Here I am again, dear chums. Forgive the wait, but I just started a new job, and I'm still trying to get into the swing of things.

Anyway, here's Chapter 12. Enjoy! : )

I fucking hate being pitied.

It's been a month since my accident, and my range of emotion has narrowed to three feelings: frustration, anger, and despair.

This fucking wheelchair, with its stupid chrome spokes and its positively loathsome memory foam seat, is just like walking around with a fucking sandwich board on my chest that says "I'm the kid that was in a car accident". I'm so fucking tired of the looks I get from the ladies in the check-out line at HyVee. I honestly want to tell them where to shove their damn two-for-one milk cartons. I'm so fucking tired of the sad eyes I get from Matt and Blaine back at the ranch. I want to tell them that no, don't need anyone to help me reach the damn lead rope for the one millionth fucking time. And I'm so fucking tired of that hangdog expression I keep getting from Brittany and Santana, like they're going to burst into fucking tears at any moment because poor, helpless Quinn got run over by a fucking MACK truck.

But the thing I hate more than the pity is the optimism.

Rachel's the one that positively oozes it. She takes me to therapy sessions with the physical therapist Dr. Holliday recommended, Emma Pillsbury, every afternoon from noon to six o'clock, and she's constantly cheering for me every step of the way. I don't mind encouragement every once in a while; it keeps me going. What really annoys the hell out of me is the way she rushes to my side when I fall down, like I'm going to fall into the cracks between the foam mats of the therapy room or something. When I trip while I'm working the parallel bars, she's right there in my face, telling me to "just try one more time, Quinn, 'cause I know you'll get it this time". It's so sugary sweet and innocent that it makes me want to do something awful, like kick a puppy or spit in a Holy Water fountain.

And on top of all of her sweetness, Rachel gave up riding to help Shannon take care of me. When I asked why, she'd just smiled, kissed my nose, and said "I can always come back to it, Quinn. There's a wounded steer who needs me now."

Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.

For once, I want someone to be mad as hell. I want someone to throw a fit and tear down the walls. I want someone to kick and scream and tell me that the fact that I can't walk isn't fucking fair. My life went from a steady climb to the top to a fucking charity case, and I'm sick of people treating me like a damn invalid.

Today is no different. I'm at the physical therapist's studio, struggling along the metallic parallel bars and trying to get my stupid, dead legs to work. Emma's watching me closely, but she doesn't say a word. She knows that I don't respond well to other people pushing me. The way I push myself is normally enough to reach whatever goal I've set.

My personal best on the parallel bars is twelve steps. That means that, with a walker, I can make it from my bed to my bathtub. My new goal is fifteen, 'cause I'm shooting for my bed to the toilet.

But, just as soon as I hit step number thirteen, my left leg gives out, sending me crashing in a heap of limbs to the black foam mat beneath the soles of my white Nike tennis shoes. Emma is kneeling down next to the bars to see if I need any help, but before I can say no, Rachel chimes in on the other side of me.

"Don't worry, Quinn," she says calmly and cheerfully. "A little more determination and focus, and you'll be walking in no time."

Finally, my self-restraining dam breaks. My slowly simmering anger boils over, and I see red. My head whips around to look Rachel in the eye, and I can see that she is alarmed by my sudden rage. She's never seen me angry before, but she's about to get a front row seat.

"I guess you're the authority on 'determination and focus', aren't you, Rachel? After all, it must have taken a shitload of 'determination and focus' for you to fuck your way into the National Rodeo Ranks, huh?!"

I regret my words the moment they leave my mouth, but try as I might, I can't take them back. A sinking feeling settles in my chest as Rachel's beautiful brown eyes widen and fill with tears. Emma gasps at my well-placed barb and covers her mouth with her hand in shock. Rachel's lip quivers pitifully as the tears begin to fall from her eyes. I open my mouth to say something, but close it when no words come out. Rachel sniffles and takes a deep breath before addressing me again. She looks everywhere but my eyes as her voice comes out in a whisper.

"I'll tell Shannon to come and get you."

She turns on her heel and slowly makes her way to the glass door, her cream cowboy boots sinking slightly into the mats underneath her light weight.

"Rachel, wait-"

But the banging of the door tells me it's already closed behind her.

Fuck.

I know how royally I've messed up today.

I've heard it from at least three different people since the incident at Emma's this afternoon. Brittany called to tell me that Rachel was refusing to come out of her room. Santana called to tell me that she was going to make sure I have a "little accident" in my wheelchair if I didn't apologize in a big way. And Shannon called to tell me how disappointed she was in me.

I think that call sucked the most. Having Shannon disappointed in me was worse than all the anger on the planet.

Which is why, at the very moment, Rachel is on her way here to Rosalita's. She's under the impression that Santana's car, a jet black 2006 Audi TT Quattro, is stalled in the parking lot and in need of a tow. When she comes inside to find Santana, she'll be walking right into my apology. I wheel myself up the ramp Joe and Puck put in for me a week ago and settle my chair at center stage. Lauren dims the lights from her place behind the bar and flicks on the spotlight that bathes me in a warm glow. This isn't going to even come close to a fitting apology, but I hope that Rachel will let me spend the rest of today and our lives making it up to her.

Why? Because I love her. I love Rachel Barbra Berry. And I honestly can't wait to tell her.

"Santana?" I can hear Rachel calling from the doorway as the dim light of dusk pours into the desolate club. Her voice is hoarse and ragged, and I can tell she's been crying. "C'mon, Santana, I want to get back home. Will's making latkes to cheer me -"

Her words stop in her throat when she spots me. Tears fill her eyes again, and my heart breaks into a million pieces when I think about what I said to her. I can't imagine the pain I've caused her, and this little stunt is going to be like putting a Band-Aid on a muscle tear.

"Please don't leave," I choke out past the rising lump in my throat. "I'd probably have to chase you down if you do, and that'd be an embarrassing experience for all involved."

Rachel lets out a snort at my terrible attempt at a joke, but moves to sit in the single chair in front of the rickety stage. She crosses her denim covered legs and lets the toe of her cowboy boot tap impatiently on the hardwood floor. I know she wants me to get on with it, so to avoid her walking out mid-performance, I begin to sing to her in the stillness of the bar where we met.

"Let's run away from these lies.
Back to yesterday; save tonight.
I feel the sun creepin' up like 'tick-tock'
I'm tryin' to keep you in my head, but if not,
We'll just keep running from tomorrow with our lips locked.
Yeah, you've got me beggin', beggin'."

Rachel's expressive brown eyes fill with tears again, and panic starts to rise in my chest. But when she shows me that breathtaking smile that I fell in love with in this same piece of shit bar that brought us together before all the bullshit that's come into our lives, I know that I'm forgiven. I know that for now, we're even. For now, there's no more resentment between us. There's no more regret or shame between us now… There's just love. Gentle, kind, tender… love.

"Baby, please don't go.
If I wake up tomorrow, will you still be here?
I don't know.
If you feel the way I do, if you leave I'm gon' find you.
Baby, please don't go."

Tears are streaming down my face now as I gather up every ounce of strength in my body and push myself up and out of my wheelchair. Rachel, both hands over her mouth in shock as my wobbly legs support my weight, stands and gazes with pride. I smile at her and look down at my own boots positioned awkwardly beneath my torso. They might not be walking, but damn if they don't look better than they do in the chair. When I lower myself back to my wheelchair in exhaustion, Rachel climbs up on the stage and kneels down in front of me.

"One date, Quinn Fabray. You get one date to win me back. And if you do, maybe we can further negotiate our relationship."

I laugh so deeply in relief that it hurts my still-healing ribs, and pull her in for a soul-wrenching kiss. When we finally part, both due to the need for air and because Lauren coughs about six times to remind us she's there. But it's alright. We've got all the time in the world now. And I can't wait to start.