Quinntana Week Day Seven: Free Day
I realise that this is ill-timed given the latest news, and I'd just like to clarify that this was no way inspired by recent events regarding Cory Montieth. I am not trying to capitalize on such a topic. This has been in the making for several months, and it's just a terribly bad coincidence. While I did debate posting this, I've gone ahead on the basis that this was originally written to be therapeutic. Take from that what you will. Thank you.
*0*0*
Parachute
*0*0*
You should have known something was up with her. She had been acting strange ever since her accident, but you'd been too focused on Brittany, on graduating, on Louisville, on New York, on everything else but your friendship with her to see it.
Now, though…now it was obvious. It was staring you in the face, in her pupils, in the way she breathed, in the beat of her heart, and in the way she smiled. It was written all over her, so how did you not notice? How could you have missed it? Why had it taken you so long to see what was right in front of you?
*0*0*
The wedding had been a disaster, a fucking mess, if you were being honest, and yet you found solace at the bar with Quinn. She was going drink for drink with you, which was a little surprising, but good to see college had loosened her up a bit. Her compliments were also an interesting addition to the night, and as you danced with her, you couldn't help but search for what was new, what was different.
She was bolder, confident, and rather unlike the Quinn Fabray of past. Something was definitely different, but you didn't know what, and frankly, you couldn't care. She was licking her lips, and you were transfixed. You weren't an idiot, she had been hitting on you all night, and you'd flirted back because hello, it was Quinn fucking Fabray.
Getting to her room was fun, getting her out of her clothes was even better. How you had remained thinking once they were out the equation was beyond you. But your mind was still abuzz with thoughts, and you couldn't get it to stop.
She kissed you harder than you thought possible, and she was giddy when she pulled back. A smile adorned her lips, her eyes heady, and she was twirling your hair in between her fingers as she teetered on her feet. It was unbelievably sexy to see her like this, but something still felt amiss, and now a part of you was starting to care.
"Why'd you stop?" she asked, and her body leant into yours again.
Your mind was fuzzy from the booze, and your hands were gripping her waist, whether to steady her or keep her close, you didn't know. Whatever was different, whatever had changed with her was eating at you, but you couldn't put your finger on it.
Maybe it was because you were about to have sex with your best friend. Maybe it was because it was Quinn Fabray. Maybe the alcohol really had impeded your judgement. Whatever it was, it needed to wait. You weren't going to be able to work it out with her standing there like that and looking at you like she wanted to devour you. You shook your head, dispelling all thoughts of what was up with Quinn, and then worked on capturing her lips with yours.
She moaned in appreciation and then began tugging at your dress, and that was enough of the conversation. You'd work it you later. You'd realise in the morning or you'd remember on the train home. Whatever, you'd deal with it another time, because right now you needed her naked and on that bed, to hell with the consequences.
*0*0*
The wedding should have been the last time the two of you hooked up. It should have been the end of it, but instead it was the start. It was what led you to the discovery you didn't want to make. It was what led you to seeing her in an entirely new light, questioning her every action and motive.
Quinn acted as if nothing had changed after the wedding, but you thought otherwise. Seeing her unhinged, lost in complete euphoria made your body buzz with excitement and need. No matter what you told yourself, no matter how many times you tried to push those thoughts away, they kept resurfacing.
So it was no surprise when you found yourself up at New Haven. Although this was something you had been trying to avoid, it felt inevitable. Quinn and you had fallen into bed once, so why not twice?
Even though she pretended like you hadn't kissed every inch of her skin and had her crying out your name in ecstasy, she still pounced on you the second her dorm room door was shut. You had her in your arms again, her lips on yours, and your heart was beating erratically to try and keep up with her.
Quinn was every bit the charmer she had been that evening, and she was just as bold, just as confident with you. There was no hint of shyness, no anxiety as she began stripping off, and it was you that felt a slight unease for a change. There was no alcohol in her system; it was three in the afternoon, but she was more content, more relaxed than you had ever seen her be.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a red flag went up, but then she had her hands on your hips, tugging you closer, kissing away any thoughts other than her, and it was dismissed, just like last time.
This was an issue that could only be dismissed for so long, however. Eventually, you were going to work it out, and work it out you did.
It wasn't instantaneous. It didn't happen overnight. But rather, it took months. Months of weekend trips up to New Haven, kissing her hello in the train station, and giving her a proper welcome back at her dorm room. So many nights wrapped in her arms, kissing her neck, whispering words of adoration against her skin, and watching her fall to pieces under your touch.
A part of you thought she'd just grown comfortable in her own skin, finally finding a sanctuary and a home, but that wasn't the case. You wished it was. You really wished it was, because the reality of the situation was not something you were equipped to handle, and no matter how hard you tried, there was no way to pretend you didn't know.
"Q, do you have a pen or something?" you asked, crawling out her bed and searching her room.
You'd come up to spend another weekend with her, with neither of you naming exactly what it was you were doing, but sex was involved. It probably fell along the lines of a friends with benefits situation, and you were going to keep it that way as long as possible. A tiny part of you maybe looked at her longer than before, imagined holding her hand and going out for dinner as more than friends, but those were just fantasies you'd come to grow out of. For now, nothing needed to change, because everything was working out perfectly. Or so you thought.
You only wanted a pen so you could write down an IOU. She'd kindly paid for lunch, and you wanted to make sure you returned the favour. But her room was immaculate, and you couldn't see a damn pen in sight.
"Top drawer," she called back, rolling over and flouncing under the covers some more. You rolled your eyes at her dramatics and set about opening her desk drawer. What you found really wasn't what you were after, but now you were stuck. There was no going back, not with this.
"Shit…what the fuck are these?" you asked, reaching into the drawer and taking hold of just one of the empty pill packets. There were numerous, all haphazardly thrown inside as if she had been trying to find a place to hide them quickly, and it caught her attention.
"What are what- Oh," Quinn said, her voice almost dying as she saw what you were holding.
If it had been one or two empty pill packet, you wouldn't have thought twice about it, but this was more than one or two. This was eight, nine, ten, possibly; and they were mixed in with full packets, half used packets, different packets, smaller pills, bigger pills, different brands, and it looked like she'd jacked a fucking pharmacy.
"Yeah, oh. What the fuck is this, Quinn? How many of these are you taking?" you shot back, Snixx having awoken at the sight of all the prescription painkillers.
"I don't want to talk about it," she replied, as if that was actually an option in this situation.
"Q," you began, your tone cold and unforgiving.
"No, okay? You came here to fuck me, so that's what you're going to do. We don't talk about this. We don't talk about anything. We have sex, that's it. So if you can't do that, then get out," Quinn replied, her tone just as icy.
She rendered you speechless, and you cowardly put the packet down on her desk. She'd hurt you, which was a typical thing to do, lash out when someone was getting too close, but hearing her shut you down completely and refer to what the two of you were up to so simply had you swallowing back the lump in your throat.
Then you made the worst decision possible.
You scanned the room for your clothes and then began getting dressed again. Her message had been clear, and seeing as you couldn't just fuck her like this meant nothing, you were getting out. You tried to ignore the crestfallen look on her face, and you tried to push away the ache in your chest as you gathered your things.
"I'll text you to let you know when I'm back home," you said at the door, your voice low and unforgiving.
"San," Quinn began, but you shook your head.
"I got it, Q. It's fine. Message received loud and clear." Nodding once more, dispelling all thoughts of hugging or kissing her goodbye, you waved your hand awkwardly and left.
It was easier to pretend not to care when you were miles away from her.
*0*0*
Things between the two of you after that were stale and awkward. There was too much tension in the air, and no matter what conversation you started, somehow it always led back to what you had discovered. It made you analyse everything about her, trying to find out a reason as to why she would suddenly start doping up.
All you could conclude was that this was fallout from her accident. She had complained of her back hurting at Nationals, of being unable to do the routines because of it, and you wondered if that was the start of this, if that was where she made the decision to hurry her recovery by masking the pain.
Of course, when you brought it up, she shut you down.
"We need to talk about this!" you cried into the receiver, pacing your empty apartment while Rachel and Kurt were out.
"No, no we don't!" she called back, sounding angry at you for even suggesting as much, making you grip the phone tighter.
"Quinn, you've been popping painkillers like fucking skittles, I think that's pretty important." A complete understatement if there ever was one.
"You have no idea what you were talking about, Santana, so just don't," she growled, and you hated her for cutting you out like that.
You hadn't wanted to see the evidence of her inevitable crash and burn. You hadn't wanted the knowledge that she was in a worse way that what you always suspected. You hadn't wanted the constant worry and fear that she might really hurt herself from these.
But no, this was the hand you had been dealt, and even though she kept pushing you further and further away, you had to keep trying. This situation was bigger than her, and even if she didn't want to face the facts, she was going to need a safety net somewhere along the way, and you wanted to be there for her.
It was then that you made the decision to keep your mouth shut and not pressure her for answers. God, it was the fucking worst, because you were scared and worried and why was she not letting you help? But it was the right decision.
The more you cornered her, the worse she'd lash out, and now you had no clue what her volatile reactions would entail. A handful of pills washed down by booze? Cutting you out of her life completely? Falling off the grid?
It was better to stay close and keep your mouth shut than barrage her with questions and watch from afar.
And it did pay off.
You found yourself back in Yale several months after your last visit. No sex this time, just two friends hanging out, except you could see the effects the painkillers had on her body. She was high, unbelievably high, but she was walking, talking, and behaving like everyone else.
If you didn't know the signs, if you hadn't researched everything you possibly could on some of the side effects to powerful painkillers, you would have missed it. But you had, so the evidence clung to her body, revealed in her eyes, in her parched mouth, in her slow breaths, and in her laid back attitude.
On this evening, she ended up showing you her collection. You thought the ten or so packets of pills you'd witnessed last time was bad, but this was terrifying. It only took gentle prodding, and she'd opened up, but staring down the barrel of a gun was completely different than looking at one from afar.
She had amassed at least twenty painkiller packets, several varying in dosage, but all rather similar. Many were opened, with three or so pills having been taken out of the twelve or eight pack. Your eyes scanned how many were missing and you wondered how often she went into this shoe box to have some.
Then it occurred to you that this was probably only half of what was hidden in the room. Maybe she was showing you so you'd take it away from her. Maybe she was showing you so you didn't worry that it was too bad. Whatever, you knew that she would have a backup supply somewhere, probably more than one, and your eyes scanned the room quickly to see if anything was revealing.
It wasn't, but you should have known better. It was Quinn, after all.
"I knew you were a manipulative bitch but this is something else," you observed, looking back down at her addiction lying out so plainly. "You've been squeezing pills out of your doctors for months." It was the only explanation. No doctor in their right mind would grant her this many at once.
"I have no choice. It's all that works," she hummed, leaning her head back on the bed as the two of you sat on the floor.
"Yeah, cause you've tried everything else?" you questioned, your tone more sullen than you initially intended.
"Does it look like I can afford to try things out? This works for now, so shut up, and stop criticizing me," Quinn barked, and you rolled your eyes. She just had no idea.
"Yeah, it works for now, but what about when your kidneys shut down from the abuse or your stomach lining bursts because of too many fucking pills?" That was only a smidgen of the fear that had been eating you up inside, but she didn't even look concerned. It was as if she was too far gone to even realise that these were possibilities.
"Santana, it's all I have, so stop, please. You don't know what the pain is like." You were still running on the assumption that this pain she had referred to was relating to her accident, as she had never quite come out and said as much.
"You're right, I don't. But I do know how scary it is to watch as your best friend self-destruct," you replied, and she bowed her head, unable to look at you. "Please, Quinn, I'm begging you."
She would know how serious that was, and when she did finally look up and catch your gaze, she swallowed thickly and nodded.
"I can't promise you anything, but I'll try," she whispered, and your heart soared at the possibility.
She was going to try. That's all you could ask. That's all you could hope for. She wasn't opposed to stopping, and maybe part of her was seeing how horrific all this was, but whatever the reason, it was enough to make you pull her into a hug, and then kiss her softly, tenderly, as if she'd break beneath your touch.
"You don't have to do this alone," you murmured, leaning your forehead against hers, losing yourself in those captivating eyes of hers. They were only marred by her pupil size, the evidence of her addiction, as they hid the beautiful hazel from sight.
"I love you, you know that, right?" Quinn replied, and you smiled softly. You did, but she was high and it wasn't the way you wanted it to be.
Rather than answer, you nodded and allowed her to kiss away your fears, wipe away any tears, and worship your body as if this was her last night of freedom. There was just something about the way she moved, the way her hands ghosted over your skin and savoured every touch. It was like she was memorising you, marking every curve and contour of your body in her mind, and you let her do as she pleased, putting yourself completely at her mercy.
You needed to show her you trusted her, and you did. There was no one you trusted more, and your faith in her couldn't be misguided. She hadn't made any promises, just that she'd try, and that was enough for now.
*0*0*
Quinn made the effort, she went above and beyond what you expected her to do, and you spoke to her every night, asking how she was. She told you about the slip ups, the staircase in the library was particularly rough, and some asshole knocked her over on their way out of class, and there was a horrible chill over the city. It didn't dishearten you, because she was still trying, even if she did need reprieves every now and then, but a part of you hadn't anticipated the fallout from her trying, from her doing this alone.
You knew it was bad when she turned up in New York, bag in hand, hair wild from how many times she'd run her hand through it, and her pupils blown. Quinn's body was slumped against the wall next to the door when you opened it, and she slowly raised her head, allowing you to see the damage for yourself.
"I think…I think I need your help," she murmured, voice low, breathing even slower.
"Shit," you cursed under breath, a frown marring your brow as you collected her body in your arms.
Rachel was in the shower, Kurt was out, and you doubted Quinn wanted them to see her like this. With that in mind, you led her inside, allowing her to lay against you, and rubbed her back soothingly. Once she was behind your curtain, sitting on the tiny cot of a bed you had acquired, you leant down to check her out properly.
"What did you take?"
"I didn't…I haven't taken too many, don't worry." That was nowhere as reassuring as she probably thought it was. Running your hands over her cheeks, gently caressing the skin, you watched her carefully. "I'm sorry," she uttered, leaning into your touch.
"Don't apologise, please. We'll work this out." You'd do whatever it took to get her the help she needed.
"I…I couldn't be around my roommate. She'd ask questions-" Quinn began, and you shushed her gently.
"No, you did the right thing by coming here. It's alright." It was more than alright.
"I couldn't do it, San," she whispered, sounding broken and shattered. "I couldn't stop. I can't handle the pain. I'm so fucking weak. I just…I tried. I tried for you and I let you down." She was crying, whether she realised it or not, and you wiped the tears away from her cheeks, fighting your own back, too.
"You didn't let me down, okay? I'm so proud that you tried, and we will work this out," you repeated, needing her to understand the truth behind those words. "Can I get you to eat something, have a little something to drink maybe?" Anything to line her stomach, to maybe help combat whatever was going on in her system.
"Milk would be good." Yeah, that wasn't happening. You were not risking her chocking to death in the night if she was sick and it had curdled in her stomach.
"No, no milk. How about some toast and juice, yeah?" She nodded but her eyes were closed and you were pretty certain she hadn't heard the question.
Taking a moment to compose yourself, you helped her lie down gently, taking her shoes and coat off, and tucking her in your bed. Her eyes were closed, and she looked so at peace it hurt. She wasn't, she wasn't at peace at all. Quinn was in pieces, holding herself together by numbing everything out.
The fear was back, creeping up your spine and taking hold of every nerve ending in your body. You wanted to keep her safe. You wanted to hold her in your arms and never let her go. You wanted to take all her pain away and see her smile, with those warm hazels looking back at you.
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, having found you in the kitchen, wiping your eyes as you waited on the toaster.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, but she didn't buy it.
"Is…is someone here?" she questioned, looking over at your area of the apartment, your curtain pulled over. You wished you had walls, if only to block everything out just that little bit longer.
"Quinn, she's not feeling well. I'm just making her something." You waved your hand at the glass of juice and the plate awaiting the toast.
"Oh," Rachel murmured, and you cocked an eyebrow at her expression. "I didn't know she was coming. I would have made myself scarce. But I hope she feels better. If you need me to do anything, let me know, okay?"
It was sweet that she cared, but then again, she had grown pretty close with Quinn by the end of the school year. And for a split second, you thought about telling her, about asking Rachel for help, but you decided not to. This wasn't yours to tell, and while you were barely keeping your head above water, you couldn't drag someone else into this without a life raft handy.
"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," you said, giving her a genuine smile for a change, and she then busied herself making dinner.
It didn't take long for the toast to be ready, and you took the two pieces along with the glass of juice back through to Quinn, who was still passed out on the bed. Placing them down on the bedside table, you quietly began waking her up, soothingly running your fingers through her hair, until her eyes opened blearily.
"I need you to sit up, okay?" She closed her eyes and turned, as if she hadn't heard you, and you bit your bottom lip.
A small voice was saying you should just take her to the hospital, get them to pump her stomach or do whatever it is they do to help people who have overdosed, but she'd hate you for doing that. It wasn't an option. Such a move would push her away even further and you couldn't risk it.
You loved this girl. You adored her, and if that realisation wasn't scary enough, seeing her like this was.
"Sweetheart, please, can you sit up for me?" you whispered again, coaxing her body to move with you. She moaned in the back of her throat, frowning, but she sat up, and you were suddenly thankful that your bed had been pushed against a wall.
You manoeuvred her body round until she was leaning on it, and then kissed her cheek, thanking her for such a move. Quinn had closed her eyes again, her head drooping, but her breathing was more obvious than it was minutes before, so you knew her to still be awake.
Thankfully, she complied enough with you to eat half of the toast, and to drink all of the juice. She did complain of feeling nauseous, and you wasted no time at all fetching a waste bin for her to be sick in if that situation arose.
Rachel did check in on the two of you, several hours later, when she was heading to bed, and you knew she had questions. It was written all over her face from the sight she saw, of you cradling Quinn in your arms, with her completely out cold. It was the best way to feel her heart beat, to feel her breath, and as you knew from your research, certain painkillers seriously slowed these down, making your worries even worse.
To Rachel's credit, she kept her mouth shut and locked up the apartment, putting out all the lights, but content to have you leave yours on. You were almost crying at the gesture, even though it wasn't a big deal, but it felt like one because you were so amped up. Tomorrow, when everything held the appearance of normal, you'd thank her, you'd hug her, and you'd make sure she knew that you appreciate her efforts.
Until then, you needed to make sure Quinn was okay, and that's exactly what you did.
You laid next to her the entire evening, gradually falling in and out of sleep, forever checking to see if she was still breathing. At several points, it was as if she'd stopped, but then you'd see the slow rise of her chest and relief would flood your system. You couldn't contemplate the idea of losing her, and hell, you couldn't even contemplate the fact that this was real.
It really felt like this had come out of nowhere, as if everything had been going along nicely and then suddenly you were freefalling. Except it was Quinn who was freefalling, and the ground was getting closer by the second.
Yes, the signs had been there, but no one had been looking. It was a lucky break that meant you found out, but what about at Nationals? What about Graduation? What about over that summer before college? What about thanksgiving?
She had been there, right under everyone's eyes, and yet nothing. No one had thought to ask her if she was okay, how she was coping since the accident. No one was checking in on her, not even you, her best friend. Some friend you were.
You had seen the signs well before you found her pills. You had walked away after finding them. You had tried to give her space. You had let her try overcome this on her own. What had you been thinking? What had made you so foolish?
It was clear she needed more than that. It was obvious she needed a hell of a lot more help than you could offer. You could guide her at best, slow her fall down, but she was still plummeting towards rock bottom. This time you couldn't take no for an answer. You had to give this your all, you had to convince her seek help because you couldn't fathom losing her.
Hours later, well into mid-afternoon, after you'd been pacing the apartment and anxiously awaiting her waking up, you heard the sound of her groaning in bed, and rushed to see if she was okay.
"What do you need?" you asked, sitting on the bed next to her, panic evident in your voice.
"Water, please," she croaked, her eyes still shut, and you moved to fetch it.
Rachel was out, and Kurt still hadn't come home, so with the place to yourself, you didn't worry about pulling the curtain back over as you headed to the kitchen. It took you no time at all, and then you were back, returning to your little nook of the apartment.
You handed Quinn the bottle of water and then crawled back into bed with her, relishing in the warmth under the covers. She guzzled down as much of the water as possible, as if she had been without for days, and then collapsed back onto the pillow, taking deep breaths. It was good to see such a strong rise and fall of her chest, and you had no idea how thankful you were to witness it.
"Better?" you wondered, placing a kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder, her top having slipped off it in the night.
"Much," she repeated, her eyes turning on you and making you swallowing under their gaze.
Quinn looked to be assessing you, but for what, you didn't know. The two of you needed to talk about yesterday, about what was going on with her, about everything. The reality of that actually happening seemed slim, however. It was Quinn, for goodness sake! She didn't tell the world her problems, she didn't let people in, she didn't ask for help.
No, you knew her to brave through every situation without asking for a helping hand. You knew her to keep quiet about the worst things in her life, the ones that would eat away at her, until she could no longer hide the truth. And now, you were witnessing those traits unravel before your eyes.
This was her coping method, you were sure of it. It might not have started out that way, but that's what it had become, and you needed answers. You wanted to help her, but you couldn't do that if you were in the dark ninety percent of the time. She had to let you in. She had to let you see what was going on inside that head of hers. She had to let you slow her fall.
"They make me a better person," Quinn confessed, her voice quiet, and you frowned at her words. That was wrong, completely wrong.
Reaching out, your hand found her waist, caressing the sliver of skin available, and turned her so she was on her side, facing you now. It would be easier to have this conversation if you could see her, see what mask she was putting up, see what emotions she was trying to hide.
"No, Q, they don't. They make you high as a fucking kite," you replied, saying it how it was. There couldn't be any pussyfooting around.
"Isn't that the same thing?" She cracked a small smile, as if trying to make a joke, but all you saw was her grimacing underneath it.
"Can you even stop?" That was the big question, and while you were certain you knew the answer already, you had to ask.
"Yeah, of course I can. I can stop any time I want to," she lied, and you both knew it. She had tried, and she had confessed last night to being unable to stop. But did she even remember doing so?
"You can't," you said simply, your hand finding hers and entwining your fingers together.
"No, I can't," she replied, taking a shaky breath and looking away. "I need them. There's…the pain used to be bad after a lot of walking, dancing, sex, anything that really required me to stretch my back and my hips. My knee is also pretty messed up. When it's cold, everything hurts like hell and they ache so bad. At first, it was just to get me through Nationals, and then it was to get me through until after graduation, and of course I was busy during summer so I had to keep taking them, and orientation week at college was crazy so I couldn't stop then either, and now…now I can't stop. I need them. The pain hasn't changed, but I'm immune to low doses now, and I need stronger ones."
A part of you was breaking inside, hearing how she had struggled, and still struggled. She should have had a fresh start at Yale, but her problems had come with her, all in the form of a little white pill. And she looked so ashamed, as if the mere fact she was confessing to this was the most humiliating thing she'd ever done.
"Q, you're going to fucking kill yourself on this shit," you murmured, terrified for her.
She nodded, as if knowing this already, and looked away, her eyes watering but not a single tear falling. She wouldn't cry in front of you, not while she wasn't doped up, you knew that, and you looked away respectfully. Lifting her hand to your lips, you kissed her knuckles and awaited her next move.
"What do you suggest I do, try and stop again?" Quinn asked, sounding as equally broken as she was. "You saw how well that turned out."
"Yeah, that's exactly what you need to do. You have to stop." This was such a slippery slope, and already she was sliding down it, but you had no idea where the slope ended and the cliff dropped. She could be mere inches away from hitting rock bottom, or she could already be there. You had no idea.
"I can't stop, San. I don't think I could take it," she admitted, her eyelids drooping slowly.
"I'll help you, or we'll get you into a programme-" you began, ready to take whatever action was required. She wouldn't hear it, however.
"No. I'm not doing that. I've been the previously homeless, briefly disabled, teen mom. I am not adding addict to that list." Her words were strong, firm in their resolution, and you knew there was no convincing her to hear you out.
"But you already are one, Q. Can't you see that?" you wondered, knowing that she was at least aware of her actions to have come to you for help, to be able to talk about why she was taking the pills in the first place.
"No one else knows, and I want to keep it that way," she said instead, and you bit your cheek to keep your mouth shut.
Of course no one else knew, and of course she wouldn't want anyone else to know. She was Quinn Fabray, and no matter how many miles she moved, or how many pieces her family was in, she still held strong to the Fabray mentality that appearances and first impressions were everything. Problems would be swept under the rug and never dealt with, no matter how many injuries were caused by not dealing with the mess in the first place.
"You came here last night high off your face, nauseous and so out of it, you can't even recall what we spoke about. I don't care if you don't want people to know. I don't care how it'll look to add addict to that list. I'd rather have the previously homeless, briefly disabled, painkiller addict, teen mom, than the previously homeless, briefly disabled, dead, teen mom."
"It's not that bad," she tried to argue.
"Yes, it is, Q. You know it is." This conversation wouldn't need to be happening if everything was going well. "We both know you won't be able to stop if you don't want to. But that's the question. Do you want to stop?"
The pills could have had a stronger hold on her than you realised, and that would be all and end all. If she wasn't willing to fight her addiction, she would never beat it. And as you waited, you considered your next move if that was the case. It really wasn't one you wanted to think about, but Quinn was taking much longer than you would have liked to answer.
But then there was a soft nod, and the tears in her eyes spilled over, her arms reaching up and wrapping round your neck, pulling you to her. You embraced her, too, your arms relishing the feeling of holding her, and you planted kisses on anywhere you could reach, trying to show her how much you loved her.
This was the bigger step. This was the one you needed. There was no going back.
She had admitted defeat, allowed you in to see what was going on, and was now following your lead. And you led her right to a treatment facility six weeks later.
The time in-between had been riddled with anxiety and tears, with her breaking down every time she needed a painkillers to manage the chronic back pain, and with you consoling her with every ounce of your being to make sure she knew that you loved her, that you would stand by her no matter what, and that she was strong enough to get through this.
There was never any doubt about the latter in your mind. She was Quinn Fabray, the previously homeless, briefly disabled, teen mom, who was now standing up and fighting her demons. But above all else, she was alive, and that's what counted most.
She wasn't going to let this beat her, and that made you love her even more. She was no longer freefalling, you had her, and you were making sure she landed safely back on the ground, miles away from rock bottom; and if she slipped, you'd do it all again, no matter what.
*0*0*