Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. Seriously.
A/N: I am so, so sorry, everyone, that I took ages to post this. I also apologise in advance for any mistakes because this chapter is un-beta-ed. I was just so excited to finish writing it and wanted to share it as quickly as possible (plus, I've been a bit ill, so I wanted to cheer myself up and nothing's better than a shot of Faberry, right?). So, please, please review – you'll make my day and (since I'm on break after this week) chapter 3 may just come out sooner (ooh, evil me). Thank you and hope it meets your expectations!
Quinn's eventual, most reluctant acknowledgement of wanting Rachel in that manner (of wanting Rachel, period) was a disconcerting experience at best, a frightening revelation at the worst. The knowledge perched heavily with the weight of a thousand complications in the back of her throat, burned with the vengeance of irony behind her closed eyelids, tickled and tingled and pricked at her fingertips with something akin to inevitability (but she knew, she knew that simply could not be) and Quinn had to consciously struggle to retain some semblance of control.
She snapped her eyes open and whipped her head about in a desperate hunt for something, for anything that could serve as an adequate – no, as a passable justification for her evident loss of rationality and emotional composure, but nothing, there was nothing she could hang on to.
The pale yellow of the wallpaper mocked her, the alphabetised rows upon rows of DVDs and books and laminated playbills patronised her, the gently ticking clock kindly informed her that the entire duration of her identity crisis had not taken up more than a measly quarter of an hour.
Then there was Rachel: Rachel who remained oblivious to what Quinn had just been subjected to, Rachel who continued to sing under her breath and upend Quinn's world like she knew nothing else ever had (ever would).
Quinn had this immediate, overwhelming urge to divulge everything to Rachel – she wanted (needed) to apologise and make amends for everything that had been and make promises for everything that could be, to close this intolerable distance between the two of them and hold on to Rachel and never ever let go. But no, there is no future together to consider, there cannot be any future together to daydream about – because there is no us and there are most certainly no feelings to confess to begin with!
Except there were (and Quinn dared not even attempt to comprehend her abrupt indulgence in a sentiment as positive as l-lo-fondness) and she felt herself shaking as her thoughts collided spectacularly, as the strange feelings she now had for Rachel thump in time with her uncooperative heart, pulse to an irresponsible beat through her veins and come to a stop at her cheeks in a burst of warmth.
And if she had been anything like the old Quinn – if she were still the Head Cheerio, the Head Bitch in Charge, the queen of William McKinley High School; if she were the Quinn Fabray prior to an unplanned pregnancy and all the ramifications that brought – she could have effortlessly compared the potency of these novel emotions to poison, to a curse, to an abomination.
(And who would fault her for promptly hearing her father's disapproving – always disapproving voice corroborating that line of thought: the first step to improvement is accepting your imperfections, Quinn; understand that you are in the wrong and you will be on the path toward redemption.)
The only problem was that she was nothing like the old Quinn. She was the Quinn Fabray who was wholeheartedly attempting to become a better person, who realised how much corn syrup hurt, who knew firsthand how it felt like to be a loser.
She was the Quinn Fabray with a string of broken hearts in her trail; the Quinn Fabray who placed hesitant hands on an oddly flat abdomen every single night, stroking the space where her baby used to be. She was the Quinn Fabray who could not help but torture herself with visions of what-ifs, who fell asleep only to wake up in cold sweats with strangled sobs choking her airway and Beth's name whimpered from well-bitten lips.
Most tellingly, perhaps, she was the Quinn Fabray who practically lived to hear a petite brunette sing, who committed to memory all the brief moments she got to spend with the same brunette in isolation.
"Quinn?" Rachel's voice was soft and tentative, vacillating the way it always did after an especially spirited performance between breathlessness and a quiver – and it was like a douse of cold water, a jolt of heat; and it struck that spot in Quinn's chest, high and a few notches to the left, with such force that it left Quinn gasping silently, made her look away before she did something (even more) embarrassing. "Are you not feeling well? You seem a bit flushed. Maybe I should -"
Quinn would (should) have been content to sit there and deflect Rachel's misplaced concern (she could just picture the shock on Rachel's face should she discover how Quinn felt exactly). She was a Fabray after all and fabrication was, for all intents and purposes, the first thing she learned.
Only Rachel shifted and moved and made like she was about to reach out to Quinn and the blonde had yet to prepare herself for their now unbearable proximity, which had her jumping to her feet and out of Rachel's range and immediately scrambling to gather her things to avoid Rachel's slightly wounded gaze.
"I have to go," she whispered thinly, cursing herself for somehow managing to get her belongings everywhere and therefore taking much longer than strictly necessary to leave. The silence dragged on and Quinn considered repeating herself in case Rachel did not catch her words, but she was aware of how manic she must look to the brunette at the moment and she did not relish attempting that which could only exacerbate the situation. She wondered in passing (aha! there you are, pencil) if Rachel would think it essential to recommend her to a therapist –
"Right. Of course." Was it just Quinn's eyes or did Rachel's beam seem more muted? "We have been working for a reasonably lengthy period. It is vital to take a break to rest the mind after all." Rachel stood up to join a skittish Quinn by the doorway. "Shall I walk you to the door, Quinn?" Rachel offered politely.
Quinn shook her head frantically, holding her backpack before her like it was a shield. "No!" she yelled before she could stop herself, wincing at the quick flash of rejection before Rachel adopted a more neutral expression. "No, Rachel, it's not like that. There's just no need for you to go down with me, see? I mean, I know the way out by now. I think. In any case, you don't have to tire yourself out – that is not to say you wouldn't be able to do something as simple as -"
Quinn bit down on her tongue. At least Rachel looked more amused and slightly perplexed now. "I'm not usually like this, sorry." She smiled weakly, gratified when Rachel returned the gesture. "I'm just really tired. Coach was crazy – well, crazier than usual today. I think I should just go home and get an early night. I'm really sorry, Rach." She was almost impressed with herself for remaining stoic when confronted with the full calibre of Rachel Berry's smile at the unexpected endearment (that little voice in the back of her mind was a liar and there was no butterflies in her stomach at the favourable reaction to her slip of the tongue, not at all). "I'll make it up to you, I promise."
Rachel fluttered her lashes at Quinn. "It's absolutely all right, Quinn."
Quinn swallowed thickly. "Right. Well, I'll see you at school tomorrow?"
Rachel nodded. "I hope you feel better, Quinn."
"Bye, Rach."
"Goodbye, Quinn."
Quinn directed another strained smile at a glowing Rachel before sprinting down the stairs, out of the house and into her car. She had barely tossed her bag onto the backseat before her car screeched out of Rachel's driveway. The frenzied blonde stepped on the gas even more as she hurtled down thankfully vacant streets, needing the respite that came from hours of aimless driving.
Quinn did not actually make it home until it was much, much later and even the recently single, proudly independent Judy Fabray could not stay current and reverted to being parental. However, all Quinn could be aware of as Judy mentioned "grounding" and "worried" was the very same thing she had had on constant repeat since leaving Rachel's: I like Rachel Berry. I like like Rachel Berry. Oh god, I cannot like Rachel Berry!
It only got worse when the sly voice in her head gained momentum and volume as she trudged up the stairs to her room: but why can't you?