Chapter Thirty-Six

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Rachel

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we lay in our country.
love makes us a homeland.

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The atmosphere at school is different when Quinn finally makes her return. Despite her injuries, she's still wearing her Cheerios uniform, commanding attention with just her presence and the obvious short length of her hair. It's barely long enough to make the tiniest ponytail, but she hasn't bothered to try... not until she's back to her somersaults and sky splits, at least. Her sling has been gone for a few days, and she uses it only after vigorous therapy when the muscles around her shoulder are weak and tired. The two of us spent an evening learning the mechanics of the shoulder joint, taking note of the bones, muscles and ligaments involved. It's likely she'll have to have revision surgery in the future, but she's just determined to heal up enough to get back to her squad, so she can lead them to their second consecutive National title.

It's almost desperate at times. She's already secured her cheerleading and academic scholarships to Yale, but she won't put any of it in jeopardy, and she wants to go out with a bang. I don't begrudge her that. I do too. We have to win Nationals with Glee and, now that Quinn is back and relatively healed, we can start planning for Nationals. I don't want another mess-up like we had last year in New York. This year, we're going to Chicago prepared. I still rage a little when I think about how slap-dash our last foray into the Nationals' world was. How could we be in the hotel at Nationals and still be writing songs? Quinn's feelings on the matter mirror mine, which really solidifies the fact we're meant to be together forever. Ha.

Quinn is easily caught up in her classes. Santana kept her up to date on work and assignments while she was away, and it's almost as if she wasn't even gone. All she has to do is sit through an afternoon of tests and quizzes to ensure she hasn't missed any of the required testing to qualify for graduation. I have no doubt she's going to crush them - and us - all.

After a quick greeting at my locker in the morning, I don't see her until lunch. She's not in Spanish, and I can only assume it's to do with the time she's already missed. Maybe they're assessing her preparedness to slot back into class, or maybe she's being chewed out by Sue Sylvester for her hair or for her shoulder injury. Both, probably. I have no qualms she'll pull through all of it entirely unscathed. Quinn Fabray, HBIC, is tough. I, on the other hand, am faced with a dilemma. If one can call it a dilemma.

It's... something.

See, there are aspects of New York - particularly Friday night and Saturday morning - that are... hazy. Alcohol induced, of course, but there are things that are... confusing. And, as much as I want to, I don't want to bring it up to Quinn without being sure. I mean, I'm probably blowing everything out of proportion. It's just that there is a ring on my finger and I have a very grainy memory of a slurred proposal... of marriage. I spent all of the car ride on Saturday and most of Sunday trying to recall what I remember and what is just my brain dreaming up lovely but completely crazy scenarios. I haven't managed to come to any conclusions.

I find Kurt during my free period sitting on the bleachers by the football field. He usually spends it with Blaine, and I try not to read too much into the fact he's sitting alone, scribbling something in what looks like our US History textbook. As I get closer, I realise he's meticulously shading in a full-page image of the continent. Each state is a different colour; some even have coloured patterns. It must be therapeutic for him, and I absently toy with the advantages of taking up colouring to battle my sporadic bouts of anxiety and restlessness. It could prove worthwhile. Art therapy and all that.

Breathing a sigh, I approach him slowly, making sure he can hear the sound of my footsteps, in case I end up startling him. "Kurt," I say when I'm close enough.

He still startles, dropping his yellow pencil and clutching at his chest. "Rachel, honey, warn a person," he says breathlessly.

"I made a lot of noise, Kurt," I point out as I sit beside him and stare out at the green and empty field. "What are you doing out here?" I ask.

"Thinking, mainly," he says. "Hiding."

I roll my lips together. "Are things still awkward with Blaine?" I venture to ask, and his shoulders slump. Maybe 'awkward' is the wrong word. I suspect it's probably both the right and the wrong question to ask him, but maybe he needs to talk about it with someone. I know I would. I can be the soundboard he may or may not need.

"I thought Spring Break would help smooth things over," he begins; "but Blaine spent nearly all of it with his brother, telling me he doesn't get to see him nearly as often as he'd like to and I should understand why he would rather spend time with him. I mean, of course I understand, but I would have liked to spend time some with him, even if it was with his brother. It just feels as if he didn't want me around and, as much as I'm trying to understand where he's coming from, I just can't. It's not as if I cheated on him. He's acting as if I've done something so terribly wrong and, really, if he wants to break up with me, then he should just do it."

"Kurt, no," I automatically say.

"I know, Rachel," he says tiredly. "I love him; I really do, but I won't be sidelined because he can't seem to get over the fact that I may or may not attract attention from boys who aren't him."

I try to think about how I would feel if I were in Blaine's position; if Quinn were entertaining the idea of someone liking her. I just don't think the situation fits us because there is a plethora of people who like Quinn in some capacity. I do recall burning with jealousy whenever she engaged with the dopey boys, but what would it mean if it were a girl? And, how would it feel if one of those girls asked her out? I mean, I know Kurt rejected Karofsky's advances, but I'm sure I would still feel affronted if I were Blaine... because Kurt didn't tell him.

"Have you closed your eyes and put yourself in his position?" I ask, prompting him to do something similar to what he suggested to Karofsky when the two of us first visited.

Kurt stares at me for a moment, before he does close his eyes and breathe out through his nose. It lasts only a few seconds, though, and his own brand of stubbornness shines through. "No," he suddenly says. "It's obvious he doesn't trust me."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Okay," I say, giving up trying to help him. For now, at least. "Seeing as we're not getting anywhere with your relationship; let's talk about mine."

He shifts his textbook to the side and turns his body to face me. "That's the smartest thing you've said all morning," he quips. "So, how was your Spring Break?" he asks, grinning at me.

"Honestly, it was amazing," I tell him. "New York is fantastic, and Quinn is just wonderful. I can't wait until you and I are living there. We'll be able to wake up to New York City every morning, Kurt. I can't wait."

"Neither can I," he says enthusiastically, almost bouncing in his seat. "Tell me everything you did."

I don't think I could possibly tell him everything, but I do cover most of it. We gush about the Broadway shows and practically dissect the music for half an hour. It's great to be able to talk to someone about the actual shows because, as much as Quinn is a music aficionado when it comes to her piano, she spends most of the shows looking at me instead of at the stage. It's endearing, really, but this is one of the reasons I need Kurt in my life, even if we do clash from time to time. We are passionate divas, after all.

When I begin to explain Friday night, I grow warm with embarrassment. I'm not entirely sure why, but this is the first time I'm talking about the mechanics of the daily wonder that is my relationship with Quinn. I've never really given anyone details about the time we spend together, and the volume of my voice drops as I continue to speak. Kurt practically melts at the romance of it all, and I find myself turning even redder with every word I say. Quinn really is a romantic, and I'm practically swooning until I get to the part that's really stumped me.

"So, I think I may or may not be engaged to Quinn Fabray right now," I say, and Kurt's eyes widen almost comically. "I'm pretty sure I was drunk... or hungover... something, but I distinctly remember asking her to marry me, and her saying yes. There were rings involved, and the details are pretty hazy and really jumbled up because my dads were there but also not, and there was a lot of wine... but I definitely think I'm actually engaged."

Kurt waits a beat before he bursts out laughing, hysterically. "Are you being serious right now?"

"I'm being very serious," I say, producing my right hand and showing him the ring on my finger. The wrong finger for an engagement, incidentally. It doesn't actually look like an engagement ring, but it's definitely impressive, and Kurt's reaction is proof enough.

"Why is it so pretty?" he asks, eyes wide and mouth agape. "I can't stop looking at it. God, how much did it cost? I bet it cost as much as an engagement ring. Oh, my God, you're practically engaged!"

I can't help my laugh. Maybe coming to Kurt about this was the wrong idea. He's just going to fuel my disjointed memories about a proposal that I'm sure happened but couldn't really. There's no way I asked Quinn to marry me, and there's absolutely no way in hell she said yes. It was probably a joke, right? It can't have been real. I just, I can't stand the thought of Quinn knowing that I barely remember anything of Friday night beyond her ordering our main meals at the restaurant. I assume she said things to me - many, many things - and then I drank too much wine and now I can't remember the words or the reason there is a ring on my hand.

"Is it engraved?" Kurt asks.

"What?"

"The ring," he says. "Is it engraved?"

I immediately remove it, and we both dissolve into a puddle of sappy goo when our eyes land on the short inscription. "Oh, my God, I can't believe I let myself forget all of this," I grumble, suddenly feeling like the worst girlfriend in the world. I assume this gift was accompanied by Quinn's words, and I've always been a sucker for anything and everything she says or writes.

Kurt looks sympathetic, before he smiles. "I never thought I would ever say this, but I think I want a Quinn," he says.

I frown. "What?"

"I mean, this is the kind of thing people do in relationships," he says. "Probably not to this extent, because this is a little bit insane, but Quinn makes the effort, and Blaine and I just don't do that anymore. We barely plan dates and it's exhausting trying to make everything fit and get it to work. There's no..." he trails off.

"Music," I finish for him, as I slip the ring back onto my finger. It fits perfectly, and now I know why Quinn insisted we go into Tiffany's to try on rings. She needed to get my size. She's a sneaky one, my girlfriend. "I think you should talk to him about it," I tell him. "If there's one thing I've learned from my relationship with Quinn is that proper communication is key. Not talking about things... it's toxic, Kurt."

The boy blinks once, twice, and then smirks. "So, does that mean you're telling Quinn about your missing memories?"

I groan, burying my face in my hands, and he just laughs and laughs.

"I need to talk to you about something."

Quinn visibly stiffens at the sound of my words, and I want to berate myself. Of all the things with which to lead, that's definitely the wrong one. Her gaze settles on me, and I suddenly feel two feet tall. God, I am an awful girlfriend.

"It's nothing bad," I rush to say. "I mean, it kind of is, but not really." I run a hand through my hair and begin to pace the length of my room. I decided to wait until the end of the day, bypassing our time spent together during lunch and Glee, where Quinn just sat in the back and watched us with fond smiles. She held my hand while we were seated in the risers, completely nonchalant and unaffected. Kurt sent us an amused look, and I tried not to blush.

I failed, and then failed again to say anything when I drove her to physical therapy and watched Chris and her interact. They're the best of friends even though they've only had a handful of sessions together. Quinn glances at me every few minutes, smiling coyly. I think she does it to assuage my anxiety at seeing the obvious pain she's in when she does a particularly strenuous exercise. It amazes me that, while she's grimacing and tearing up, she's the one trying to spare my feelings. How much love can there possibly exist in this world, really?

She was a little grumpy after her session and she didn't say much on the drive home. I knew it was her discomfort, and her arm was tucked away in its sling. She always looks so small when she curls up in her seat, head resting against the window and her eyes closed. Her breathing is usually steady, and it took me an absurdly long time to figure out that she works very hard to keep it that way.

But, it's after dinner now and most of Quinn's tension has dissipated. I think the painkillers helped... and food. She smiles a little goofily when she eats good food. I've labelled it her tenth smile; her food smile. She's been working on her English Lit. essay for a little over an hour now, and I'm slowly unravelling. I have to tell her. I mean, I don't think she'll be mad, but I'm not looking forward to her disappointment. I've tried, and I just can't remember what happened.

Right now, she's raising her eyebrows expectantly. "What do you want to talk about?" she asks, abandoning her essay and turning in my desk chair to face me.

"Quinn," I start, and then stop. I also stop walking, licking my lips. I don't even know how to say what I need to say.

"Rachel," she prompts.

"I love you," I say.

She lets out a breathy laugh, and I find myself thankful that she hasn't abandoned the sound now that she's so far into her recovery. "I love you too, Rach."

I take a deep breath, and then the words just tumble out of my mouth. "SoIkindofdon'tactuallyrememberanythingthathappenedonFridaynightorSaturdaymorning."

Her brow furrows. "Excuse me?"

Why is she always so eloquent? Couldn't she have just said 'What' like a normal teenager? I move towards her and kneel down in front of her, taking hold of her hands and squeezing her fingers. "We drank a lot of wine on Friday," I say.

She arches an eyebrow. Honestly, do her eyebrows ever sit still? "Actually, you did."

"I did, yes," I say, giggling softly. "And I got drunk."

"And passed out."

I flush instantly. "That, I did." I press my lips together and swallow nervously. "I don't... remember much."

Her eyes narrow infinitesimally, clearly confused. It's adorable. "You don't... remember?" she asks. "What don't you remember?"

"Umm... everything?"

She releases my hands, straightening. "Everything?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "I remember... bits," I say. "And I'm a little... confused."

She blinks. "Is this why you've been somewhat restless today?" she asks.

"I have?"

"I thought it was just about being back at school," she says. "But... this is about Friday night?"

I nod. "And Saturday morning."

"What about it?"

"What happened?"

She regards me carefully. "You don't remember anything?"

I bite my bottom lip, nervous and embarrassed. "I remember getting ready for our date, and I remember flowers and the carriage and the dancing, and I remember getting to the restaurant," I tell her. "I remember the food - God, it was so good - and I remember wine. I think I'm never going to drink again, by the way." I shake my head. "The rest is somewhat a blur."

"A blur?" she echoes.

"Quinn," I breathe. "Baby, I need you to tell me something important."

"We didn't have sex," she suddenly says, and I stare at her, horrified.

Oh, my God.

"Quinn, no," I say. "I would remember that, I promise, and I thought we agreed we wouldn't be drunk when that happened?"

"Then, what are you asking me?"

My heart starts to beat that bit faster. "There's a ring on my finger, Quinn," I say; "and I distinctly remember asking you a very specific question that you definitely couldn't have answered yes to."

She frowns. "Rachel?"

"Baby, are we engaged?"

Quinn waits only a second before she bursts out laughing. Loudly. She practically doubles over, clutching at her stomach as her body shakes from the force of her laughter. Honestly, if her cheeks weren't so rosy and her eyes weren't shining so bright; I would feel affronted. But she looks glorious and I don't think I've ever been this in love before. I can feel myself falling deeper and deeper, and it amazes me that there's more of a 'love hole' into which to fall.

"Quinn," I eventually squeak, and she laughs even harder. "Quinn, it's not funny," I say. "Are we or are we not engaged?"

She sucks in a breath, and then laughs again. "Are you being serious right now?" she asks.

"Quinn."

"Rachel, we are definitely not engaged," she says, finally taking pity on me. "It was just a joke, dear. God, is that what you've been worrying about? This is hilarious."

"No, it's not," I say petulantly. "Quinn."

She slides off the desk chair and moves to kneel in front of me, her body pressed against mine in the most delightful way. "It's not an engagement ring," she says. "It isn't even on the correct finger, Rachel. It's a promise ring. I promised you so many things."

And just the sound of that makes me burst into tears. "I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so sorry. I can't remember."

"Hey, hey," she soothes, wrapping her arms around me and hugging me to her chest. "It's okay. They're just words, and I'll tell them to you plenty of times. As often as you want, okay? I promised you a forever, remember? I'll tell you every single day."

I bury my face in the crook of her neck. "Tell me right now," I murmur, miserable.

She chuckles lightly, her arms tightening around me. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

I press my lips to her skin, and breathe in her sweet smell.

"You are a symbol of faith for me," she whispers. "An angel. A messenger that it will get better; that it is getting better." Her fingers press against the small of my back, and I sag against her. "Please don't cry," she says softly. "It's not your fault you can't handle your liquor."

"But I want to remember," I grumble, pulling away to look at her face.

"Maybe it'll come to you," she offers, smiling faintly. "You'll remember."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I told you I'll tell you every day, Rachel," she says.

I breathe out. "Will you tell me about the ring?"

She leans back and takes hold of my right hand, bringing it between us. She gently plays with my fingers and twists the ring around. Her skin is warm and soft, and she's so focused on our hands. "I have one too, you know," she murmurs. "Only one of us can actually wear ours, and Coach Sylvester doesn't allow us to wear any jewellery with our uniforms, so it has to be you."

I drop my eyes to the cross hanging around her neck.

"Except for religious purposes," she adds when she notices my dropped gaze. "But, one day, I'm going to wear mine for the entire world to see, and I'll never hide you or deny you or shy away from our love ever again."

I don't even know what to say to her right now; not when she's saying words that reach right into my soul and engulf me in her love.

"The ring is a promise, Rachel," she continues, perfect and oblivious. "It's a promise to love you to the best of my ability for as long as you'll let me. It's my promise to stop running. It's my promise to stay and love you and let you love me. It's my promise for forever."

I stare at her for the longest time, mouth hanging open and tears pooling in my eyes.

She blushes under my scrutiny, ducking her head. "What?" she asks, bashful and perfectly innocent.

I lean in to kiss her, and it's all such a revelation but still something I'm sure I've always known. "It's just, well, now I know why I asked you to marry me."

Quinn is especially quiet when she gets back from her first appointment with her therapist, Dr Denise Clarke, on Tuesday. She just pulls me into her arms and holds me for the longest time as we stand in the entrance hall, before she heads upstairs and closes herself away in my bedroom. I give my Daddy a curious look, but he doesn't have anything for me other than just be there, which sends me upstairs as well, my entire body tense with concern and apprehension.

When I get to my bedroom, I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do. Quinn is sitting on my bed, her knees clutched to her chest and her eyes focused on a spot on my bedspread. She's rocking back and forth, humming to herself. Cautiously, I move towards her and sit down opposite her rigid form. She looks tense in a way that actually hurts to see. I don't try to touch her and I definitely don't say anything. I'm just going to sit here and wait. Quinn makes us wait close to fifteen minutes before her body relaxes, and another ten before she finally speaks.

"Rachel?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I'm deserving of love?"

I blink once, twice, and then nod. "Of course," I say, trying not to let the oddity of the question catch me off guard.

She looks at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen on anyone. "Rachel, tell me the truth," she practically pleads. "Do you think I'm deserving of love?"

"Of course, Quinn," I repeat.

"If that's true, then am I deserving of everything else?" she suddenly snaps, and I flinch. She doesn't seem to notice, which is good, because this seems like something she needs to get out of her system, and I'm here to take it. She's in pain, and I would rather her take it out on me than anyone else... or herself. She gets up off the bed and starts yelling at nothing in particular as she paces, frantic and borderline manic. "All the pain and the hurt and the fucking abuse! Did I deserve all of that too? Because I deserve everything, right? Everything that's ever happened to me, I had it coming! Some kind of twisted karma for being such a sucky daughter and sister and friend and girlfriend. I deserve everything for being such a fucking disappointment."

I wait, just letting it all unfold.

She looks at me, helpless. "He burned me," she says, sounding defeated and broken. "Once, when I was ten years old, he just took his cigarette and burned the inside of my arm for no other reason than I coughed too loudly while he was watching a football game."

It takes everything I have not to thunder out of my room, locate Russell Fabray and break a vase over his head. It's not fair. None of this is fair. Quinn is too soft and pure and kind and strong and wide-eyed and innocent for what this world has done to her; what that family continually does to her. She deserves better. And, I think that's where she's hung up. If she deserves all the love and kindness we show her; does it also mean she deserves everything else? I don't know how to answer that question for her.

"Did I deserve that?" she asks the room, and there are tears in her eyes. "I mean, my faith tells me everything happens for a reason. Everything in my life was always fated to happen, written as part of His plan, and I believe it. I want to believe it, but how can I? How do I just believe that when - " her voice catches on a sob, but I don't move towards her. It burns to remain still, but I know she doesn't need my comfort until she's ready for it. "Did I do something? In a past life, did I do something so terrible that this is the punishment I've been handed? Tell me, what did I do? What did I do? Tell me, just tell me, what did I do?" She's practically pleading with me, but I have nothing.

Nothing.

"Quinn," I whisper.

Her head snaps towards me, and it's as if she's seeing me for the first time. "Do I deserve it all?" she asks, and I know it's time for me to give her an answer.

"All of it, no," I say. "But love, yes."

"But how?" she asks; practically begs. "Why? Why is it different? Why am I deserving of love but not pain?"

"Baby, nobody is deserving of pain," I say, rising to my feet and moving to stand in front of her.

"Nobody?" she asks. "What about murderers and rapists and - "

"Quinn," I say, interrupting her. "Listen to me and listen well, okay?" Her eyes lift to mine, and she's hugging herself and looking so small and, God, my heart hurts. "I will tell you every single day that you deserve love and happiness and everything good. You deserve all the good in this world because you are good and true and pure and undeserving of all the bad this world has thrown at you." I take a deep breath. "But, look at you. Look at you. Do you know who you are, Quinn? Because, I do, and I see you standing right here in front of me, strong and solid and alive. Whatever you think you're deserving or not, you have survived.

"This is life, Quinn. It's the story of life. Nobody is deserving of pain, and everybody is deserving of love. You are born clear and clean. You are born empty of sin and deserving of love. That is how you are born and, unfortunately, some people are not afforded the same love throughout all their lives. This is life, Quinn. Sometimes, you luck out and sometimes you don't. I know you believe God makes no mistakes, so, yes, everything in this world must happen for a reason. I believe in fate, and I believe in destiny, and you are such a glorious, beautiful, complex person, and you are the person you are for a reason. Everything that's ever happened to you has happened for a reason and, whatever that reason is, you shouldn't care, because I don't.

"You deserve good things, Quinn, so the reason doesn't matter. The only thing that does, is that there is a reason, right? That's what you believe, isn't it? You're here, and I love you and please believe me, Quinn. Believe me when I tell you that you deserve love. You deserve all the love and happiness in the world, and I'm going to give it to you because - " I halt. "Because you're the love of my life, Quinn, and I need you, okay? I need all of you: the good, the bad, the great and the ugly. I want all of it, and all of you. So, please, believe me. Hear me. I love you. I love you in an infinity way."

She stares at me, her bottom lip trembling. "An infinity way?" she asks, her voice small and shaky.

Cautiously, I step towards her. She remains stock still, and I brave wrapping my arms around her neck. It takes a moment but she eventually relaxes into my embrace. "A forever way," I whisper.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Please don't be sorry," I say.

"I know you didn't sign up for all of this."

"I signed up for you, Quinn," I assure her; "and everything that comes with you."

She takes a deep breath. "Am I going to be okay?"

I can't help my grin, despite everything we've just discussed. "No, Quinn," I say; "you're in a relationship with me. Everything will never be okay." The chuckle I get is a far cry from the tears and the anguish of earlier, and the relief I feel is paramount.

When Quinn finally gives in to her exhaustion, I lie with her for a few more minutes, just stroking her hair and kissing her skin. She's peaceful and perfect and so tragically beautiful. I want nothing more than to sit here and watch her sleep for the rest of my life, but I know I can't. There's something I need to do. Slowly, I extricate myself from Quinn's grasp, ensure she's still comfortable and then head downstairs. I find my Daddy in the kitchen.

"I want her fired," I say, and he spins in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"That therapist," I hiss. "I don't want Quinn to see her ever again."

"Rachel - " he starts.

"No," I snap, stomping my foot, my tone fierce. "What kind of doctor would do that?"

"Do what, Sweetheart?"

"Get her to talk about things, make her feel vulnerable and lost, and then just leave her?" I ask in disbelief, my emotions getting the better of me. "She's broken, Daddy. She's beyond broken, and I won't have someone who barely knows her just opening up her wounds and not bothering to wait or help her stem the flow of pain and hurt and confusion. So, no, I don't want that woman anywhere near her again, because she comes home to me, and I have to hold her together. I have to be the one to keep her above water; to make sure she doesn't slip further and further into the dark hole in which she believes she belongs.

"I have to do that. Me, Daddy! I'm the one who holds her when this world hurts her. I'm the one who has to dry her tears and assure her that she deserves to be loved; that her parents don't matter. I'm the one who has to bring her back to the light when the darkness threatens, and I won't let some woman just pick at her without giving her the necessary tools to ensure she doesn't just fall to pieces. I do that, Daddy. Me. I'm the one who takes care of her. I'm the one who has to deal with the aftermath. Me."

Before I know it, he has me in his arms and I'm sobbing into his shirt. My body is shaking, and I can't bring myself to stop.

"She's just - she's so broken, Daddy, and I love her. I love her so much and I'm terrified, every day. I'm so scared I'm going to lose her. I'm - I'm scared I won't be enough to help her; to - to keep her with me." My tears soak his shirt and he just holds me. Just the fact that I can turn to my fathers when I fall apart gives me pause, because Quinn can't turn to her own family. She turns to me. Hell, when she was falling apart after her breakup with Finn, she was literally roaming the streets with nowhere to go and nobody to turn to. Self-imposed, I know. She could have called Santana, but even I know Santana wouldn't have offered her the kind of comfort she needed at the time.

Without even realising it, she needed me.

Eventually, my tears slow and I get a hold of myself enough to pull back and wipe at my eyes. I'm embarrassed and a little horrified. I'm also a little worried that I've revealed too much about Quinn's demons and how they affect our relationship. If I have, my Daddy says nothing. He just takes hold of my head and kisses my forehead, and then steps back.

"Help me make dinner," he says, and I do. He doesn't try to talk to me about my little breakdown. He just tells me what to do, and I chop vegetables and pass him things. It's easy and simple, and it affords me the opportunity to calm down enough to stay that way. The last thing Quinn needs is to see me distraught when -

Just, when.

We just have to get through this part, find a rhythm and learn to live with the truths of our pasts and the promises of our futures. Suddenly, I'm immensely grateful we actually haven't had sex yet. I think Quinn needs to be in the correct head space for it. We both do. When the food is ready, and I've set the table, I go upstairs to wake our blonde cheerleader. My Dad is working late tonight, so it's just the three of us.

I'm quiet as I slip into my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed. Her head is covered and she's curled into a tight little ball. "Quinn," I whisper, gently touching the protrusion that I assume is her shoulder. "Baby, it's time to wake up. Dinner's ready."

It takes her a moment but she eventually shifts, stretches and yawns, letting out the cutest mewling sound I've ever heard.

"Hey, you," I whisper, noting that her eyes are now fully open.

"Hey," she breathes, rewarding me with a tired smile. She's beautiful, even like this. Especially like this.

"Did you have a good nap?" I ask.

Instead of answering, she pouts adorably. "I'm starving."

"Good," I say; "because Daddy made your favourite."

The way her entire face lights up completely floors me and, if possible, I fall even more in love with her. "Really?" she asks, propping herself up on her elbows and looking at me dubiously.

"Would I lie to you?"

Her expression turns dangerously serious, and her gaze is intense. "No, you wouldn't," she says. "You would never lie to me. I know that."

"I actually need to tell you something," I say and, yes, she stiffens, but she keeps her eyes on me. "I remember once thinking that I would and could easily follow you into the dark, but... now I know it's me who's supposed to lead you back into the light."

She reaches out for me and I automatically shift closer, resting my arms on her chest. "Are you sure?" she asks, uncertainty in her tone. "I've been nothing but a basket case in your life since I showed up on your sidewalk."

"You're mine, Quinn, and I'm sure," I say. "I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life." I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose, getting an amused smile in response. "I want to share the light with you, Quinn," I say. "I want to share the sky and the sun and the stars with you."

She kisses my lips, deep and slow. "The stars?" she echoes.

"Yes, baby, the stars."

When Quinn decides to stand and rehearse with us during Glee, it takes everything in me not to tell her to skulk back to her corner and stay seated. Just having her twirling and laughing and enjoying the lesson shouldn't be giving me anxiety, but it does. I can tell that Santana isn't completely relaxed either and Brittany is hovering. The blonde cheerleader stands impossibly close to Quinn, even wrapping an arm around her waist from time to time.

Because Quinn isn't driving, she asked the Club if they wouldn't mind taking her to physical therapy on days when my fathers and I are busy or the Cheerios have practice. Several members jumped at the opportunity - particularly the boys - and I'm tasked with drawing up a schedule. Well, Quinn doesn't actually ask, but I do it anyway. I like drawing up timetables and making lists. We're actually the same that way.

So, Quinn is learning the choreography with us. Her movements are slow and I notice the sweat on her brow before she does. When her breathing rate rises, I hear it, and I'm tempted to shuffle closer to her, but I'm in front of the group with Finn. Even though the tall boy and I no longer see eye to eye - okay, so we've never seen eye to eye because he's so darn tall - we're almost always paired for leads. It's unfortunate how limited the talent is, sometimes.

We're in the middle of a run through of a Phil Collins classic when it happens. There's a high-pitched scream from Brittany that has me spinning around so quickly; I probably give myself whiplash. Before, I didn't quite understand why Santana was so shaken by witnessing Quinn's first fainting episode of this year. I mean, she looked genuinely traumatised by it. But I get it now. I fully understand it, and my stomach literally jumps to my throat when Quinn starts to fall. Her arms flail, reaching for something, anything, and then she just hits the ground with a thud.

The world stops and the room is silent for several beats. It's almost as if we're waiting for Quinn to get up and laugh it off, but she doesn't. It becomes painfully obvious to us all that she's not actually going to get up and it takes me another beat to get moving. I scramble towards her and drop to my knees near her head. Santana is on the other side and she looks panicked but decidedly more calm than I am. I think it's the idea that she was in a car accident that makes this more serious than the last time she collapsed.

"Quinn," I say, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her cheek. It's an intimate position, but I really don't care. "Quinn, hey, wake up. Quinn, please."

"Slap her," Santana says.

I stare at the Latina. "What?"

She shoves my hand out of the way and, somewhat unceremoniously, slaps Quinn's cheek. Once, twice, and Quinn sucks in a breath after the third one. I'm equal parts horrified and relieved, and I take Quinn's head in my hands, looking into her eyes. Her focus isn't quite there and she can't quite catch her breath.

"What do you need?" I ask, ignoring the world.

"Asthma pump," she rasps, as she tries to sit up, only for Santana to push her back down.

My head snaps up. "Get Quinn's bag," I bark, and Sam practically leaps over a chair to retrieve it. Any other day and it would be funny. Not today. Definitely not. When he hands it to me, I rummage through it, ignoring the sight of more notebooks and some of her heaviest textbooks. I find the pump in a little pouch at the bottom and fumble to get it out.

This time, when Quinn tries to sit up, Santana helps her, and between the three of us, we manage to get Quinn the required two pumps to help regulate the muscles of her lungs enough for her breathing to normalise. She offers me a sheepish smile, and I'm sorely tempted to punch her arm.

"Why do you insist on doing this to me?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Keeps life interesting."

I shake my head. "Can you get up?"

Before she can even try, there's movement to our left and the sound of a scraping chair. I bristle slightly when Finn moves towards us and scoops Quinn into his arms, lifting her as if she weighs nothing. He doesn't know. He doesn't even know he's carrying my heart in his hands. It hurts more because I know I can't to what he's currently doing. I can't carry Quinn. I can't protect her from anything, especially this. Whatever this is.

Quinn squirms in his arms but eventually relents, her body tired enough to accept this help from the boy who broke her heart. She almost resembles a rag doll as her body sags, her head dropping to rest on his strong shoulder. Before her eyes can close, she reaches out her hand for me, and I take it. I ignore Finn and the great big world, my sole focus on one Quinn Fabray.

Really, I don't think it's strayed since that fateful Friday in November.