Chapter 7
Author's Note (I recommend you read this):
This is a Faberry fanfic. A few good points are being made in reviews and most are addressed in this chapter. I didn't want to be too rushed into revealing all the reasons for the decisions being made (in the previous chapter), as some of which, play an important role in this narrative, and would undermine the concept of suspense/mystery. But I do try to ensure that everything I elect to write or don't write is purposeful and meaningful to the progression of the story. Either way, you'll see what I mean when you read the chapter.
Also, there are some concerns in relation to the toxicity of Quinn and Rachel's relationship. Understandably, they each have their issues- Quinn's being at the forefront thus far. But as for the direct affect it has on the both of them and their future together, in all honesty, I'm not quite sure. Whatever it is, I'm attempting to convey it in the most realistic/organic manner possible, which means, ensuring they concur with their personalities as well. But I appreciate the concern, because, I'm a little anxious too. How many obstacles can a couple face before their relationship is irreparable? Hopefully? An infinite amount. But it may not be the case. We'll just have to remind ourselves that- in writing a story of self-discovery; there will be revelations that the readers experience, but also, invariably the exact identical revelations having to be experienced by the author first.
Just so you know, I have my fingers crossed the story arrives at the conclusion we all hope for, that is, Faberry will inevitably come though.
Thank you for all the reviews! I cannot express how important they are to my writing! - Unless of course, I have already done so above.
...
Quinn's P.O.V
A stray torrent of wind barrages your face. Your body so chilled it cures any external feelings that linger. The road in front of you is limited - but your imagined path, infinite, extends outwardly for miles. For this reason, you believe you can run for eternity. The spin of the planet has stilled and the vertigo you would experience thereafter, silences. There are no earth-shattering tremors to tip you off balance here, no collapsing buildings or bridges to impede your sullen progress across things. There are no disillusioned capacities obstructing your loosely construed views. Contrastingly, amongst all these non-offerings, the grandest gesture is time itself - bearing no relevance in this adrenaline-inspired sprint.
It takes you places, your feet. Since a child, they have been the means to a freedom, independence and an autonomy you could only hope for. They were the measures of your success in every sense of the word. Your feet, having led you into dancing, athletics, and cheering, and the trophies that resulted, to now, when those things are no longer as present as they once were, work to institute a place of reverence. A deep, blissful, understanding of oneself - to bare the passage to the core so that you may see yourself. These shy moments, fleeting and perpetually evasive, are the clarity your life so often seeks. In the same way that Rachel has her singing, your feet are the source of your most prized release. And of which, lead you here, standing at the crossroads of yet another suburb - these two marvelous extensions of the body, side by side, arrive at a stop.
It's a miracle your knees don't quake, or that they even just give out completely. Maybe, it will hit you later with a sudden gust of strong wind, bearing a potential, you're sure, to blow you off your feet. Like a highly effective predator probably, it will exercise patience, but you're not a person to sit around and wait. The second you swivel around to face the other way, your feet are kicking up a whole other storm of dirt in its wake.
The house is soundless upon your return, not that you had expected anyone to be there. Rachel is working on her audition, and although this level of separation hurts, it's where you prefer her to be given the circumstances. You leave your muddied sneakers at the door and pull yourself up the stairs. A cool bath to soothe your already aching muscles sounds more than adequate, and is entirely routine. Still, you're properly surprised at the burn of the freezing water rushing over your skin. Reaching out at the sides of bathtub in a death-like grip, is the length you take to prevent launching yourself from out of the tub. With gritted teeth, you endure the wash of ice inundating your body. Your voice hums during, circulating the room as though it were the buzzing of a bee, but its bittersweet in its ability to narrate your beating heart. Everything slows, the bath taking its time to turn your skin blue and a little longer to numb the ache of your body.
In a sudden burst of energy you propel yourself up, doing a wild dance-like leap out of the tub and onto, thankfully, a well-placed mat. As soon as you've found your footing, your hand nimbly twists the knob of the tap on the bathtub's edge to sever the water supply, and you unplug the drain. An insurmountable wave of uncontrollable shivers overcome you, and justifiably, you don't stick around to watch the water be washed down. Snatching the towel off the rack, and gathering your clothes from the stand nearby, you race to the hearth in the living room.
The curtains are drawn as usual, and the fire there is appreciatively still burning. In the warmth of the generated heat, you dry yourself quickly, the red flame flickering bright shadows over the white tiles. It's a little beautiful this house actually, you muse, staring at the lavish walls and its print. Although, such nice things have never been a luxury for you - the Fabray house, your birthright, was if not more exceptional. A chandelier at every lifted ceiling, 10 feet doorways and looming entryways symbolizing every passage, you imagined it used to house giants. The staircase, spiraling endlessly upward under the gaze of a golden painted ceiling, was in that regard too, without a doubt, one of the Fabray's house many greatest assets. But in your eyes, the staircase was only to be an instrument of Fabray law. How many times had you fallen, not on your own accord, and the non-carpeted stone-like marble dared been there to catch your fall? How often had it been the place of time out, and several spankings? A place of which, punishment was to be enforced and occasionally, executed. You recall, in the rare event, of spending hours that lapsed into a day, slumping over the steps and waiting for your father's return to deal out your sentence. It was an incredibly serious predicament to be in, no member was spared its licensed wrath, not even your mother who had spent three days tied to the bannister no less. You're certain too, when your grandfather had still owned the household, your father had spent his time there also. Where else could such creative wickedness be so deeply instilled, without the consent of generations of course?
Wrapped in a thick leather coat, and underneath the longest dress you could find – your dancer legs model Rachel's knitted knee-high socks, which, just seem to end at your shins. There's a little pang that travels down your back when you eventually bend down to fit on a pair of heels. It's ignorable enough that you manage to perform a brisk walk into the kitchen for your wallet and phone soon afterward. In one final check of the living room, to ascertain everything had been put away since getting changed and your towel wasn't in fact still slung across the sofa, you slip past the front door in a hurry.
The cab is already waiting for you on the opposite side of the road, and you traipse toward it. Your footsteps are loud in the dead of night, echoing through the dense neighborhood as your approach the stationary Sudan. Picking up your long dress, you attempt to open the car door, but your phone ducks out from your reach. Reflexively, you throw your body against the side of the car to catch it at your belly, but the phone teeters haphazardly towards the ground below. The car creaks and the driver exits the vehicle. He edges around the car as you finally manage to grab your phone. He doesn't question why you choose to sit in the back instead of the front; wordlessly opening the door you intended.
"Thank you." He shrugs, and it occurs to you during an abrupt assessment, that he may not be a native English speaker as you would have presumed. He waits for you to settle before closing the door after you. The seat is harder than you expect and the belt, for a frightening second, is nowhere to be seen.
He hunkers down behind the wheel; the car dipping lower toward the ground with his weight and you can't take your eyes away from his scraggly beard. You're somewhat quite fond. Surprisingly, he reminds you of Joe from McKinley, but much rounder. His dark, wildly unkempt hair, though short up top and allowed to grow from the chin, makes the Jesus lookalike seem a little older and mature. It puts an involuntary wistful smile on your face, the likes of which the driver acknowledges with a polite nod. You would never confess, but you miss the friendship that had transpired back then in your senior year. Joe was perhaps, one of the only men that had ever really shown a deep level of respect for your dignity and religion, unlike those before him. That kind of sensitivity, more importantly, almost didn't exist in yourself.
"Ms Berry-Fabray." He addresses in a tone that is monotonous and dry.
"Please, it's Lucy." You correct. He dips his head in a sign of affirmation.
"Your destination is 'The Hawthorne'?" His voice is surprisingly very deep, and accented.
"Yes." You don't hear him turn the engine on, but the radio memorably commences a robust melody and the car swerves around suddenly. You watch the lights pass you by in a blur, wondering at what splash of color you would end up stopping at.
…
Santana is waiting at the curb, and as though Russian roulette, the cab slows to a grinding halt in front of a red-lighted building. A little car sick, you burst out of the vehicle toward the pavement. Your friend isn't afraid to stare as you keel over to dry heave, your hand gripping the car door for support. Nothing substantial comes out, and you straighten yourself, hearing a click in your back as you do so.
"Are you okay?" A voice asks from behind. The cab driver stands a bit too close for comfort, but you think nothing of it. "Was it my driving?" He asks.
"No. No." You repeat. A bitter thought passes though your mind; it's a lie of course. No, I'm just pregnant.
"Just thank you." Unzipping your wallet, your hand shakily conveys the cash owing. He takes it, clasping his hands over your trembling one to steady it.
"I'll try drive slower, if I do see you again." He offers sympathetically.
"Nice try, pervert." Santana bites. He lets go immediately, spooked by her apparent association with you.
He steps back, but pauses apprehensively to defend himself. "I wasn't trying anything." Santana's eyes narrow skeptically.
"What's your name, grandpa?" The lines between his eyebrows deepen.
"Santana." You interrupt. She grabs you away from him, gripping you close toward her.
He glances at the sight briefly. Then, "Antonio." He mutters.
"Well listen up Mario." She nips snidely. "You won't be seeing her again. I'll be the one to drive her home, thank you very much." Santana tugs at your coat, and suddenly you're being pulled away.
When Santana shoves you roughly onto the lounge seat of the chosen bar that your teeth chatter, you can't help but feel a bit mad.
"Hey." Your voice splinters.
"Hey yourself." Santana drawls. "You should be more careful." The waitress arrives at your table, and at one glance of your friend's death-like stare, she quickly moves on to another guest.
"That wasn't necessary." You say. She waves the sentiment off indignantly as she takes out her phone and slides it across the table.
"What?"
She shrugs. "Check my caller history."
"Just tell me what it is." You push her phone away from you. A few people busy themselves around the table and you shake off your coat. It collapses behind your back.
She bites her lip uncharacteristically, before saying, "Rachel called me."
"Tells me she's going to New York and you're staying here." You don't say anything. Santana frowns speculatively.
"You know there's no way she's just going to let me leave and go with her." You disclose in between Santana's mute shots in the dark.
"You don't know that." She says sharply.
"Yes, I do." You maintain. "Beth is here, and she knows how important that girl is to me. She knows that I can't just up and leave at a moment's notice, especially when Beth was the reason I transferred out of Yale and came here in the first place."
"But there's a difference now, Quinn." Santana licks her lips, leaning forward to smoothen her tone. "Beth isn't ill anymore."
You scoff. "It can still come back." The very prospect of that happening though, is like letting a live canon loose inside of your chest.
"You can't just live your life here in constant fear of it coming back." She quips, her soft black hair, you notice, is tinged with brown highlights that shine in the bar's lighting. It reminds you of the subtle but significant impact that Beth has had on you.
"I owe Beth my life." You tell her despondently.
"And what about Rachel?" She hammers. "Don't you think you owe her something? She is your wife, after all." Your heart skips a beat.
"I'm not going to stay here forever, Santana." Your mind reels for a viable explanation. "When we're ready, we'll move permanently to New York."
"It sounds nice when you put it like that, Q. But, when are you going to be ready?" She contests. "Are you just going to stay here until there's finally a cure for cancer?"
You feel your face flush and your body stiffen. "I'm not doing this, Santana." You stipulate slowly. "I didn't come here to be lectured."
She chooses to remain blatantly ignorant. "What are you really waiting for Quinn?" She renders, with a shrug. "Because, I know you don't have another kidney to give her." Something snaps within you.
"Stop it!" You shout, smacking your wallet down onto the table. It is entirely uncontrollable, the wave of anger that overcomes you. With Beth's face burned at the back of your eyelids, you tell Santana the only thing you can without losing it. "It's my degree, okay? Until I finish my medical degree, I'll be out of here."
"That's bullshit." Santana slams.
Your palm connects to the table. It shudders. "You know what's bullshit? You luring me here under the pretense of 'catching up' from one friend to another. That's what's bullshit!"
Santana blanches, falling back onto her seat. Distantly, you're aware of other people's attention on the both of you, and it's demeaning.
"You're right." She concedes, color slowly returning to her face. "That was complete bullshit." Her voice is non-committal. "But it's not like there were any other ways to get you to see me."
You bolt upright, standing on your feet. "I'm going home." Your hands snappishly grapple for purchase over your wallet and coat.
"If Rachel goes to New York, there won't be a home to go to." Santana asserts.
"Bye Santana."
"Admit it." She demands as you walk away. "You're here for your father." You push the door open and leave.
…
The crisp, night air collides into you full force. You stumble, the hair on your bare arms pricking.
"Ow." It hurts. Nothing prepares you for the sting of this cold front.
Your coat lies limply in your possession, and isn't anything but a pathetic reminder of superficial protection. You want to surrender to the torment, so you go without.
The subway is the only alternative feasible - shouldn't compromise any remaining shred of dignity that matters that is. With your luck though, the train comes delayed and extraordinarily compact. You have to fight your way in so that you don't arrive home the next day.
The claustrophobia almost kills you. You're admittedly incapacitated, with an ever-soaring heart rate and an impressive production of tears taking control over your body, there's no escape or respite. When the tube pulls up at your stop, you slip out and blindly falter toward the nearest trashcan. A group of teenagers observe in disgust, as you retch into it. With no one there to hold your hair back, it gets covered in whatever it is that is being expelled. You realize, startlingly, you're terribly alone with a two-mile walk ahead of you. The revelation itself is more sickening than being sick.
Retreating away from the trashcan, there's so many ways, you feel that you can just give in to your misery. Sinking down to your knees and bowing your forehead onto the cold slab of concrete of the platform floor, for instance, sounds credible. Or pummeling the wall with you bare fists over a coarse surface is just as equitable. But it's the thought of having chosen your father over your wife; you don't believe there is anything out there that you can possibly do to remedy yourself.
Who are you? What have you become? The world you thought you understood well, spiraling out of your comprehension.
The phone vibrates suddenly in your hand, and it wakes you from the limbo-like state. Glancing down, you squint at the text from Santana.
'You owe it to her to tell her the truth.'
It interrupts your self-pitiful reflection, and you snap your gaze away to settle your thoughts. On cue, the group of teenagers from earlier abruptly break out into laughter. One girl takes a swig from a bottle of liquor and hurls it at the ground; shattering it into countless pieces. Her peers cheer in triumph, rewarding the girl with a drunken dance along the yellow line of the platform. She follows.
"Fuck him." She says. "Fuck them all."
"Yo sister. " A tall brazen young man approaches her dangerously near the edge. "Fuck 'em parents too."
The group laugh, there voices ringing out into the cold night, and you know you should be making your way back home. But…
"Hey kids." Your voice sounds pathetic and hoarse, but you feel increasingly confident. Ironically, it's when you're about to tell some wasted kids off.
"Fuck you too." The girl burps. The rest of them snicker, you notice now, others holding their own bottles as well.
"Go home. I've been there." You divulge. "Done that. It's not as great as you think." You say.
"What a fucking sissy!" The tall boy drones. The girl quirks an eyebrow at him. "Are you gonna call the cops?" He mocks, and you madden, just a little.
"Go home." You repeat. "Regret your stupidity, and stand to live another day."
"What are you, our mom?" Another voice pipes up from the back, but the tall boy shoves him hard that he trips over.
"Shut the fuck up Frogbert." He slanders, as you step forward at the quickly escalating situation. "I'm talking, and if this woman thinks she can butt her nose into our business I will deal with it."
He points at you with surprising accuracy. "You don't leave us now, you're going to be fucked." The girl beside him jumps, paling drastically.
"Jonathan." She mumbles.
"No. No. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" He whirls on her, his eyes dangerously glowing. "You shut it." He spits.
He picks up his liquor and aims it at you. "You wanna stay for the show, huh?" He strides toward you, and reaches a height that is a good few inches above you.
"Not until you go home." You persist. He laughs mechanically, his jaw extending outward like there are working gears inside. It's mildly disturbing, this guy's resolve.
Hence it doesn't come as a shock when he swings at you, and you immediately duck, barely missing his fist. With a quick hand, you latch onto his nose, twisting until he finally drops the liquor and cries out. You feel the wet liquid penetrate Rachel's socks.
"I've dealt with boys like you." You say, releasing your grip on his nose. He stumbles back with a shock on his face that cannot be missed, and you put his emotional instability down to the excessive consumption of alcohol. "Go home." You warn, and he staggers around. To face his friends punily; they all stand with their mouth agape.
"Come on." He snaps woundedly, obviously not liking what he saw. In a sudden flurry of movement, they follow his lead away from the platform. The girl, however, remains defiantly still where she is.
"Thank you." She states, once they had effectively nicked off.
You smile tiredly. "Fuck them." You say.
She laughs wholesomely, her hands flailing out to the sides to keep her steady. "You're cool." She concedes, the compliment warms you.
Her balance wavers as she steps into the light and you see her more clearly than you had before. She reminds you of your youth, and perhaps, what could've been. "You should go home." You recite ruefully.
She bats her eyelashes at that. "And you should put your coat on." It sparks a reaction that you can't deny and you obey without hesitation, picking it up off the ground from where you had dropped it and sliding it around your shoulders.
She grins faintly before resuming into a shaky stroll, of which, you later mirror with better control.
...
The black night crowns above you.
For the first time in so long you follow your own advice. "I'll be going home too." You whisper. No one is there to catch your words but yourself.
