Author's Note: Thanks for reading. These have all been enjoyable to write. Kay Destined for Greatness was amusing and said I can't recall quotes like someone I know and really I can't remember all the quotes I love. If I got them all tattooed on me I'd run out of space. Then I said I'm writing a Bechloe fic that's brutal and she said of course it is. I feel so bad for your fictional character. Followed by me laughing and her saying well it's true! Their struggles are real and heartbreaking. So on that note-here we go! Honestly this is a mostly light story and if it was a Veronica Mars fic I'd say it was like a marshmallow.
"If Da Vinci was the "father" of psychology..."
Rachel tried not to smirk that Quinn actually used air quotes with her graceful hands that made her look both nerdy and adorable. She bit her lip because the blonde was being heady and serious and wonderfully tipsy.
"Don't you think the field of psychology as a whole would be more humanistic?" And Rachel listened because Quinn was in a rare mood and it was hard not to keep falling in love with her brain.
She loved Quinn's details. How she wouldn't wear makeup when writing because she would rub her eyes, get any lingering sleep sand from them once she dropped her glasses on the desk. That a new picture would be found in a small frame throughout the apartment and she'd have to ask how long has this been here? "Two weeks" or usually "days babe". That when they discussed getting a dog when it came to the name Quinn only had literary suggestions. And Rachel laughed when they became more un-dog-like. Flannery O'Conner got vetoed. Didion was an option. "Before you even say it Whedon is not on the table" which made the writer pause and frown. "Fine. Huxley...Carroll...Smith..." Rachel looked over at Quinn's bookshelf though the taller woman was going by memory. So far Alice in Wonderland and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Aldous Huxley was a name unto itself she knew. They would get no where until they actually went to the shelter and one quite, medium sized dog with soulful eyes stared at Quinn through the divider months later.
It was obvious when Quinn woke in a good mood or when she'd turn her head a certain way that implied she was already lost in thought, trying to analyze a dream. The days it was really clear her dreams were kind to her was telling when she'd shift lazily and wrap her arm around the smaller woman's waist, kiss the back of her neck and breathe her in. Regardless of their busy schedules and New York paced lives Rachel held her hand over a pale one to instruct her to stay longer.
"Do you dream in color?"
"Sometimes. Now that I think about it," she said quietly, content she didn't have to project and belt any lyrics. Sometimes Rachel would trade five more minutes of these morning than perform a show.
"I was dreaming about making a flower arrangement. How relaxing it was. I remember green, yellow, blue and a purple vase. It was an aerial viewpoint. I kept slowly building the finishing touches to a whole dream about interior design. Its disturbing...kind of gross I'd make a really good housewife." And Rachel would practically hear the frown that came with her tone. "Tell no one." Quinn joked and Rachel laughed lightly though she wanted to laugh louder.
"Babe, numerous people have offered to pay you to design their places."
"And that's snobby. And more work for me. When I become fully disheartened or need a break from writing I'll take them up on it."
"Its not that snobby. Some people are busy or lack creativity or are overwhelmed by a blank pallet," Rachel said diplomatically because Quinn had talents and got frustrated. She was snobbish in her own way but there was another thing she caught-the blonde's whispered tone and heaviness that came when she mentioned writing. "Why would you become disheartened?" She asked once she turned over to face eyes that couldn't and didn't lie to her anymore.
Quinn slowly drew her lips into her mouth and held them firmly between her teeth, clearly torn between expressing or choosing a lighter conversation. As Rachel pressed her fingertips into her lower back she felt then saw Quinn relax and further sink into the bed like they had hours to lay together.
"So...I have this rather useless talent..because I don't think people actually care about writing or quality. And so what I'm not exactly a slouch with my linguistic skills" she minimized and was also critical to the point Rachel sometimes wanted to shake her. But that was Quinn and all she could do that felt natural was kiss her check and voice her writing mattered.
Quinn was also weird and it was best to roll with it. She'd come home with a spider plant and a cactus with a smile as she'd place them on the granite windowsill. "This is Franny and Zoey," she said proudly.
"You're so weird," the brunette said through a smile as she watched.
"Quirky." She said firmly with a fist under her chin as she looked at the greenery then snapped her fingers to move to her desk.
"Semantics babe." She replied with a smirk that had transitioned from the smile so effortlessly that it was difficult for Quinn not to look up and wink. Though she paused in her search through her only junk drawer Quinn refocused and within seconds held a few marbles in her palm. Smoothly she walked to the new plants and meticulously placed them in.
"Beautiful. How ever did we live without them?" She asked in a faux overly dramatic way. Complete with hand gestures from silent cinema. And she loved that in Quinn's weirdness Rachel felt she could be goofy as well.
Sometimes Quinn was annoying. When talking to her was too much like talking to a brick wall. How she would stand there unmoved while Rachel raised her voice slightly because she knew an actual yell shut Quinn down completely. Rarely they discussed high school but it was always present in the singer's undertone of why would Quinn almost seem bi polar-flitting from one extreme to the next. That with the transitions came whiplash and it was hard to be around Quinn. That Rachel wanted to connect to her but instinctually felt this desire to put on armor because even then Quinn was impressive with words but hadn't yet decided to admit she was a writer and welcome the 'starving artist' label, though she was far from starving.
The moment Rachel rubbed her temple and stopped trying to explain her view the taller woman stood, seeming smaller. Confined and resigned to listen to Rachel's honesty because she deserved to be told she hadn't in ways bruised Rachel as they kept trying to collide and link and stay in each other's orbit. What stilled Rachel was Quinn's delicate question, "what would..." she paused in her uncertainty, a look seen on Quinn like a blue moon as she searched for her words. "Why would you keep trying with me?" And her voice slightly faltered because the question also implied her own value and worth-of why she would matter to Rachel.
"You always seemed the type to have a good heart."
A little over a week later Rachel came home to an empty apartment and a note on the counter that had her slanted, half calligraphy writing.
You with your painfully beautiful optimism made me want to be more honest. Lying could be freeing but it was also a cheap power play. Lying out of self preservation and desperation or with practiced ease to the point that they become you, alter you, harm you and break you until you're uncertain of your core and wonder at what degree of forced conformity and unnatural bending that they body and spirit cannot self repair. But you have been a constant. And gentle and powerful. I have loved you since high school.
Seconds after Quinn came through the door with take out from her favorite place. Even though she knew Quinn only liked one dish and she was in love with the whole menu. She was on her. Arms wrapped around shoulders, lips buried into her pea coat collar but grazed her neck. And she smelled of lavender soap, winter that lingered on her and just Quinn. Then Rachel refused to waste anymore seconds and kissed her.
"You know I love you, right?"
Rachel looked up at unguarded eyes and nodded.
"Good," Quinn said contently. "Plus," she paused as she set the bags on the counter to smoothly turn to Rachel and hold her waist with an edge of claim and appreciation "you kiss like an anarchist with a pocket full of matches."
Surprisingly Rachel moved closer and kissed harder. "That's not my line," Quinn admitted with amusement.
"I figured. You're more heady, but you can tell me the source later. Let's go to bed," she said in more of a demanding tone than anything which was a turn on. Quinn raised an eyebrow as though to say 'oh really'? Then Rachel slowly removed Quinn's vintage coat, not caring that it fell to the floor because dear God and Broadway and the Tony's that eyebrow raise. "Now," she said playfully as she firmly pulled at the blonde's shirt.
Because over the years coming home to Quinn sitting in the big chair by the window with a blanket thrown over her legs and a book was sexy redefined. Honesty in a note was sexy. Taking a glass of wine in with a shower and coming out with it empty was sexy. The little things that composed the writer into a still mysterious, but well known person she loved.
Even when Quinn was difficult. How the smallest shift would wake and startle her into full consciousness. She only experienced boys or more accurately man children that slept solidly. Or the rare one night stands with women before there was Quinn and admitting they were more. The writer only slept like the dead after a certain amount of wine. Liquor only made her moodier and unpredictable which wasn't as thrilling as it was intense and bordering on scary when she'd willingly stand too close to an edge on a balcony with the blonde narrowing her eyes at the world. Like she was trying to find the culprit to her monsters, her lost dreams, her faded hope as she bitterly exclaimed self deprecating thoughts that were buried only seven feet under and clearly not laid to rest.
It was concerning to say the least, but Quinn seemed set to not talk about her sentiments when sober. Some part of Rachel thought Quinn's ghosts would always be hovering or possessing. She didn't know the right words-she wrote lyrics.
Sometimes she'd read Quinn's favorite books and want to write songs between chapters because they inspired and she wished she could create something so universal and poignant.
But Quinn would have her edge, her demons, and in fact Quinn had once told her in a private toast with champagne after another year together "If I got rid of my demons-I'd lose my angels." She was only tipsy and completely lucid as she gave her quote that spoke volumes. And Rachel raised her glass.
It was annoying the next day that Quinn was useless in contributing to a conversation. This happened every time if she didn't have a cup of coffee in her. One time she tried to push the blonde for a needed discussion and Quinn held her head in her hands as she stared as the counter and her empty coffee cup as the coffee brewed.
"Quinn!" She repeated.
"My synapses aren't working," she said slowly and robotically she added, "please leave a message after the tone," she sighed then said "beep".
"Oh my God! Quinn Fabray! You are lucky I love you." She grumbled but noticed Quinn had finally lifted her had and gave the laziest smile. "Damn lucky" she said with her own smile that turned into a smirk. Signature Rachel Berry move behind closed doors.
Randomly after what was likely the fiftieth time she had come in and hung her hat on the hook by the door Rachel had asked, "do you wear your bowler hat because of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?"
Quinn didn't verbally answer. Instead she chose to ruffle her own hair, walk over and kiss the observant woman as though saying-yes, thanks for understanding me or getting the reference.
Last week she had finished the book for the first time though Quinn had read it nearly a dozen. Marked it with pencil, underlining passages or only a phrase-telling of her need to memorize the loved material.
There were days Quinn was forced to be vulnerable. When the nerves in her back hurt to the point it affected her breathing leaving her to stay in bed or take long baths with a large glass of wine and a hydrocodone. They both knew it wasn't the safest mixture and once Quinn tried to joke by saying "kids-don't try this at home" but most of the time it worked. When it didn't the simple act of massage from Rachel after the bath did the trick. Though they both knew it wasn't exactly simple because it involved a degree of giving in. Its why Rachel was the only one allowed to give her a massage.
Once upon a time Spencer tried. But after three minutes she felt more tense, lied and said she was craving a latte. And though they both knew it was strategic they ventured out in the cold fall to a cafe.
Rachel was the only one who could touch her. That fact didn't need to be spoken. Coworkers, strangers, friends, acquaintances...could tell. It was in their body language, in the way Quinn positioned herself around Rachel within reach, that the singer unconsciously acted like a body guard but treated Quinn like she was both delicate and steel somehow knowing when to wax and wane with Quinn's movements. It was how they intimately joked with one another. How moments and years built their story and how they read one another.
End Note: If you take away my demons quote is by Tennessee Williams, I swear I thought I used it in the previous stories. Quinn's note (most of it) I also have in my Pretty Little Liars one shot because I like the idea of lies changing a person and/or how oppressed they can make someone. Kissed like an arsonist with a pocket full of matches. God I adore that. I've used it in another fic and its from The Anatomical Shape of the Heart which has the best description I've ever read of schizophrenia as well: Everyone wants to know. It's better to talk about it when I can because sometimes I can't, so I'll tell you. It's like when someone offers you Candy and you think 'I want that' but then another part of you says 'sugar is bad for you'. And for a moment you're torn because you're not sure if you should eat the candy in the little war goes on inside your head. That's what happens to me all day long. A little war in my head. And it stresses me out. And the more I get stressed out more soldiers join the war and sometimes a few of those soldiers will start talking to me then it's like a running commentary playing in the background, judging every move I make. Carroll is Lewis Carroll aka Charles Dodgson. Whedon is Joss. Didion is Joan. If you have questions feel free to ask. Thank you for reading.