In reply to:

SpurBoy- I appreciate the honest opinion! As for your questions/confusion this chapter will provide a lot of the answers, so keep reading. In upcoming chapters, you'll be able to see the root cause and potential troubles in their relationship, i.e. Rachel's work, e.t.c. ... Ultimately, I'd like to keep them together, but there will be some obstacles they'll need to tackle first together or, apart. Realistically, in relation to the antidepressants, I'll confess there has been an incident with Quinn that hasn't really been addressed in their relationship yet, which may progress to a make or break… We'll see ;) – [As for any ambiguities I'll try do a little more telling and less showing.]

Also, if you guys have any further questions, tips, or even just praise, I'd love to credit you all in this section! So don't be afraid to comment/review :)

Chapter 4

Rachel P.O.V

The syrup is bitter. It sticks to the palate of your mouth and you reconsider the honey, but Quinn has the "tub" bundled up in the crook of her elbow. Apparently, she knows better.

There's a smile finely sewed onto her face, and you're happy that she's happy, if only mildly. The kitchen counter vibrates as your phone buzzes for the third time, and you glance at it. It's Jane, your agent, and for obvious reasons shouldn't be ignored. Defiantly though, your eyes follow Quinn who still hums an unrecognizable melody as though she's unable to hear the slightly intractable and self-righteous phone of yours. Against your better side of judgment, you pick up the phone to decline the call, but Quinn drops the peanut butter. It rolls onto the counter with a loud clang and her face flushes. Meanwhile, your phone's ringtone continues to plummet a confronting and unfortunate tune.

"Quinn." You say. She looks like a fish that has been thrown out of the water. Uncomfortable and dying.

"Answer it." She bites. Disgusted by the call itself, you remove yourself from the kitchen and stride in to your office. Frustration pushes you in a direction you despair to go toward.

"Hello?" You answer.

"Rachel." She cuts. You're made aware of how disappointed she is. Her voice is so sharp; you wonder if you'll bleed once this phone call is done.

"I don't know where your youthful, and entirely refreshing sense of ambition has gone but I hope you've found it."

"About that-"

"I don't care that Quinn has been sick and you, needless to say, had to take care of her all week. I don't care, Rachel, because it's no excuse to ignore important phone calls."

"I agree-" You begin, but Jane it seems, is not having any of it.

"I was considerate. Kind. Polite. I had Kurt call you instead, who told me he had a close friend of yours also call you. Can you believe it?"

"Okay-"

"Maybe, next time, I should just call Quinn." You're left silent. That was a step too far, a blow too low. Jane clears her throat and no amount of clearing, you're sure, could clear the amount of bullcrap coming out now.

"Do you have any idea how many opportune roles could've passed you by?" You heart skips a beat. "Now," She digresses "I know this phone call hasn't been nice and we both know that the prospect of having this conversation with me has been a long time coming. An event you've been trying to deflect, I'm sure, in the best possible way. But it's here." She sighs.

"Whether this is something to discuss with Quinn or not, is none of my business. But if it is, it's something that needs to happen soon." You hear papers ruffle on the other side of the phone. "I've managed to, don't ask how, convince the director to give you a couple more days to prepare something resembling a 'Rachel Berry quality' audition." You're mouth forms a giant 'O', you're not sure a 'Rachel Berry quality audition' is conceivable at this point.

"He's interested is what matters." Jane steams through. "And, it's a role that will put you in good stead for the rest of your flipping career." She takes in a quick breath. Meanwhile, you feel the knife of anxiety channel you. It edges closer, and you don't think you can deal with that sort of imminence.

"You've got until the end of this week, Rachel. A flight will be organized from Boston to New York, as you already know, it will be difficult to travel back and forth, so don't bring too little." She pauses briefly. "It's going to be an intense schedule, but this is something I know you've been waiting on for a very long time." The line sort of falls silent on both ends.

"I trust you will get back to me on this, Rachel." You don't say anything. Then, she adds almost sparingly. "Anything you may need to talk to Quinn about, perhaps now is as a good time as any."

The clock in your office seems to tick by and you refrain from counting. "We're not there." You say finally.

"Hmm?" Jane lets out.

"We're just not ready. I don't think we're there yet." You say. "-to be able to discuss this. There are so many things-"

"I hate to be the person to say it," Even though she always is. "but," you wait for it as you know you must. "Chances like this aren't just going to wait for you. They come and they go. They don't care what's happening in your personal life, whether your relationship is ready for it or not. They just arrive, ruthlessly inconsiderate and earnestly promising. Ultimately Rachel, what you choose to do is completely up to you, but I prefer, you make a decision than not make one at all."

"Okay." The air circles around you quicker and tighter. Each of you wait for the other to end the call.

Jane eventually breaks the silence. "Tell Quinn I said hi."

"I will." You reply and you hear, without pause, the phone on the other end flat-line. The panic in you rises to a climax, but fortunately, you manage to breathe the stress out.

"Quinn." You call. You hear voices surfacing from the kitchen and you abandon your phone to find your wife.

Noticeably, the kitchen is now spotless clean when it hadn't been before, and the dishes put away. Quinn stands to the side on the phone, nodding incessantly, and she looks up when she hears you round the kitchen counter. Wordlessly, she busies herself with the phone wire, wrapping it around her finger and then, doing the opposite. You observe she's not wearing her ring and you attempt to recall whether she had been wearing it during breakfast. Before you come to a conclusion, Quinn's phone call picks up pace suddenly and within seconds she's already exchanging a goodbye before you can decipher who it is she's talking to.

"Rachel." She smiles as she reconnects the phone to its port.

"Who was it?" You ask. Quinn shrugs, sliding herself across the tiles towards you. She reaches into your pockets, empty, and pulls you into a backward embrace.

"Was it Genevieve?" Quinn's quick to shake her head.

"No." She says. "It was Shelby."

"Oh."

"Was nothing really." Quinn admits, tugging at some fluff caught in her blonde curl.

"Did you talk to Beth?" You feel Quinn abandon the embrace to sit on the kitchen stool. She still looks flushed.

"Yes. She's good." She answers, and you know not to press any further. Not that she wouldn't tell you, you'd just prefer Quinn to go see Dr Beckwith in a good mood than not.

As you approach the car to leave for the appointment, Quinn stops to examine her dress and you hover in case of something, but she snaps her heavy gaze toward you. Her hazel eyes penetrate yours, and you wish you could just tell her about your job opportunity. Not yet, you promise yourself, not at least until you're sure she's ready. When you feel the car dip beneath with you with Quinn's added weight, you're finally unafraid to relax. She sits by your side, exceeding any expectations you have, and you show your appreciation when you reach for her hand. She squeezes it. "Love you." She whispers. You start the car, adjusting the rearview mirror, observing the side mirrors, and then a final head check. "I love you too." You say as you glance at her one last time before steering out of the driveway.

The journey from the house to the clinic is short and strangely bittersweet. You're so eager to check in, you consider just grabbing Quinn and serenading her in. However, Quinn is purposefully slow as she leaves the car. She ducks behind the passenger mirror, reapplying her lip-gloss then opening the glove box to stash it back away. By the time Quinn and you finally walk into the clinic, it is abnormally deserted and Dr Beckwith is already there to meet you. The doctor smiles as she catches sight of you both.

"Quinn! Rachel!" She greets with a noncommittal wave. Sidestepping reception, the three of you wonder in to Dr Beckwith's office. You hear Quinn mutter to mainly you as you take a seat in front of Dr Beckwith's desk, "Are we even late?" It's left for a short time unanswered, but then you puff out your cheeks with a smile you're unable to contain any other way. It triggers a smile on Quinn you'd die for to see again.

"Well." Dr Beckwith surrenders. Quinn's folder sits on the doctor's desk alone, no parent, no association, separate from everything else.

"How are you feeling Quinn?"

"Better." Quinn nods. But the happiness that was there is gone.

"What about your back?" Quinn stiffens. It rings alarm bells in your mind and immediately you squeeze her hand. She doesn't relax.

"I don't see how that's relevant." She says softly. Dr Beckwith, largely unaffected, beams a warm smile that is stuck-fast.

"Depends." She says. "Does it in any way contribute to, say, your emotional state?"

Quinn shakes her head admonishingly, "No." There's a small pause. "My back is fine. It plays up some days, but others, its okay. I think stretching helps. I'm doing yoga so…"

"You used to do cheering." Dr Beckwith recalls.

"Yep." Quinn bites her lip. "I run too, if I need to do something vigorous."

"So this is a chronic thing?" The doctor unfolds her glasses from its case, and rests it on her rather roman-sized nose.

"What?"

"Your back? You experience chronic pain. "

"No." Quinn immediately affirms. "It's not severe. They say it shouldn't-If I take care of myself, it wouldn't be a problem."

"Okay." Dr Beckwith writes something down. You feel your wife fidget with your fingers. It actually hurts.

"I heard you just went through a bout of pneumonia." Beckwith continues. Quinn turns toward you briefly, but it's not accusatory. She nods in acknowledgement.

"Yes, that's true." Beckwith opens Quinn's folder and flicks through the pages. Quinn squirms against the chair and you attempt to reassure her but your voice has miraculously disappeared. "My accident." Quinn voice curls like a spring, forecasting Beckwith's forthcoming question. "Yes, it did some damage to my lungs. It just-it makes me more prone to lung infections and asthma attacks." Beckwith takes off her glasses and examines Quinn properly.

"You know Quinn, this doesn't define you." She says. "It doesn't have to. " She closes Quinn's folder. "There's so much in here to read that I don't know if it's worth your time if I were to read it right now. That, and I don't think it would be fair if I were to make a judgment based on what others have either objectively or subjectively written about you." Quinn's eyebrows furrow, you feel yourself flounder a little. What is she getting at?

"I would like to get to know you through you. Now, I know this isn't our first session but I feel there's still so much more to know. Right?" Quinn doesn't say anything.

"So Quinn," Beckwith starts as though she has just been validated, by whom you're not sure. "Why are you here?" Quinn jerks away; her posture fumbling, she rattles. Dr Beckwith's eyes are imposing, intruding and it seems, not even Quinn can parry them.

"I-I" She stutters. Quinn picks at her hand, pinching herself over and over. You feel yourself slip forward on your seat, you won't hesitate to end this session if need be.

Beckwith pushes persistently though. "Why another time this month?"

Quinn raises her eyebrow; you know, a reaction when all else fails. She's speechless, unable to move, talk, and blink. An awkward silence ensues and you're surprised to see Quinn's eyes beginning to gleam with tears. She has never let herself fall vulnerable in front of anyone in a position of seniority. What surprises you more though, despite the obvious affliction, she finally provides the doctor with, "Sometimes, I can't sit in the front passenger seat. I panic."

"Okay." The female doctor appreciates. "Is there a certain reason you could, say, point to as to why?"

Quinn shakes her head stiffly, very slight and discrete. You notice with concern at that moment, Quinn's sudden shift in demeanor. Her shoulders are pitched forward and sitting upward beyond the height than what it is meant. You can almost sniff how high-strung she is at this point.

"That's perfectly normal, Quinn." Beckwith shares. "It will be something we'll definitely work on. I don't want to do too much today, but, this is something you could do at home. How about sitting in the front passenger seat of the car whilst it's stationery and practicing dispelling any anxiety from there first? I always find listening to calming music helps, even the sounds of waves. All great options."

You glance at the pamphlet Dr Beckwith slides across the table. Quinn makes no move to retrieve it, so you do, tucking it away safely in your purse. "Then we'll start introducing variables later on and see what could be triggering your anxiety." She smiles an astoundingly prudent smile.

How does that sound?" Quinn clears her throat, her hazel eyes hardening. Her tears, astonishingly, are dried and therefore absent. As quickly as she had faltered her facade, you watch her rebuild it. A front comprised of determination and fundamental distance.

"Do you have anything else you would like to tell me Quinn?"

Quinn tugs at your hand, pressing a thin grimace on her lips as she swivels on her chair to look at you. As rude and socially obnoxious the gesture probably is from the point of view of Dr Beckwith of course, it's a little endearing to say the least. Quinn says in a low beckoning voice; her attention directly on your conscience. "I have something to say." It occurs to you in an inexplicable moment of realization, that this is the confession she promised. Albeit, you hadn't expected her to pick this time to come out with it. But nonetheless, you're undeniably thrilled that it's happening at all this soon.

"I know you've been wanting…"She starts. Involuntarily, your fingers lace around Quinn's as she drops her gaze to the floor. "And I keep putting it off saying that we should wait till August so it will coincide with our anniversary. But, it's a lie." She looks toward you, worried. Yet, biting her lip, she ploughs through with what you assume remains thereof your encouraging expression. "I mean, that would be nice, but after Beth-" She pauses briefly, hesitatingly. "I don't know if I can do it again." You nod robotically at that- at that kind of confirmation you are all of the sudden dreading. You release a shaky breath and instantaneously comprehend an unidentifiable wash of emotion befalling you. You can't explain it, the tears that appear in your eyes. Like an unpredictable downfall of spattered rain pelting from the slight grey of the clouds, it takes over the world below. A baby, a family you tried to not want so bad, explicitly apparent and in full view of your wife who herself couldn't reconcile with just yet. It's devastating, the inability to discontinue your display of heartache when it shouldn't mean so much. When it shouldn't be this important to you, but is.

You can see Quinn begin to panic and Dr Beckwith, somewhat encumbered with what has just happened, freezes behind the protection of her desk. But there are so many things, at this point, that are too out of your control for you to be able to remedy anything at all. You feel the ground shake, an earth-shattering illusion striking this office, your composure, and you're left with no balance.

"Rachel." She says. "I'm sorry." You don't remember how or when, but Quinn's hands are suddenly out of your possession and she's standing up from her chair. An abrupt escalation in what seemed to be earlier on, a calm consultation. She's trembling so hard that you can practically hear it and you're sure it's the case because she fumbles to push her chair away.

"Quinn." Dr Beckwith says tightly as Quinn edges toward the door. Your legs are too weak to push your body up from the chair and they impede any life-saving desire to help your wife. So you watch, in some ridiculous state of paralysis, as she turns to look at you mournfully, her eyes tragic like the time of her accident- and it frightens you, this scale of pain.

"Rachel." The female doctor calls softly. Quinn leaves; the door is closed shut behind her- it's before anything more can be done or undone. In sheer desperation, you wait for the tiny possibility that the door reopens with her presence. It doesn't.

"Rachel." Beckwith repeats but in such a tone that is harshly awakening. You glance down. Quinn's taken the keys from your hand. She has left, and possibly, with the car.

...

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