Mack has long raven hair and she doesn't seem to own anything but leather jackets and ripped black jeans. Quinn raises her eyebrow at her, a silent permission to be entertained with whatever else is going in the other girl's mind.
Mack opens the door for Quinn as they leave the gas station. They've just dyed Quinn's hair a bright and nasty pink in the bathroom. They're somewhere on the road, neither quite knowing where, just driving with the only direction being forward.
"Me," the girl laughs.
Both of them are surprised when a calm "Okay then," draws out from the ex-cheerleader's lips.
Their little making out ritual begins at the back of Mickey's rusty truck. Michaela is not hesitant and doesn't trifle with concepts such as gentle and sweet. She sucks in Quinn's lower lip eagerly and soon there's tongues trapped in mouths, touching. It doesn't take long for the newest Skank member to learn the lines of the bright white teeth of Mack's smiles, the way the roof of her mouth has a soft spot in the middle. Quinn doesn't learn much more than that for the rest of their trip, it's all anatomy and unshamed sounds of lust. Mickey cops of a light feel of Quinn's chest but the girl under just laughs and the kissing stops.
The screams from the nightmares are back again. It's some low-life hostel that they've crashed at for the night. A radio from outside screeches in song, "up all night, got demons to fight." It's sadly fitting.
Michaela is kind of like Puck, unapologetic, cocky, rough on the outside but occasionally with a kind heart. She doesn't ask questions. They're both fucked up and hurt and broken. Words aren't going to fix that, not tonight. She draws Quinn into her long arms and begins kissing her neck. She nips at her earlobe and flicks her tongue against the shell of her ear.
The nightmares only come rarely, at least at night. In the light the young Fabray is on a rollercoaster of tumultuous fears. She takes any small mercy she can get, so when Mack rolls over and takes her shirt off, Quinn gasps and tell her, "Make me forget."
It sounds a bit dramatic, a bit too tense, and too real for their easy-go, easy-leave relationship. Mickey doesn't appear bothered but she tones it down with a little arrogant chip, "Just watch what I can do with this mouth."
She forgets alright.
For the night at least.
Brittany is in Quinn's hospital room every night. Santana stays a lot too but that particular evening she is with her family. The tall dancer is telling stories about Lord Tubbington and a unicorn hunt, words that the girl on the bed faintly hears as distant sounds like waves crashing when she opens her eyes.
Brittany jumps to hold her hand and tell her not to talk because her chest exploded like fireworks and bombs and magic dust or something similar and the doctors said it wouldn't be pleasant. Quinn is damn right feeling all the unpleasantness of her sore chest, of her torn limbs, of her scared back.
"The wedding didn't go through," the cheerleader informs her.
Quinn just gives her the practiced Ice Queen I-could-care-less look.
"Am I going to walk again?"
Brit laughs and laughs and fills the whole world with hope. It's the first time in a long while when Quinn has asked the right question, something normal, something just for her.
The nurses come in shortly to check her vitals and let the doctors know she's woken up. One of the senior nurses explains quickly that therapy is hard and recovery is slow but all the Quinn can hear is the chime and delightfully intoxicating melody of Britanny's "Of course you will!"
Joe is probably the nicest boy she has kind of sort of maybe gone out with, because they're only kind of sort of maybe going out with. That of course is all due to her complete lack of desire to be in a relationship.
She likes the dichotomy in him. His long hair tied in dreadlocks, his words as sweet as a young child. He has tattoos, ink all over his body, but they're Bible verses speaking of forgiveness. He's sometimes shy and quiet but outspoken when he defends her and pushes her chair through the hallways. She likes these differences because they remind her of who she is. She still hasn't figured that one quite out but sometimes she feels like she can see herself.
Surprisingly, the nightmares are rare now. At least less frequent. There's sweat and hard work and humility but Quinn is determined to walk again and to actually be happy. There's no Beth, no pink hair, no shattered glass and ambulance sirens.
"I shouldn't be falling in love with you, right?" Joe asks her.
"I need this –" she points at herself and waves to the space around, trying articulate what she doesn't have the tools for, "Just, this time, to be about me. You shouldn't and I'm not going to lead you on."
He squeezes her hand in acceptance and she kisses his cheek as softly as she knows, as softly as she wishes she were to be kissed.
Quinn doesn't want to talk to anyone at graduation but Sue Sylvester corners her.
"This is going to be short and quick, Fabray, because I'm sure the FBI is tapping me and they're just waiting for me to have a sentimental moment." Sue looks around them, conspicuously, but no one seems to be doing anything fishy, "You're a good girl. You have a good heart. I think you're going to do wonderful things. I'm already so proud of you."
Quinn doesn't have the words to reply and she's feeling lost and hurt and loved and -
"No crying now. This never happened. Cheerios are tough as nails. We eat little kids for breakfast."
Sue walks away with as smile, hearing her favorite student laugh.
"Just go there. That's all," the words are said in the same final tone that her friend Spencer is queen of, it's complete and absolute finality, no open doors and other options.
Quinn holds the small piece of paper with the address and the name. It's Yale's counseling center, that much she knows.
The piece isn't heavy at all but at the same time she can feel its weight pressing down into her.
She looks at Spencer and wants to ask her a million questions. A specific counselor was recommended, so Spencer has been there too. What are her worries, what are her troubles? What are the troubles of all the friends she's not been strong enough to help? Quinn tries to count the good things she has done in her life and it's when she feels warmth in her friend's glance that she just knows that she can do good, and that she can fix this.
"Thank you," Quinn says.
"You know they say dreams are only as real as they last?" Quinn has a habit of asking curious questions. Rachel has a habit of answering them in curious ways.
"Couldn't you say that about life?"
The tiny brunette is tucked in under Quinn's arm and they're lying in their big, soft, feathery bed with tens of pillows and silky sheets in New York.
"Hey, Quinn?" Rachel calls out.
"Are you pulling a Piglet on me? Calling my name to see if I'll answer, just to make sure it's me?"
"You really need to stop re-reading Winnie the Pooh, sweetheart."
"Fine, fine. Tell me?"
"I'm really glad you're here and that we have each other."
The way Rachel says it is like it's the easiest thing in the world. It hasn't been, not therapy, not building a new life, not meeting each other again and falling in love, and creating a world for the two of them. But it has been completely worth it, Quinn thinks, and it's moments like this one which certainly make it all worth it.
They fall asleep, a web of interwoven arms and laced legs. When Rachel wakes, she is in the arms of her love who is looking at her.
"Oh honey, did you not sleep well again?" The singer's voice is full of care, of need to protect and love, of light and music. She kisses the top of Quinn's nose and the young woman giggles.
"No, no, baby. I actually had a very beautiful dream." The blonde taps with her fingers at Rachel's shoulderbones, another habit.
"Yeah?" Rachel yawns out and tries to get closer to Quinn, ever closer, pressing all of her against the body of her perfect match. "What happened in it?"
"Oh well, we were in bed, kind of like this, and you were sleeping with a little cute smile on your gorgeous face. You were so calm and peaceful. And I just watched you and I felt – I felt alive, and I felt like myself, like I belonged and had all the love in the world bursting in me."
"Quinn – " Rachel immediately takes an inch back to look at her lover.
"The best part is that it isn't a dream, Rach. We're real and happy and in love and we're home."
They press their smiles together in a kiss and the laughter blooms from in between their lips.
"You're such a cheesy dork, sweetheart."
"I love you too, Rachel."