A/N: Thank you, nolinkedlists, for correcting flaws in grammar and thought.
I hope everyone's enjoying their Finchel-free summer! I sure am. I'm also enjoying PR!Murphy. Who is this guy and where has he been the entire time? I never thought I'd love the bridesmaids scene as much as I do.
Last but not least: The first line of chapter 1 is taken from the poem "A poison tree" by William Blake.
Finn tries to call Rachel sometimes. You're relieved each time she ignores him.
I'm through with him, she says after the fifteenth or so missed call within a week. In your opinion that's not a lot, but she says it doesn't matter how often he calls.
He never respected my boundaries then, but I just wish he'd at least respect them now. I told him no. I told him no and he ignores it.
You can hear the disappointment in her voice and lean over to place your hand on her shoulder. You deserve better than that, you tell her, and her face lights up a little.
Was he the reason why you stopped visiting?
You think about her question and yea, he was one reason. One giant homophobic hostile cockblock of a reason, but you can't possibly tell her that.
Partly, yes, you admit, and hope she doesn't think you were just jealous the whole time.
But I also had stuff to figure out.
And you've done so great, she nods in understanding.
You think of all the times she wasn't there and your stomach turns. Yes, you've done great and your journey was necessary. But it was also painful, and a part of you, just for a brief moment, wishes you'd have been outed in High School like Santana. At least she got to be with Britt.
You shake the horrible thought away as quickly as it popped into your head. Of course you didn't want to be outed. You're not Santana. You weren't strong like her. You had other things to deal with. You didn't have your family's support. You couldn't have survived that.
You would've done something stupid.
Why did you stop calling, though? you ask.
It's not like you told her to stay away. It's not like you actually meant to break off contact altogether. A part of you always wondered what she was thinking the entire time, if she ever thought of you.
Another part is afraid of the answer.
She bites her lip and averts her eyes. I'm sorry, she says, but that's not what you wanted to hear.
Just tell me, you insist. You force your voice to stay calm, even though your insides are burning. You're not ready for whatever she has to say. At the same time you need to hear this. You need to know.
She slowly breathes in and hesitates. She opens her mouth a couple of times and each time she can't bring herself to say the words your worries grow. What could be so bad that she can't tell you?
I felt like there was some kind of… barrier between us.
She pauses and you listen.
I could sense that you were retreating, that you were hiding something from me. And I guess I was disappointed that we never talked about that time in the parking lot.
Now you avert your eyes.
That time you kissed me.
This time you don't interrupt her when she apologizes and says that it isn't like her to back off like that. But you have to admit that her instincts were right. As always. Rachel Berry's instincts regarding you have never failed. She knows you like she knows every song from every Broadway musical. She knows you like she knows her own voice. She can read you like she reads notes and she can play you like a finely tuned instrument. When she decided to leave you alone it was in order not to break your strings.
And she knows that she knows all that. She knew it long before you considered her a friend. You used to push her away for exactly that reason. You used to hate her for seeing right through you.
As you can see, though, I never stopped thinking about you. I'm here.
You smile at that and feel the tips of your ears start to burn. Yea, she's here. Years have passed and you broke contact, but the moment her relationship failed you were the person she ran to. Your chest swells with pride and happiness.
Back in school you were the popular cheerleader. You were the blonde pretty girl everyone envied – the leader of your very own pack. Or so it seemed.
In reality your power was limited to tearing down freshmen girls and trading your body for favors. Your father didn't raise you to lead. He raised you to obey – obey the rules of the conservative 1950's society he and his upper class colleagues revived over a glass of whiskey and Cuban cigars.
You remember hugging your pillow tightly to your chest, hearing their bragging voices ascending upstairs through the door to your room, hoping you wouldn't be called down and shown off like a toy again. Out of all your father's projects, you were both his favorite and his most flawed.
You remember wondering why they'd always raise their voices when you were taught to be always quiet. You remember wondering what they were so afraid of that it needed to be yelled away, laughed away, drunk away.
You remember how well it worked. Their voices silenced yours. Always.
You hid behind your cheerleading uniform like an armor. You hid behind your dad and his orders. You hid behind the certainty that you'd follow your mom's footsteps and become an even greater nothing after school. You hid in the darkness of your room.
Yea, you were popular, so popular in fact that Finn Hudson, quarterback – that's important to add, because he wasn't really anything else when you first met him – approached you the first day you paraded around your newly earned title of head cheerleader, and asked you out.
But you never had real friends besides Santana and Brittany. And those you were unable to recognize as such.
Why did you, though? Rachel interrupts your train of thought. Kiss me, I mean.
You swallow hard and touch your neck with the tip of your fingers. There's no cross to weigh you down. There's no armor to shield you from your thoughts.
I'm not sure. I guess, because I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't even supposed to be friends with you.
You inhale deeply, remembering that you're here now, not back in Lima.
I wasn't really supposed to be friends with anyone.
Rachel furrows her eyebrows, contemplating for a second. Her eyes are open, so wide open, always. She was raised without fear, only love, and you envy and admire her all the same.
So you didn't have a crush on me?
She's not confused. She's just seeking clarification. Your face suddenly feels hot and your mind is wiped clean.
No. I mean, maybe. Yes?
You're actually not sure. All the heavy feelings came later, with Beth.
But Rachel remains patient. She's not laughing at your blubbering. She doesn't even blink, just smiles reassuringly.
Look, I was so occupied with everything else I went through, that I didn't exactly have time to figure out my emotions. I was supposed to marry Finn or Puck or any boy. I was supposed to be a straight A student and go to church every Sunday. I was supposed to be mean to you – to people like you.
You wince at your choice of words. Rachel doesn't.
She just nods in understanding. You're not even surprised by her lack of reaction. Any insult that could have been thrown at her has already been thrown at her - by you. She knows exactly what kind of people you're talking about.
I guess I did have a crush on you, you conclude. But I didn't really feel it. I couldn't.
You squint and think hard how to make yourself clear. You want to be precise about this, help her understand. You weren't allowed to have an identity. You weren't loved. How were you ever supposed to think about complicated and irrelevant things like sexual orientation? Weren't boys supposed to tell you what you are?
Can you understand that a little?
She opens her mouth once, then again, and finally settles for a half-smile and another nod.
Your eyes are fixed on your hands resting in your lap. It's been a long time since you felt this vulnerable. It's like you're coming out all over again; but you already figured that that process never really ends.
Still, the lump in your throat is thick and heavy and your breathing has become shallow. You already feel the threat of the old Quinn – the emotionally detached ice queen – breathing down your neck. It's time to deflect.
The moment Rachel sees the glint in your eyes her smile becomes a full on grin.
What?
You straighten your back and lean a little closer, like a school girl about to share a secret.
I also kissed Santana, you know.
.
A couple of hours later you're sitting on your bed with the 'baby box', as you call it. There are a few pictures of Beth that you haven't gotten around to putting in your album, yet. There's a lock of her hair from when you and Shelby took her to get her first hair cut. There's a sock, light blue and tiny. Some gorgeous crayon doodles. You even have one of her baby teeth.
When you got pregnant you thought you'd die, or worse: be nothing but a mom and slowly decompose day by day, having only the nagging voices in your head to keep you company. You imagined your future life to be the slowest, most painful death anyone has ever suffered. Your dad's reaction was barely a shock to you.
Turns out the ultimate proof of your failure was actually the first person to love you unconditionally. The first person you allowed yourself to love back. You remember her scent that day in the hospital when you first got to hold her. So sweet, so perfect, so her. You remember her warmth and how for the first time ever you felt at home. You remember the universe staring at you through wide eyes – hazel like yours – and how you cried from joy, because there it was – a future. It was life itself welcoming you, gripping your hair, demanding you to be alive, to never give up. In a way, Beth gave birth to you, too.
And then Shelby took her away and disappeared for almost an entire year.
Now you've worked on being in Beth's life. You're not her mom. You're Quinn. And you're very happy with that.
Shelby and you found a way to coexist. You don't love her, but ever since you told her you know about her and Puck she's been extremely nice to you. She's good to Beth and for that you're grateful. You can tell she's really trying to be a good mom and that it has nothing to do with the fact you threatened to send Santana if she ever pulled something like an immoral (and illegal as Santana assured you) affair again.
She loves Beth almost as much as you do. It's almost enough to forgive her.
The day before Beth's first day at school you had a talk with Shelby, a speech you prepared for this occasion and which you still have memorized:
No matter how she does in school, you said, you can't show your disappointment. Encourage her to do the things she loves and help her in the subjects she's not good at. She can never, and I mean never, doubt her abilities. She can never think of herself as flawed. I want you to teach her that it's ok to make mistakes – that everybody makes plenty. Tell her that without mistakes no one would get the chance to improve. She needs to know you're there, always. And when she messes up she'll still have a home. Every time she confesses a failure – be it a bad grade or a lie she told or something that she did – I want you to tell her how much you love her.
Tell her she doesn't have to be jealous of other people's talents, because their skills don't lessen hers. Encourage her to be kind. And finally, if she's lucky enough to meet a person who enriches her life in a way she never thought possible, tell her to open her heart and her arms and her home to them – she can never be afraid to love.
Shelby gulped and nodded quietly. Then she launched forward and pulled you close. It was the only hug you ever shared.
There's a soft knock on your door and without closing your box again you tell Rachel to come in. When she sees you're occupied she starts shuffling backwards, but you pat the space next to you and she seems glad to take the invitation.
Oh god, Quinn, she looks just like you!
It's remarkable how easily Rachel does that – how she makes you grow and illuminate with just one simple sentence. You feel so light in her presence, almost safe; definitely comfortable. She's always been full of compliments for you. Admittedly, everyone has, but they never sounded right. Every kind word directed toward you had been a threat, because you knew they only ever loved your shell, not you. They loved your hair, not you. They loved your voice, sweet like honey, not you. They loved your manners and the swiftness in your step. They loved your elegance and your ability to speak when spoken to and to remain silent when ignored. They loved your divine face – the one your parents bought you years ago. Every compliment demanded for you not to change, not to grow, not to be.
With Rachel it's different. Her words are sincere. Always have been. You lashed out at her, she scolded and forgave you. Just like that. You went crazy, she gave you back your sanity. You cried, she gave you comfort. You ran to hide, she followed. You pushed her away and she always came back. She kept insisting that there's more to you than what the eye can see, and at the same time she always made sure to appreciate your beauty, too. She was your anchor to reality and she was your hope. She was your conscience, too.
Where she got the strength for that, you'll never know.
She does, you all but whisper.
Rachel scoots closer, but doesn't touch anything, even though you can see her fingers twitch in restraint.
She's just as beautiful as you are, she says quietly.
You bite your lip. No, you think. I will never be that beautiful. No one will ever even come close to Beth.
And then you remember something that you never told Rachel. Something you should have told her years ago.
You're beautiful, you simply state, without looking up (you can't). At least you manage not to blush and your voice remains steady. You don't mean it as a declaration of love and you hope she doesn't take it that way.
Back in college the first time you used that metro north ticket to visit Rachel, the first time you met as real friends with the chance to start fresh, you sat her down and you apologized for treating her the way you did. But Rachel, in her physical inability to hold a grudge, just waved you off.
Nonsense, Quinn, she shook her head. We're past that.
You couldn't offer her a proper explanation for your bullying. You couldn't even say what it really was that you did. So instead you took the easy way out and accepted her truce.
Now that you've gained some clarity, though, that's not enough anymore. You want to take it back, make her feel good about herself; make sure she knows how you really see her – that you never truly believed your own poison.
I'm sorry that I made you feel like you're not. I wanted to keep myself from thinking you might be beautiful. I didn't want to want to be your friend. I'm sorry I let it out on you.
This time you look her straight in the eyes and although you feel your bottom lip quiver dangerously, you don't cry. The truth is that you blame yourself for beating her down so badly that it drove her to think she couldn't do better than Finn – that no one else could love her. Somewhere lingering in the old Quinn's dark mind lies the thought that your pushing her into his arms led to him pushing her into that cupboard.
She always made sure you knew you were perfect. You always made sure to never return the favor (you couldn't). It would have sounded gay.
You made yourself believe that she could take it. She's strong, right? She was strong enough to stand up to you. She beat your vicious shell. That's a lot more than you could say about yourself back then.
She smiles, and she doesn't wave off your kindness this time.
Thank you, she whispers. Thank you, Quinn.