A/N: I am so sorry that it has been 4 months since my last update. Suffice it to say that I'm just now getting back into the writing groove. Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck around, and I hope you won't have to wait half as long for chapter 7.
"I thought you liked me."
Quinn felt the familiar squeeze of her chest, the tingle in her fingertips that told her it was happening, and she took a deep breath, fighting it. Down, me, she thought, and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She turned her attention back to the brunette, who was still standing next to her desk even though the rest of the class had emptied out.
Rachel's voice was small and soft, a look of confusion and regret on her face. "I mean I know I probably moved too fast, and I'm sorry, Quinn, but I don't understand why we can't talk and—"
"Because I don't want to talk," Quinn said again, for what seemed to be the hundredth time since the night at the bar. "I don't want to talk about it, at all."
"Please?" Rachel tried once more. "We can just—"
"Rachel." Quinn took another deep breath and calmed the tell-tale racing of her heart by busying herself with putting her books in her bag. She stood up, shouldering the bag, and glanced at the smaller girl.
"Go home, Rachel," Quinn said gently. "This… isn't going to work. Go home, and forget about what happened in the bar." She hesitated, and then delivered the final blow. "I have."
She left Rachel behind in the classroom, the lie still stinging her lips.
She hadn't forgotten. The memory of it was still fresh in Quinn's mind as she walked slowly through the shortcut in the park, ignoring the laughter and calls of the children playing. She dropped to a bench and closed her eyes, raising her face to the sunlight, and sighed.
Rachel. Everything about her would flood Quinn at the worst moments in the two weeks since they had gone out to the bar. Moments when she didn't want to think about her: her smile, her laughter, the way her arms had felt around Quinn. The way her lips had kissed her, gentle and inquisitive and searching. Yet intertwining recklessly with the phantom touch of Rachel was another: the harsh and exacting caress of someone Quinn never could remember. The face was grey, featureless, nothing. The monster on the bed instead of under, and the only protection was a dark closet at the end of the hall. Quinn and her family had their suspicions, but the hidden monster refused to rear his head, and Quinn (and her therapists) was grateful for it.
"I want to watch SpongeBob!"
"No, we've watched cartoons for two hours! The game is on; I don't want to miss it again."
"'toons! 'toons!"
Her pajamas were yellow. Sunny yellow, like the dress she'd worn on that day when the social worker – Quinn had forgotten her name by now, a year later – had brought her to the Lopez household. Soft and warm. Mami Lopez had pulled her blonde hair into a braided ponytail that almost reached the middle of her back, then sent her off to the living room with a smile and a kiss on her cheek. Now Quinn was listening as Santana and her brothers argued about what to watch before bed.
"Okay, okay," Papi Lopez finally broke in, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "Santana wants to watch cartoons, as does Miguel." The two-year-old grinned and kicked his feet. Papa laughed. "And Juan wants to watch the game."
"I haven't gotten to watch the games this week, and it's the playoffs!"
"Okay, okay," Papi said again. "But there's one who hasn't said what she wants to watch yet." He looked over at Quinn, sitting next to Santana, and she tensed despite his bright smile.
"And you, little Quinn, what do you want to watch on TV tonight?"
Quinn's eyes widened. Daddy usually never let her watch TV before bed. And if he had, it would be a show of his choosing, usually Veggie Tales or something meant to "make her a good little girl," he would say sternly, glaring at her until she felt as if Daddy was God Himself come to judge her. And she knew she was bad.
Papi noticed her face, an open book of wonder coupled with fear, and he sighed inwardly. Quinn had adjusted relatively well to everyone in the household… except him. It had taken a couple of months but Quinn had gradually learned that she could be a little girl that could laugh and play and talk. She also learned (thanks to Santana) all the trouble they could get into, from hiding little Miguel's toys to antagonizing the teacher in their shared class. But there were things that were harder to change about Quinn, such as the way she'd accidentally knocked her plate off the table, and when Papi had gotten up to clean the mess, the little girl had shrieked in terror and backed up against the wall, hands protectively held over her bottom.
And it was Mami Lopez who tucked Quinn into bed every night and gave her the good night kiss, minus her husband. It was tradition in the household that both Lopez parents said prayers and good nights with all their children, even Anna and Juan, who were in high school and college. But the first time Papi had entered into Quinn's bedroom with Mami, the little girl had hidden herself under the covers, shaking with fright, until Papi had excused himself. After that, only Mami was allowed into Quinn's room.
Still, Papi's eyes were kind as he looked at Quinn, waiting expectantly for her answer. She chewed her lower lip and glanced at Santana, who grinned. Quinn grinned back.
"Cartoons!"
Santana crowed with happiness and Juan let out an exasperated sigh, going off to read while muttering something about the house needing more than one TV, because at least then he could play video games. Papi switched the channel to SpongeBob and Santana settled onto the couch with Miguel on her lap, giggling with him.
But Quinn was staring at Papi, who was staring back, not saying anything. In her little seven-year-old mind, Quinn was remembering harshness, an iron hand that had descended on her often, meant to correct but never soothe. But then there was this other daddy, this daddy who swept Santana in his arms every time he came home from his practice, who laughed as even his oldest kids crowded around him for a hug. Who, each time Quinn accidentally made a mess at dinner because she was nervous and she didn't understand the loud, sometimes in Spanish, boisterous and happy talk of this family, only calmly cleaned it up and sometimes gently patted her head. The man who hovered in her doorway as Mami helped her say her prayers, but he never came in, just blew her a kiss and said goodnight before waving and going off to bed himself.
So, a year after she had joined the Lopez household, Quinn found herself climbing off the couch and padding with bare feet over to Papi. He smiled down at her, his eyes lighting up.
"Okay, mija?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, her thumb finding its way into her mouth in her anxiety. Papi reached out carefully and extracted her hand, still smiling.
He waited.
Quinn smiled back.
In seconds she was in his lap, her head resting against his broad chest, and she could feel the strong boom-boom-boom of his heart. His arms folded around her, loosely, not clutching, and Quinn smiled again, snuggling closer to him.
That night, Mami Lopez stood in the doorway and wiped away the tears on her cheeks as Papi tucked a sleeping Quinn into her bed and kissed her forehead. Her husband rejoined her and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
"I want her," his wife said simply.
The Lopez patriarch thought for a moment, then nodded.
"We'll file the papers tomorrow."
Trust. That endless enigma, something that Quinn had fought hard to maintain. Trust in her parents, in her brothers and sisters, trust in Santana. And now… Rachel? As hard as Quinn had tried to forget the time at the bar, something wouldn't let her, and she felt powerless to understand why.
"Maybe I should just talk to her," Quinn said to Santana later that night.
"And tell her what?" Santana glanced over at her sister, who was sitting at the kitchen table while she made dinner.
"I don't know. That it was too fast, that I got scared, that I…"
"That you were afraid you were going to switch again? That you have multiples? We've been over this, Quinn."
Quinn narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest and pushing against the table with her foot, tipping her chair backwards. "Yeah, I get it. No one can deal with multiples. No one can deal with someone who is damaged. No one can deal with a fuck-up."
"That's not what I meant," Santana sighed. She checked the sauce on the stove, and then sat down in the chair across from Quinn.
"But you're right. No one can deal with multiples—"
"They do it all the time, San. Dr. Jones said so. She said it's hard, but that people… people like me can have relationships."
"Because they've gone so well before, haven't they?" Santana retorted.
Quinn winced, and in an instant her sister's hand closed over hers. "I didn't mean that," Santana said quietly. "But you've been hurt so many times, Q, I don't want that for you. Not ever again."
"So you're saying that it's not the multiples they couldn't deal with… it was me."
"No. No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that the track record isn't very good, Quinn, and I don't think Rachel would be any better."
"Why not?" Quinn thumped her chair back into position and withdrew her hand from Santana's. "Why wouldn't Rachel be different? She is different, San, I can tell. I mean, she has gay dads so… okay, so that's not really the same thing as me, but… she's just… different."
Santana grinned a little. "How's she different?"
Quinn felt herself flush red and she glanced into her glass of tea, not meeting Santana's eyes. "She just… is."
It was Rachel's eyes. How could Quinn explain that to Santana, how could she tell her sister that something about Rachel's brown eyes made Quinn want to know her, in every sense of the word? Rachel was gorgeous, there was no denying that, and more than once Quinn wondered what it would be like to make love to her, to kiss her and make her sigh with happiness and need. But beyond that, Quinn couldn't explain the ease she felt around Rachel, the desire to just… tell her everything, and that unnerved her. It was as if… Rachel knew. That anything Quinn would tell her Rachel would already somehow know. And even though Quinn knew that was impossible, it still rattled her, every time Rachel would turn and glance at Quinn over her shoulder in class, a wounded look in her eyes that made Quinn want to kill whoever it was that had hurt her.
Even if it was herself.
"Uh-huh. I'm not buying it." Santana's voice broke into her sister's thoughts.
"Oh yeah?" Quinn quirked an eyebrow, a mischievous glint to her eyes. "What about Brittany?"
Then it was Santana's turn to blush, and Quinn laughed. Her sister had been out with the blonde dancer every night that week except for Thursday, when it had stormed. Quinn knew that Brittany had stayed over at their apartment one night, knew because she'd gone into the bedroom to wake her sister up as she did every morning, only to have Santana sit bolt upright in the bed, hair disheveled, no shirt, and an embarrassed look on her face. The fidgeting lump next to her under the blankets had told Quinn her sister wasn't alone, and she just smirked and shut the door.
"That's different," Santana muttered.
"How is that different?"
"It just is!" Santana slammed the pot back onto the stove a little too hard, splattering red sauce on the refrigerator. "Shit," she swore. She wiped away the mess and glowered at her sister, who was giggling. Santana shook her head and cracked a smile.
"You know how when you're sitting somewhere, like at the coffee shop, and you're near the door so that in the winter, every time someone opens the door, you get hit by this wave of cold air?" Quinn arched an eyebrow at her sister, and Santana stuck her tongue out. "Go with it, I have a point."
"Okay," Quinn said, grinning. "Go on."
"So you get hit by this cold air, and you can't do anything but sit there and wait to get warm again." Quinn nodded, and Santana turned back to the stove, pouring the sauce over the pasta and stirring.
"Brittany's that cold air. But she's warm at the same time." Santana pursed her lips, catching Quinn's amused expression. "Shut the fuck up, Quinn. I'm not a fucking poet."
"No, but you should be," Quinn laughed, holding her hands to her heart in a mock swoon. "Oh, Brittany, how do I love thee, let me count the ways… one orgasm, two orgasms…"
"Hey!" Santana reached out and tapped Quinn's forehead with her finger. "Shut up."
Quinn picked up her napkin and waved it like a flag of surrender, and Santana rolled her eyes.
"Besides, we've lost count."
"Ew! Did not want to know that." Quinn sobered up and glanced out the window; the sun was just going down and it looked like rain outside. She mentally crossed her fingers and hoped not.
"Why do you get to have someone and I don't?" she wondered aloud. "What's so wrong with me?"
Santana sighed and placed a plate of food in front of her sister then sat across from her. "There's nothing wrong with you," she pointed out, "And you know that, so don't pull that shit. Look. It's not that I don't like Rachel. I do… kind of. When she's not laughing. Or speaking. When she sings she's not so bad, if she'd sing some good shit instead of all that crap from musicals."
Quinn glared, and Santana smirked before continuing.
"I'm tired, Q," Santana admitted with a shrug. "You know my classes are kicking my ass and work is just… nuts lately with all the new patients Abrams is taking on. Brittany makes me forget all that. And I can tell that Rachel… makes you forget stuff, too."
Quinn nodded.
"But I'm worried. I mean, after what happened at the bar, you've been walking around like a ghost for two weeks. Beth has come out twice, and Sunday it wasn't even raining. "
Quinn glanced down at her plate, and Santana patted her hand. "Look at me."
Quinn met her sister's eyes.
"Q, what's Rachel going to do when she finds out about Beth? I mean, really finds out? What's she going to do when she finds out that you don't just switch to a 6 year old, but that that 6 year old gets terrified, that she sometimes has temper tantrums where all she does is scream and cry and you'd best stay out of her way because she can kick the shit out of you?"
"I get it," Quinn said through gritted teeth.
"No, you don't," Santana said. "You're not on the outside looking in like the rest of us, Quinn. I've seen you as Beth; I've seen you as Puck. I've seen you at your best and I've seen you at your holy shit oh my god what the fuck worst. I can handle it because I've had twelve years of it. But I've also seen you get crushes on people, people who have left the minute they find out that there's something different about you."
Santana paused, and then shrugged again. "Rachel's going to do the same thing. I can guarantee you. She's not going to be able to handle it."
"You don't know that," Quinn said petulantly. "She's different."
"So you say. But I think you're wrong, and I'm just trying to protect you from getting hurt yet again."
"What if I prove you wrong?" Quinn countered.
Santana took a bite of her pasta, considering this. She shook her head. "You won't."
Her sister's words rang in her ears even as Quinn waited for the rest of her class to disperse two days later, before going up to Rachel's desk and standing, awkwardly.
Rachel placed her books in her argyle backpack maddeningly slowly before standing up and turning to Quinn.
"Yes?" she queried, rather coldly, and Quinn winced.
"Walk with me?" she offered. "Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?"
"I have to catch the bus home in an hour," Rachel said as she followed Quinn out of the classroom and the building into the sunshine. "But until then, you have my full attention, though I am not altogether sure I am interested in what you have to say, especially since you said you have forgotten all—"
"I didn't forget," Quinn blurted, and Rachel stilled. Quinn took the moment as they stared at each other to notice Rachel's hair, curled in soft waves over her shoulders, and the simple white button-up shirt she wore with a black (incredibly short) skirt. It was understated, not as loud as the usual sweaters and knee-highs she wore, and Quinn found her eyes traveling from Rachel's, down to the legs that seemed impossibly long for such a short person. Quinn felt herself blush.
"Quinn?"
"I didn't forget," she said again, meeting Rachel's gaze again. "I want to, though." She caught the flicker of hurt in Rachel's eyes, and hastened to explain. "I don't like how you make me feel. But that… and everything that happened that night… it was too fast, Rachel. I know I said it was okay, but, I didn't realize until you kissed me how… not-ready I was for it."
"And you couldn't have told me this two weeks ago?" Rachel asked slowly. "I mean, Quinn, I am an adult, and though it may be surprising given my looks and my talent, I have been rejected before. I can handle it."
"That's the thing though, I'm not rejecting you."
They had reached Quinn's park, and Quinn sat on the bench, inviting Rachel to sit with her, but Rachel stood.
"You're not?"
Quinn sighed. "Rachel, how did you know?"
"How did I know what?"
"That night," Quinn started to clarify. "At the bar, when I spilled the drink, how did you know… what might have happened? I never told you, after all."
"No," Rachel shook her head. "But for one thing, I kind of have a sixth sense about these things. About a lot of things, really." Catching Quinn's look, Rachel narrowed her eyes. "It's true! It's nothing out of a horror movie or anything but I'm a little bit psychic."
"Okay," Quinn said, a slightly disbelieving tone to her voice.
"But besides that," Rachel huffed, folding her arms across her chest before her expression softened as she glanced down at Quinn. "No one has that sort of a reaction to spilling a drink unless something has happened. No one cries over spilled milk unless there's a reason, Quinn."
Quinn closed her eyes briefly, and nodded. She opened her eyes when she felt Rachel sit on the bench next to her.
"You have a reason?"
"My dad." Quinn swallowed hard, shocked at the ease with which the two words had left her lips.
"Yours and Santana's father did something to you?"
"I'm adopted, remember?" Quinn explained. "I told you that night that Santana's family adopted me when I was eight."
"I forgot, I'm sorry," Rachel said, flushing pink, and Quinn smiled a little.
"I don't expect you to remember everything. Just ninety-five percent of it," she teased, bumping Rachel's shoulder with her own until the smaller girl returned the smile.
"But… my dad. They took me away when I was 6, and then 2 years later San's family adopted me."
"Lucky them," Rachel said.
"Lucky me. But that's why…" Quinn paused.
"That's why, what?" Rachel prompted.
"It was too fast. I just really need things to go slow, but I understand if you don't… want that. Because I'm… I'm kind of damaged, Rachel."
"Aren't we all?"
"This isn't a joke, Rach."
"I wasn't making one." Rachel shifted slightly, turning on the bench to look at Quinn.
"You clearly have things in your past that… well, they affect you. Everybody does, Quinn."
"Yeah, but not as bad as I do."
"Like what?"
Quinn shook her head. "I can't… I can't tell you," she confessed.
"So you're a serial killer."
"What?" Quinn gaped. "No!"
"Drug dealer? Assassin? I know, you're a wizard, aren't you? Would you please ask Dumbledore where my letter is, I've been waiting for it since I was eleven."
"Rachel!" Quinn laughed, and Rachel smiled, moving to take Quinn's hand in hers. Quinn glanced down at it and back at Rachel, feeling warmth spread from her fingertips and up her arm at the smaller girl's touch.
"We all have issues," Rachel said seriously. "I'm not a saint, Quinn, and I'm probably not going to understand some of your issues. But I like you, I really like you."
Quinn nodded, curling her fingers around Rachel's. "I like you too, a lot."
Rachel squeezed her hand and stood up. "My bus is going to be here soon so I have to go." She leaned down and kissed Quinn's forehead. "Slow," she said with a firm nod. "We'll start by you not ignoring me in class, how's that?"
Quinn smiled, feeling a blush tint her cheeks at the fact that Rachel had kissed her again, even if it was on her forehead. "Okay."
"Okay." Rachel smiled and started to walk off, but turned around. "Seriously, tell Dumbledore I want my letter."
Quinn just laughed and waved. The entire way home, she felt as if she was walking on air, the smile only leaving her face when she told Santana about her afternoon, and her sister's mouth drew into a set, tight line.
They barely talked for the rest of the night.
The following week wasn't any better, with Quinn starting to spend time with Rachel even on days when they didn't have class, but Santana still refused to talk to her sister about it, changing the subject any time Rachel was brought up. Adding to the stress was that the week after that, New York had 3 days of the worst storms ever, and Quinn had to deal with Santana being irritated with her, as well as trying to explain to Rachel that she wasn't able to see her for three days, but not really being able to explain why. They were too early into the relationship for either of them to accuse the other of cheating, but Quinn could tell that her paltry excuse of a "stomach virus" wasn't very believable, and the guilt was almost bad enough to make her stop talking to Rachel again altogether.
Only Santana's smirk when Quinn out of frustration let it slip that Rachel was angry at her kept her determined to make it work. She didn't understand why Santana was so hell-bent on the relationship not working, but Quinn wasn't about to just lie down and let it happen. Still, she began to feel as if, little by little, the tight bond she had had with her sister, her best friend since she was six, was beginning to splinter.
Quinn's official "first date" with Rachel was at the bar again, during an open mic night that Rachel had spearheaded and was extremely excited about. Quinn sat at a table in front, just to the left of the stage, watching with a grin as Rachel bounced here and there, checking lighting and sound systems, in general annoying the bar's owners and making the other performers roll their eyes. Quinn couldn't take her eyes off her; Rachel was wearing jeans and a white tank top and it was as if every curve was accentuated by the dim lights of the bar, her brown hair illuminated by the only spotlight that shown down on the stage as she adjusted a microphone. Rachel's head raised and her gaze caught Quinn's; she smiled softly and Quinn smiled back, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her own jeans and a blue tee-shirt that seemed to fit too tightly.
Almost as if she knew – and Quinn was beginning to think that Rachel's claim about the sixth sense was right – Rachel came off the stage and over to Quinn's table, leaning down and brushing their lips together lightly. The last two weeks had seen subtle contact between the two; gentle nudges and playful pokes had given away to holding hands as they walked, Rachel kissing her palm one night when they said goodbye, Quinn kissing her cheek as they sat on the bench in the park. They hadn't had a long, lingering kiss, not like that first night in the bar, but to Quinn, Rachel's gentle pecks on her lips were enough.
Well, they had been enough. Seeing the gentle swell of Rachel's breasts against the tank top as she leaned down to kiss Quinn… well, Quinn realized that she was beginning to want more.
"You look beautiful," Rachel said quietly. "But then, you always do."
Quinn laughed. "You sure know how to woo a girl, Rachel Berry."
"Oh, is that what I've been doing?" Rachel winked. "Wooing you?"
"Well, if you weren't," Quinn said, "I'd love to see what you'd do if you actually were wooing me."
"I don't think you'd be able to handle it." Rachel stuck her tongue out, and then looked back up at the stage as the bartender whistled to get her attention. "You'll listen to me sing?"
"Of course." Quinn grasped Rachel's hand and kissed her knuckles. "You'll be the best, I know you will. Go knock 'em dead, Rach."
Rachel's voice wasn't as soaring as it had been that first night; she sang soft and muted, her eyes locked on Quinn as she did so, and Quinn couldn't help but think, watching her and listening to the song, that for Rachel, everyone else in the bar disappeared, and there was only the two of them, a question hanging in the air.
Let me raise you up
Let me be your love
May I hold you as you fall to sleep?
When the world is closing in and you can't breathe?
May I love you?
May I be your shield?
When no one can be found
May I lay you down?
The air was charged, changing as they walked down the street towards Quinn's apartment, Rachel's fingers entwined with hers. Rachel was riding high on the applause, the two standing ovations she'd received for the first song, the calls for an encore and the catcalls and whistles after the second. Quinn had been the first to her feet each time, a wide smile on her face, clapping as loudly as she could. ("Ladies don't whistle," Mami had said, so she didn't.) Now she watched Rachel with a smile, listening as the girl babbled on about her Broadway dreams, and how she wished a producer or director had been in the audience to offer a deal.
Quinn threw back her head and laughed as Rachel practically danced in the light of the street lamp, then seized her hands and pulled Quinn into an impromptu dance of their own. Rachel's eyes were sparkling, Quinn felt as if her face would split from smiling too much, and in a second her lips were on Rachel's, deep, searching. Rachel gasped softly; the sound caused her mouth to open and Quinn slipped her tongue inside, sighing when Rachel met her measure for measure. Rachel's hands reached up and fingers tangled gently in Quinn's hair, cupping her head and drawing her down, closer.
Another night, another bar. It stank of stale beer and sweat, the crappy sound system thumped bass through the run-down place and rattling the floorboards.
Santana was on the other side of the bar getting drinks with her fake i.d.; they were 18 and stupid, but no one on the outskirts of Lima would give the girls a second glance of recognition. Except the guy about six feet away, staring at Quinn until she shuffled her feet in nervousness.
"Buy you a drink?" he slurred, coming to slump against the wall next to her.
"No thanks, I'm good."
"Yeah you are, good-looking that is." Quinn rolled her eyes. "What's a girl like you doin' here all by yourself?"
"Hoping to stay that way?"
He laughed, too long and too hard, the beer mistaking Quinn's look of derision for one of lust.
"I can change your mind."
He moved in for the kiss, Quinn's eyes flashed, and with a shove the girl who was 110 pounds soaking wet had shoved the 250-pounder back so that his head thumped against the wall. His buddies laughed; Quinn shook with rage, her jaw set, and when she spoke, her voice was not her own.
"Get – off – me!"
"Quinn?"
"Go home, Rachel," she said quickly, leaning against the lamp post and trying to calm her racing heart. "Go home, now."
"No," Rachel snapped. "What the hell, Quinn? What is going on?"
"Please. Go home, please. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Quinn." Rachel's hand found her arm; Quinn shook it off with a hiss and backed up.
"Get off me!"
"Quinn, what is going on?"
"I don't want him to hurt you!" Quinn yelled, a hand fisted against her head as she struggled to maintain control against the rage welling within her.
"Who?" Rachel said, brow furrowed in confusion. "Is there someone following us?" She glanced around. "I don't see anybody… is it an ex-boyfriend?"
"No, that's not… no."
"Then who is it?"
"It's Puck," Quinn forced out through gritted teeth. "No," she mumbled to herself, struggling. "No, don't, just don't, Rachel… go home, go home."
"Who is Puck?" Rachel took a step forward; Quinn backed away hastily, wishing for once that the girl's usual persistence would just stop. "Is he a brother or an ex or, what? Quinn, I want an explanation."
"He's me," Quinn blurted out miserably, her breath hitching in a sob.
Rachel stilled her advance, a look of complete and utter incomprehension on her face.
"I don't… I don't understand."
She didn't want to do this, not here, not now, but Quinn could feel herself folding inside herself, could see the familiar haziness beginning on the periphery of her vision. She needed to get home, she needed to be alone, she needed… she needed Santana. Santana understood.
But Rachel was looking at her with confusion and a little fear, but on the edges of that was something that Quinn had only seen in her family, in her sister, in a judge who stared down at her when she was eight years old.
Concern. Care. The willingness, perhaps, to understand.
Jump, one part of Quinn said.
Stay, said the other.
She jumped.
"He's me," she mumbled. "I told you I was damaged, Rachel, but you just wouldn't believe it. Puck's a… personality. I have… more than one."
"You have… more than one… personality?" Rachel said slowly, her gaze never wavering from Quinn's.
"I have… a lot. Puck's just one. You already met Beth."
"Beth?" Quinn nodded.
"That day… that day during class when you had your panic attack. And you.. talked like a little kid?"
Quinn nodded again. "She's six."
"And Puck is…?"
"Older. Male, obviously. H-He comes out when I feel… threatened."
"I scared you?" Rachel's face went white.
"No… yes… I don't know." Quinn shook her head. "I'm just not… used to this. And just now, he… Rachel, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Oh." Rachel took a deep breath; she glanced around the busy New York night, then back at Quinn.
"I should go."
Quinn nodded, tears dotting her eyelashes. She reached out to grasp Rachel's hand; Rachel pulled away, but smiled brightly.
Too brightly.
Fake.
"I'll call you later on tonight, after I get home, okay?"
"You promise?" Quinn's voice was tiny, confused; she had the absurd thought that she actually really did sound like Beth, at that moment.
Rachel reached up then with her hand, to touch Quinn's face; Quinn flinched and her hand hovered in mid-air before it dropped.
"Yeah. I promise."
Santana said nothing to Quinn when she came into the house, despite her sister's tear-stained face. Hours later though, she stopped in front of Quinn's open bedroom door and glanced in. Shaking her head she moved inside to drape the blankets over the sleeping form of her sister, tears still shining on her cheeks. Carefully she extracted Quinn's fingers from around the cell phone clutched tightly in her hand, and placed it on the bedside table before turning off the light and going to her own room.
Quinn slept through the night.
The phone never rang.
