A/N- Sorry this took so long to update. This was hardest chapter I had to write yet and its still not finished, so I split it up again. Any guesses on who the last objective is? Read on to find out and hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer - I don't own the characters only their thoughts and actions.
Objective 5
You don't know how long it takes you to reach the warehouse. Your mind has become completely numb from the events of last night and instead of formulating some sort of plan to handle the situation you are in, you find your brain slipping slowly into the acceptance phase. You tried to keep Kristen safe and alive. You did what you thought was best in order to make sure your fourth objective would not be completed. God, you locked yourself in your freaking house for a whole week with barely any contact to the outside world, and yet you still managed to be a partial cause in the poor girl's death. Memories of your argument with the three boys last night and pictures of Kristen's burning body flash through your brain and will not leave, no matter how hard you try.
You walk quickly through the chamber of the warehouse and into the objectives room. You don't even look at the man behind the desk, knowing he will be sitting there immobile and unhelpful as ever. You are on auto-pilot, your body going through the motions while your brain suffers through agonizing thoughts of the four deaths you have been responsible for. As you walk to your podium, you notice that there are far less victims in the room with you. You don't know if it's because it is mid-morning instead of late at night when you usually are there. Or maybe it's because some of the other people have finished their objectives and have been freed from this crazy place.
You find a brand new (or magically fixed) tablet on your podium. You're a bit pissed that the destruction of the other one did nothing to inhibit their control over you, but at least you got some good anger relief out of the process. You grab the headphones and place them over your ears waiting for the voice to speak.
"Welcome back Quinn Fabray. You have successfully completed objective four."
Your stomach tightens as a picture of Kristen appears on the screen along with her name written underneath. A red X is drawn through the picture as the voice continues with its preprogrammed verbiage.
"You will be responsible for the death of one more person. You will complete each objective in numerical order. After you complete each objective, you are to return to headquarters to receive your next objective. By August, you will complete all five of your objectives."
You reach down to grab the tablet off the podium already knowing what the voice will say next.
"Pick up your tablet to see your list."
The five names from your list appear on the screen with all but the last one crossed out. You try to swallow, but your throat has gone completely dry in anticipation of what is to come. A name flashes on the screen and the voice speaks.
"Objective five: Santana Lopez."
The screen on the tablet goes blank and so too does the rest of the room.
You feel a slight vibration on your left ear causing you to begrudgingly open your eyes. The vibration happens again, slightly more pronounced this time, and you see your cell phone is inches away from your face, lying on your bed. The phone buzzes once more before it stops, so you know that it was just a text message. You roll over to see what time it is and your clock reads 9:13 am. You bolt upright, definitely awake now. You left for the warehouse sometime midmorning on Sunday (at least after 10 o'clock you think), so either you went back in time or they kept you at headquarters all day yesterday and they brought you back during the night. You are leaning towards the second option, though after everything that has happened since you stepped into the warehouse, going back in time doesn't sound too far-fetched.
You pick up your phone to see a text from Rachel with a time (9:12 am) and date (Mon, July 16, 2012) confirming your guess that you spent the majority of yesterday passed out in an abandoned warehouse. What a complete waste of a day, and now you are about two weeks from your August deadline. You barely made it one week until you accidently played a part in Kristen's death. What the hell are you going to do for the next two weeks to keep…to keep her alive? And worse yet, what if there is nothing you can do? You have no idea what happened yesterday and suddenly you are hit with a rush of anxiety. You grab your phone and hit number three on your speed dial.
She picks up after three rings and you let out a sigh of relief at her voice.
"Mmm what?" she grumbles. You hear a rustling in the background and assume you woke her up from sleeping.
"Hey, I uh-" you realize you have no good explanation for why you are calling. Telling her you thought she might dead because she's on your list of objectives and everyone else on the list has died just doesn't seem like the appropriate morning conversation. "I was wondering if you've seen my sunglasses. I think I left them at your place when I came over last week." You can clearly see your sunglasses sitting on your dresser, but she doesn't need to know that.
"So you call me at the ass crack of dawn during my summer vaca for a pair of fugly sunglasses that has been missing for over a week?"
"First of all, its past nine so get over it. Second, those are my favorite pair of sunglasses, thank you. And third, I just realized that they are missing and the last time I wore them was by your pool."
"Whatever," you hear more rustling and some murmuring.
"Hi, Quinn!" Brittany is much more chipper than her girlfriend in the morning; you should have just called her.
"Hey Britt, have you seen my sunglasses?" This conversation is pointless now that you know Santana is alive and well, but since you started it you need to see it through to its conclusion.
"Yeah. You were wearing them on your head when you left San's house after our pool party." Well, at least Brittany was paying attention because that is indeed what happened.
"Oh, okay. Well, maybe I put them down somewhere and forgot…"
"Did you check on top of your dresser?"
"Um yeah, but I'll give my room a good sweep again."
"That's a good idea. It's much easier to find things when your room is clean. That's why I always have Lord Tubbington doing household chores."
"Right," you reply. Even though you know Santana is fine, you are itching to see her in person just to be 100% certain. "So are you guys doing anything tonight?"
"Let me ask. San are we doing anything tonight?"
"Hang up the phone B, let's go back to sleep," you hear Santana mumble weakly.
"I don't want to sleep."
"Then hang up the phone and let's go back to not sleeping," Santana's voice comes across louder and you can almost visualize the smirk she is giving Brittany right now.
"We'll be done not sleeping by tonight though right?" Oh good Lord, you hope so. You hear movement on the other side of the line, then Santana is back.
"Movie night at 7. My place. Don't bother me until then." The line goes dead as she hangs up on you. You groan at the thought of what your two best friends are currently doing and fall back onto your bed.
On the positive side, nothing bad happened to Santana yesterday. On the negative side, you have no clue how to assure that pattern continues. You really wish you could talk to someone about this, but who could you tell without them checking you into an insane asylum? Brittany perhaps, she would definitely believe you, but as much as you love her, you doubt she would be able to come up with any practical solutions. There really is only one person who has always been there to help you and give you advise during your worst times- Rachel. Speaking of Rachel, you look down at the phone that's still in your hand and check the text she sent you.
From Rachel: I haven't heard from you since yesterday morning when you informed me that you were indeed still alive. Were you being serious when you said you would "maybe" text me? Sorry if I am overstepping my boundaries here.
You shake your head in amusement at her message. Thankfully you have a smart phone that can put her extremely verbose messages into one bubble.
To Rachel: No worries, this is me maybe texting you back :) Sorry, I was busy with some stuff yesterday.
You hate being vague, but you don't want to straight up lie to her either. Her response is almost immediate.
From Rachel: Well, that certainly sounds like…fun?
To Rachel: Definitely not. What are you up to today?
From Rachel: My day is completely free. Vocal lessons are cancelled for the week because my instructor is on vacation. Do you have anything fun planned?
Besides trying to save your best friend from almost certain death, no you don't have much of anything planned for the day. Not like you have had a very busy summer thus far, which you are quite certain Rachel is already aware of.
To Rachel: Hmmm, I was thinking about reorganizing my bookshelf, staining the back deck, and teaching myself to knit.
From Rachel: Wow. It seems as if you already have a full day ahead of you. Your books could stand to be organized, I suggest alphabetical by author's last name or by genre.
Okay, um did she not pick up on the sarcasm in your last text? You figured teaching yourself to knit was a pretty big give away. Might as well roll with it, you think as you reply.
To Rachel: Oh yeah, that sounds like a brilliant idea! In fact, you should just come over and do it for me. :)
From Rachel: Really? Okay, that seems like a perfectly acceptable way to spend my Monday.
Wow, she really was being serious. You shake your head, knowing full well if this conversation had been done in person rather than via text she would have seen your amused face and known you were joking. You decide to clue her in before the discussion gets out of hand.
To Rachel: Seriously Rach? I was kidding. My bookshelf is plenty organized as is!
From Rachel: But I can never find anything on it!
To Rachel: I know where every book is placed; you can always just ask me. Besides, if you rearranged it, then I would never be able to find anything.
From Rachel: If you just had some sensible method of organization like any normal person, then we wouldn't be having this discussion in the first place.
To Rachel: How about we agree to disagree? In fact, let's start this over.
To Rachel: Hey Rach, what are you up to today?
You send off the two messages one right after the other without giving Rachel a chance to respond in between them. Your phone buzzes alerting you of her reply and as you open the message, it vibrates again as she sends you back two texts.
From Rachel: Fine. :(
From Rachel: I'm not busy since my vocal lessons have been canceled for the week. What about you?
To Rachel: Hanging out with my apparently OCD friend hopefully…?
From Rachel: I didn't know you befriended Miss Pillsbury over the summer. Is the age difference awkward?
You let out a laugh in your otherwise silent room at her response. It's been a while since you've had a carefree conversation with anyone and it feels extremely nice for a change.
To Rachel: Haha, you're so funny. Do you want to come over? It's been too long since we've hung out. :(
From Rachel: I completely agree. What time would you like me to come?
To Rachel: My mom's at work, so you can come whenever. Just give me like 30 minutes to shower and get ready.
From Rachel: Okay, I'll be over around 11. Or perhaps sooner so I can rearrange your bookshelf while you are in the shower…
To Rachel: No! You are not allowed near that bookshelf! I'm getting out of bed now, I'll see you soon. :D
From Rachel: Sounds good, bye!
You roll out of bed and head into your bathroom to get ready for Rachel's arrival in about an hour. As happy as you are to be back on good terms with Rachel, you can't stop thinking about Santana. You want to help her, you want to so badly, but with Kristen, all of your efforts had the opposite effect. You had been so certain that staying away from her would keep her alive, but all that did was backfire. How are you supposed to keep Santana safe when any arbitrary thing you do might end up killing her? Was there anything you even could do to keep her safe or did you literally have no control over the situation?
You briefly think that maybe you should just pack up your stuff and head to Yale early. But what if Santana becomes depressed because of this and tries to kill herself? No, she's way too bad-ass for that…isn't she? Or what if she got super pissed at you for leaving and then got drunk and dies of alcohol poisoning? Or what if while drunk she got into a fist fight with some asshole who is stronger than her and she couldn't get the razorblades out of her hair fast enough? You keep coming up with different scenarios, but they are always "what ifs." You don't know what is going to happen or how your actions will effective Santana's life expectancy. And it is this fact that leaves you crying in the shower, your tears mixing in with the hot water pouring down on your face as they slip swiftly down the drain taking your hope along with it.
You spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower because when you get out your fingers are pruney and gross. You wipe the steam off of the mirror and take in your appearance. Your eyes are slightly red around the edges from crying, but should be back to normal by the time Rachel arrives which will be in- you take a peek out of the doorway and into your room- 15 minutes. Shit, you were in the shower for a long time. You quickly dry your body and go into your room to put some clothes on.
Rachel is punctual as ever, and your doorbell rings at 10:58 while you are brushing through your still wet hair. You're a bit ticked at yourself for taking so long in the shower that you don't have time to dry your hair, but Rachel has seen your hair wet at a few pool parties glee kids have had over the summer so you really aren't too worried. You doubt she notices your appearance anyway, and you really shouldn't care either. You shouldn't care…but that doesn't mean you don't care.
You head downstairs to open the front door and are greeted with a smile and a hug. You ask Rachel if she wants anything to eat or drink as you two make your way into the living room, and she tells you that she is fine for now. She takes a seat right in the middle of your couch, so if you want to sit on it with her, you will end up being right next to her. As much as you would undoubtedly enjoy the closeness, you need to keep your brain focused and there is something about Rachel Berry's proximate distance to you that never fails to make your mind wander. You decide to sit in the chaise next to the couch. Rachel's mouth tightens at your action, but instead of commenting, she pulls her legs up on the couch and scoots closer to the end near the chaise.
The silence is suffocating and you wish you had some sort of activity prepared for you guys to do while you thought out how to best talk to Rachel about the situation you were currently in. You're at your wits end and you think that maybe Rachel can give you a different perspective, but you don't know how to bring the topic up without her being suspicious or thinking you are completely crazy. She is sitting with her legs underneath her body, her right elbow resting on the armrest, her chin settled in her hand as she stares at you, probably expecting you to tell her what you have planned. You avoid her gaze and pick at your fingernails, a longtime nervous tick that Rachel probably notices.
"Um…" you start at the exact same time as Rachel says, "So…" You both let out light laughs and you finally look over at your friend.
"Sorry, go ahead," you say gesturing at her to speak first.
"Well, I was simply going to state that I'm disappointed I didn't get here sooner to put my organizational skills to good use on your bookcase." And that right there is why you like Rachel Berry so much. You let out an audible scoff feigning irritation at her statement and immediately you are at ease. You are very much in your comfort zone during verbal disputes with Rachel. It had always been a vocal sparing match between the two of you, but your rude fights and name calling of years past has developed into intelligent disagreements laced with mutual respect for one another.
You shake your head, but choose to ignore her statement and ask her how she's been. She gives you a bright smile before diving into a long explanation of all the events that have occurred since you last saw her (ignoring your brief visit on Saturday night). You are typically quite good at listening to Rachel and are generally intrigued by almost everything she has to say, but as she rattles off about her "impromptu last minute" family trip to Toledo, you find yourself zoning out. You are still too hung up about your failed efforts with Kristen and your seemingly hopeless situation with Santana. You don't register that Rachel has finished talking until you hear your name escape from her lips and you snap your eyes towards her seeing her patiently staring back at you.
"Sorry," you bite your lip having no clue what she just said, "that sounds nice?" She shakes her head at you while smiling, and you know you have been caught.
"You could rival my fiancé with that response." Your insides cringe- either at the thought of being as dense as Finn or the way she so easily referred to him as her fiancé or perhaps both- but your face remains the same. Years of practice allows you to have complete control over your facial features.
"I'm sorry," you repeat genuinely, "Not that what you are saying isn't important, I just have a lot on my mind." You sit up straighter and lean forward to show her that she had your full attention now. "Can you please repeat the last part?" She raised her head off of the hand it was resting on and maneuvered her legs so she was sitting indian style on the couch, body positioned your direction.
"I asked if you were feeling okay," she states, concern lacing her every word. She's looking at you, not just your eyes, but also scanning your face and body, and you suddenly feel uncomfortable with the amount of attention she is giving you.
"Oh right," you give her a half smile in regards to your first failed attempt at answering her question. "I'm fine," you answer. She is still looking at you and her eyebrows furrow at your response. Everybody knows that I'm fine is the standard response for when you don't want to talk. It could really mean anything from, I'm completely devastated and heartbroken to I'm so pissed I may just rip your head off.
"You don't look fine," she replies softly. Your sophomore year self would have bitched at Rachel, telling her to back off and close up all your walls. Of course your sophomore self wouldn't have Rachel Berry sitting in your living room in the first place. You hear the words Rachel said to you at prom replay in your mind, the new Quinn, the still beautiful yet humble and inspiring. You could tell by your reaction to her statement that maybe she was right, maybe you had changed.
The two of you sit in silence as you contemplate how you want this conversation to play out. You could easily blow off her inquiry by saying you're tired and haven't been getting much sleep (both completely true). But that wouldn't get you anywhere. You needed Rachel's perspective on your predicament. Rachel, the girl who convinced you not to go through with stealing your daughter back. Rachel, the girl who convinced you return to glee when you were at two of your lowest points. Rachel, the girl who told you that you were the prettiest girl that she ever met, but that you were a lot more than that. She always seemed to know things about you that you didn't know about yourself.
"Do you believe in fate?" you asked into the silent living room. Her eyes had drifted to the pictures on the mantel as she waited for your response, so she turns her head back towards you upon hearing your voice. If she is at all surprised by the change in conversation, she does not let it show.
"After everything that has happened during my high school career, particularly senior year, I think that yes I do." She was completely serious in her answer, and you are glad she seems invested in whatever you are going to discuss.
"Have you ever wanted to change your fate?" You wish you could change many things that happened in your life. But every action has a reaction. Although you are still not fond of the memory of your first time with Puck, having a precious little daughter, even if only for the few stolen hours you got to be with her, was something you would never regret.
"Sometimes." She peels her eyes away from you and looks at the fireplace straight across the room from her. "But everything happens for a reason. If all the events that I dislike about my past did not happen, then I would not be where I am today. More importantly I feel that fate is more of an abstract idea of your future and thus I will never know what my fate will be, so how can I change that of which I know nothing about?"
"Exactly!" You state a bit too enthusiastically. She returns her attention to you; it seems as if your outburst startled her.
"Exactly what?" she asks. Okay so maybe you startled and confused her.
"How can you change something if you don't know how it is going to happen?" She opens her mouth briefly before closing it and turning back to the fireplace. You let her deliberate on her answer, curious to hear what she has to say.
"I'm not sure," she deadpans. Her voice is quiet and hollow, a tone you have never heard from her before. Immediately you feel shivers run done your spine; it's not an answer you were hoping for and her voice catches you off-guard. You wish you could see her eyes to perhaps read some emotion from them, but she is still staring straight ahead. She takes in a deep breath before letting it out slowly and turning her attention to you. She is eyeing you, but you're not sure what she is looking for. "I don't know what you want me to say," she breathes out.
You just want her to be honest, and you are pretty sure she was doing just that with her answer. You can tell by her tone and body language that Rachel is taking this conversation way more seriously than you had intended for a philosophical discussion. You don't want to put a damper on her mood, but you need something a little more, anything really, that might help you with Santana. Because right now her thoughts on the subject seem quite similar to yours. If you wanted a deeper analysis of your own thoughts you would have talked to yourself in the mirror.
"I just," you look down to your fingers fidgeting on your lap, "What if…" you keep your gaze down as you run a hand through your hair to sweep your bangs from your face. Almost instantly they fall back in front of your eyes, but it buys you some time to work out what you want to say. "Look okay," you raise your eyes from your lap and glance over to her slightly confused face. "Let's say you know what your fate will be and it's something you wouldn't want, like you end up being a movie actress and never make it on Broadway. Would you try to change that?"
"Well, I never saw myself getting into cinema, but the idea is rather intriguing and not completely unpleasant so probably not," Rachel replies thoughtfully.
Missing the point here Berry, you think but choose not to voice. "Okay then make it something worse. Imagine the most awful place you could see yourself being in twenty years." She closes her eyes and nods slightly. "Now your fairy god mother showed you your future and you know for certain that this vision is how your life will turn out." She chuckles softly. Your philosophical statements have turned into fairytales, but you could really care less right now. "Would you try to make sure that future didn't happen?"
"No," she replies almost immediately, her eyes still closed.
"What?" you are thrown completely by her answer, and the surprise in your tone has her opening her eyes to look at you.
"I wish I could, but I know I can't." You raise one eyebrow indicating for her to explain herself. "There will be so many decisions and choices that I will make that could lead me to that future. How am I to ever know which ones will lead me down that path?" You shrug as an answer because you know it is impossible to figure out which choices would get you to where you want to end up. Still, if you knew your life would end up shitty, you would at least try to avoid that possible future.
She continues, "But I think you are missing the point of fate Quinn. Your fate is like destiny. It is not something that you control or can change. It isn't something you will ever truly know. If you believe in fate, then the events in your past and the ones to come in your future were meant to be and there is nothing you can do about it."
You clench both your hands into fists, the sting in your right hand reminding you of your punch to Puckerman's face. There is nothing you can do about it. You hear her words repeat in your mind. That can't be the only answer. There is always a shade of grey between black and white, isn't there?
"What do you think happens when you die?" you ask. Your question catches both of you off guard and you aren't entirely sure where it came from, but you're curious to hear her answer anyway.
"I don't know. I suppose no one can be entirely sure until they are dead," she says with a playful smirk.
"Right. But haven't you ever wondered what happens after you die?"
"Not really." She leans back on the couch into a more comfortable position. "I mean I have imagined what my funeral would be like, how any people would be there- the ones that I loved and the ones that I hoped loved me- nothing out of the ordinary. But I haven't given much thought to anything after that. What do you think happens?" she asks with genuine curiosity.
"I'm supposed to believe in Heaven and Hell, and I think that I do, but the separation between the two isn't what intrigues me." You stare into the fire as if you are pulling your thoughts straight from its flames. "Sometimes I wonder if your souls stay there forever. Is there something beyond the after-life? Like the after-after life?" She chuckles at you and you turn your attention back to her, staring straight into her eyes. "No, honestly. Even if your soul was in a place like Heaven, wouldn't you get bored of it after a while? Would you really want to stay in one place forever?"
Sometimes you lay awake at night thinking about the world spinning on its axis. It keeps spinning on and on and on, but life doesn't continue on like that. So why would death? You wonder if anyone else thinks about these things or if you are just weird like that.
"I probably would," she replies with a wistful look on her face. "If your assumptions are true, and my soul went to a place where I could be with the ones I loved, then I would be happy." Great, she is probably imagining some place where she and Finn sing love songs each morning as they wake up, and they are joined by Blaine and Kurt for Broadway karaoke every night. Shaking the idea from your head you continue on with your train of thought.
"But when does it end? Life ends with death, but when does death end? When does your soul die? Why do they tell us all about beginnings and endings only to promise us endless happiness after death if we have done right during our life?" You are shooting out rapid fire questions that you are positive no one has the answers too.
"I can't pretend to be an expert in Christianity Quinn. But religious beliefs aside, would you even want everything to end?" she asks, taking her back off the couch and leaning towards you.
"All good things must end Rachel, it's the facts of life," you answer. She frowns for a second at your response before giving you a small smile and replying.
"But we are talking about the after-life," she says teasingly. You roll your eyes at her as you let the silence engulf you. There has to be some way to make her see your point. You are almost positive Rachel Berry can overcome any obstacle if she sets her mind to it. Unless she has the same beliefs about the situation that you are in with Santana…that no matter what you do, if it was meant to be, it will happen. But Santana can't be meant to die at 18. She hasn't become famous, or married Brittany, or taken over the world with her cunning ways. She hasn't lived yet. There is no way her life was meant to end so soon.
"What if it was Finn instead of you?" you ask abruptly, still not dropping your first subject matter.
"I'm sorry?" She was resting her head on her hands, elbows propped up on her knees, but she jolts upright at your question looking at you with confusion evident on her face. Perhaps you should be a bit clearer.
"What if you knew Finn would get hurt in a football game. What would you do?"
"I'm pretty sure Finn's football days are over," she replies with what you take to be a look of satisfied relief. You roll your eyes and respond.
"Indulge me," you challenge with one eyebrow raised. She lets out a huff of annoyance though you are sure it is just for show.
"I suppose I would ask him not to play in the game." You scoot forward a little bit in your chair; finally getting somewhere with her answers.
"So you would try to stop him from getting hurt?"
"Well yes," Rachel looks slightly put off by the question, "I don't want any of the people I love having to suffer."
"But what if, because he didn't play in the game and they lost, he punched a locker and broke his hand, thus getting hurt anyway?" She is eyeing you closely as you wait for her answer. Her posture that was completely relaxed since she got to your house has gone completely stiff, and she folds her arms in front of her chest.
"Is there a particular reason why Finn is getting hurt in these scenarios?" her tone is somewhere between defiant and accusing. Of course, everything between the two of you will always lead back to Finn.
"No," you drawl out slowly maintaining eye contact with Rachel. "I simply figured since he is your fiancé," you emphasize the word, "that he is one of the most important people in your life." She nods in agreement. "Wouldn't you want to protect him from harm?"
"Of course," she scoffs back, "but it seems that in your 'what if' scenarios," she even includes the finger quotes, "that Finn is going to get hurt no matter what." You can tell she is annoyed by what you are insinuating, but you are finally getting somewhere with her answers and can't get too concerned with her feelings on the subject right now.
"Exactly." Rachel opens her mouth to protest, but you cut her off before she can start. "Now hear me out," she shuts her mouth narrowing her eyes at you. You're not sure how long you will have before she bursts into a Berry verbal tirade. "You said that you would try to stop him from getting hurt, but what if no matter what you do, it is inevitable that he gets hurt? What would you do then?" She takes a deep breath before slowly exhaling and leveling you with a questioning look.
"I'm not quite sure what you are asking Quinn." Her voice has lost most of its surliness, but is still rather clipped.
"Would you try to save him, even if you know your attempts will be futile?"
"Of course I would," she replies forcefully turning towards the fireplace with her arms still protectively across her chest. "There is always hope that the events will turn out positively."
"But how can you save him if you don't know what will happen?" You are desperate for her to give you a different answer than when you asked her about changing fate. There has to be a way, a loop hole, some scenario in which Santana stays alive.
"Well I-" she stops and scrunches her eyebrows trying to decipher something in her brain. She looks over at you, tilts her head and smiles. "I see we have gone full circle here, Miss Fabray." You nod though it had never truly been your intention, you had kind of just been winging it the entire time. "I guess I'm not sure how I could save Finn from this hypothetical harm, but I would try everything that I could."
"And if none of the options you come up with work?" You hold your breath waiting for her answer. She has gone to staring into the fireplace, apparently it holds all the answers whether you like them or not.
"Then I would spend as much time with him as I could; savoring what we have together," Rachel answers. You slowly exhale as you put your elbows on your knees and rest your head in your hands, looking out into your living room without really seeing.
"I should have known Rachel Berry would never be a quitter," you say softly. She immediately gets off of the couch and kneels in front of you. You sit up straight so that your face isn't so close to hers. The proximity to her is causing your body temperature to rise and you hope she can't feel the heat that is no doubt radiating off your skin.
"You are not a quitter either Quinn," she says with so much conviction you almost believe her. "You have preserved through so much in your short life. Your determination to achieve your goals is one of the qualities I admire most about you." You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks so you look down to your lap to hide your face, but she lifts a hand to your chin forcing your head up to maintain eye contact. "I don't know what's going on with you and these hypothetical questions, but you know you can talk to me about anything, right?" Her focus shifts between your two eyes as she stares at you, making sure her words got through.
You nod because you're pretty sure words will not come out correctly right now. She lets go of your chin, but remains on the floor in front of you, her hands now resting on your knees. She bites her lip and you can tell she wants to say more. You lift your knee lightly to nudge her hands and she takes that as a sign to continue. She gets off her knees and takes a few steps back before sitting on the ottoman that is directly across from you.
"Is this about my wedding?" she asks softly. You begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question- you wish you could go back to the days when the Berry-Hudson wedding was your biggest worry- but when you see the seriousness on her face you cut your laughter short. This time you're the one leaning forward and reaching out to her.
"No Rachel," you take her left hand in your right. "Although I do think that you two should wait until you finish college or are at least in your twenties, like I said to you before, I do support your decision." She gives you a small smile at your admission, and it is this smile that allows you to continue. "Finn really does seem to make you happy and that's all I want for you. I just used Finn as an example because I know how much he means to you."
It hurts knowing Finn makes her happy than you ever could especially because you believe she deserves someone so much better than him, but ultimately it is her choice. As a good friend you must learn to accept that and respect her decisions. Like you've said before, being friends with Rachel is better than not having her in your life at all.
"He's not the only person I care about," she states looking slightly up at you through her eyelashes. You wish it weren't so quiet in the room because your pretty sure she can hear your heart pounding against your ribcage at that statement. That is if she is saying what you think she is saying.
"I know that." You assure her with a slight squeeze to the hand you're holding praying that the heat in your body won't cause your hand to get all sweaty.
"I would do the same if it were you Quinn." The statement is said so quietly you are unsure if Rachel even meant to say it out loud. She has her eyes locked on you, so you are pretty sure she knows you heard her. But you have no clue how to respond to that. Of course you would do the same if it was her, after all she is one of your best friends, but how do you say I would die a hundred deaths just to keep you safe because you are going to do so much more with your life than I can ever dream to accomplish and it would kill me to not let you be able to live out your dreams without sounding extremely creepy? You extract your hand from hers, trying to be discrete by fake coughing a few times, as you think of a response.
"That's um," you pick at one of your fingernails as both hands are now in your lap, "that's good to know." Rachel's posture drops slightly at your response, so you continue with what you deem an appropriate reply, "I would do the same for you too Rachel." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear before giving you a heartbreaking smile. You can tell that the heavy part of your conversation for the day is over, so you stand up from the chaise.
"I'm going to get a drink, do you want anything?" you ask. She gets up as well to put you on even ground.
"Just a hug, perhaps?" You like how she raises her inflection at the end of the statement to make it a question. Like you would ever deny her a hug. Hell, you can hardly deny this girl anything. You open your arms, and she steps into them, placing her chin on your right shoulder. You breathe in the scent of her hair, before you take a step back to distance yourself from her aura.
Rachel follows you as you make your way into the kitchen to get some water. You fill up two glasses even though she never told you if she was thirsty or not. She takes a sip of hers before setting it down and leaning against the counter. You have your glass half gone when you notice her eyeing you.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"I think you just did," you tease back with a smirk. She shoves your shoulder lightly.
"I'm sorry, but I've been dying to ask you since you greeted me at the front door," she spills. You quirk an eyebrow wondering what could possibly be on her mind. "What in the world did you do to your hand?" She points to your right hand that is currently lying flat on the counter, the large bruise even more evident than it was two days ago.
"Oh, I punched Puckerman in the face," you reply nonchalantly waiting for her reaction.
"What!" She shouts at you, mouth gaped open, eyebrows shooting up and hiding behind her bangs. "What did he do?" You smile at her response. Unlike Santana who was quick to blame you when it came down to a potential tiff between you and Rachel, Rachel automatically blames Puck and takes your side. Of course the situations are completely different, but you are happy she doesn't assume that the punching was your fault.
"Nothing too bad. Just said some things when he was drunk and I got upset so I decided to leave, then he brought up taking my virginity and I kind of lost it and hit him in the face." Rachel's face is scrunched up in anger, and she looks just like she does right before she goes on a diva rant. You can't help but to think she looks kind of cute especially because she is so tiny and there is no way she can do much physical harm to Puck like you are sure she is planning. You reach out and place a hand on her shoulder to hopefully calm her down. "He texted me the next morning and apologized, so it's really not a big deal. Which reminds me, I should probably text him back." You pull out your phone as Rachel responds.
"Not a big deal! Not a big deal, Quinn, what all did he say to you? It must have been extremely harsh for you to resort to physical violence." You finish typing up a message to Puck before you reply to Rachel.
To Puck: Sorry I took so long to get back to you and sorry about the punch. I'm free tomorrow if you want to grab coffee or something at the Lima Bean.
"You are aware that Santana and I got into a fight at the beginning of junior year right? And that was over being Head Cheerio and a boob job." You laugh at how petty you were back then.
"From what I heard, Santana started it and you were only acting out of self-defense. Besides, that was Cheerio Quinn and now you're new and improved Quinn who uses words not fists."
"Well, I can assure you I used some choice words as well. But I think the fist really got the point across." She shakes her head in amusement and fortunately decides not to push the subject any further. She reaches out and strokes her thumb softly over the bruise. You involuntarily shiver at the contact and hope she doesn't notice.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"Yeah," you smile at her, then lift your right hand into a thumbs up. "It looks a lot worse than it is." She accepts your answer with a hum as your phone buzzes alerting you of a text.
From Puck: tmrw is good 4 me. 10am?
You type out a quick reply and send it off as Rachel watches you.
To Puck: Sounds good, see you then.
You slide your phone back into your pocket and look over at your friend with a raised eyebrow.
"Speaking of Puck," she leans sideways against the countertop, "I'm assuming you heard about the girl from McKinley who passed away in the hospital after the fire?" Your heart skips a beat and you can feel your pulse racing at her question. You struggle to keep the water in your mouth and swallow it before answering.
"Where did you hear that?" You need to know what all Rachel knows about the subject. Was she aware that Kristen was the girl you were supposed to take home that night? Rachel seems a bit taken aback at your question.
"It was all over the news yesterday and in the front page of the newspaper today," she says implying that you should have already known. You nod your head, though you found out from a completely different source much sooner. "I think they are having the funeral on Sunday, but I never met the girl so I will probably pay my respects through a flower arrangement to the family or perhaps the whole glee club could send something."
The topic of conversation is making you queasy and you can almost feel beads of sweat accumulating on your forehead as your body heats up in anxiety. Rachel seems not to notice your internal anguish and continues on, "Did you know her?"
You are almost positive you are going to be sick now. You don't want to think about Kristen; in fact you want to forget the whole incident happened. But you know that it is not something you can just push to the back of your mind. You know from personal experience that avoidance and denial only leads to more problems in the long run, so you answer her honestly.
"Yeah, we had gym together one semester." You finish off your glass of water. "I have to use the restroom," you say signaling an abrupt end to the discussion. You rush into the bathroom and splash some cold water onto your face. It helps a little bit and after a few minutes you are able to calm down enough to go back out to Rachel.
You walk through the living room and into the kitchen, but find them both lacking one brunette. You head up to your room and see her in front of your bookshelf pulling Pride and Prejudice out of its place. Just seeing her trying to be sneaky and yet completely comfortable in your room puts you at ease.
"Blasphemy!" you shout as you run towards her. She shrieks at your sudden appearance dropping the book and jumping up; running to the other side of the bed to use it as a barrier.
"I should have known you would try to sneak up here and ruin my organizational method." You jump on the bed and take two steps before landing on the floor on the other side.
Rachel has already booked it out of your room, yelling back at you, "That is not organization. That is purely madness in the form of lazy shelving skills." You bolt out your door as fast as your healing legs can carry you and find she is already at the bottom of the stairs waiting for you.
"There is a method to my madness and you have no right to screw it up." You decide against chasing after her because not only are you positive she is too spritely to catch, but you are too lazy to invest more energy in this silly argument that really isn't one at all. You sit down at the top of the stairs waiting to see Rachel's next move. She grins at your defeat, knowing she won though you aren't really sure what it is that she won. Certainly not reorganizing your bookshelf, there is no way that will happen.
"So what did you have planned for us today?" She asks before taking a few cautious steps up the stairs.
"Honestly? I just wanted to see you." She smiles as she continues to slowly climb. "What do you want to do?"
"Well…" she has a mischievous smile on her face that gets you nervous for all sorts of reasons.
"No," you state before she can get it out. "You aren't allowed near my books. Besides that is like the most boring way to spend an afternoon." She finally reaches the step in front of you, but with you sitting, you have to look up to see the pout on her face.
"You're not serious are you?" you ask. She nods while biting her lip to keep from smiling.
"Fine, whatever." She literally beams at you and claps her hands before jumping past you and heading toward your room. And that is how your books went from the year in which you purchased them to alphabetical order by author's last name.