Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the characters do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for fun.
Author's Note: So, it's been a long time since I've posted something Faberry related. Well, okay, no, it's been a long time since I've posted something of substance regarding Faberry. I've had the idea of junkie!Quinn for a long time and it was only really in February that I started to put a serious effort into finding out if it was a story worth telling. I decided that it was and have been working on it ever since. It's completed, so there will be no danger of it being left as a WIP. I aimed for 10 chapters but it turned out to be 22. Bit of a difference. But one I hope you won't mind.
This is quite obviously very AU but I always try to stick to each character's voice as closely as possible, for your entertainment as well as my own.
Most questions are answered during chapters but a few things to note: one) Anything after S3E1 should be disregarded when reading this fic. A couple of lines of dialogue from S3 are scattered when I felt it was appropriate but there was no Beth, no Shelby, no Finn/Rachel proposal, car accident etc. two) While Sam didn't return to ND until, uh, I want to say S3E8? Just pretend that didn't happen. He didn't leave at all. three) My addictions in real life have never included drugs. This is purely fiction. And although I have done research and tried to approach a very sensitive topic in a respectful way, I do know there's a chance that there will be things within the fic that will offend some of you and for that I apologise. four) TRIGGER WARNINGS for just about everything, but it's definitely not all doom and gloom (I would have gone crazy writing that much angst).
Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoy.
Rachel jiggled the key in the lock for what felt like the hundredth time. It was hardly an infrequent occurrence and so it had stopped annoying her a long time ago. Now she expected her arrival to be delayed for no less than half a minute by a faulty lock. However, this time wasn't like any of the others. No, this time was different because it would be the last time she'd ever be standing at 8E, jiggling a key into the stuck lock.
With two harsh kicks to the door, matched in time to the key moving around, it swung open.
Dragging two large, empty suitcases inside the apartment with her, Rachel kicked the door closed. She heard the shower running as she took in the piles of clothes and belongings on the couch and table waiting to be packed, wasting no time as she began to fill the cases. She didn't want to be there any longer than she had to. It was a new start.
Rachel was an efficient packer. She knew how to fold clothes properly so as to not crease and which order to put them in terms of size or bulk so that there was little to no possibility of having to sit on the case in order to close it.
They would have to make several trips to the truck and, her nose crinkled, use the elevator judging by the weight of both cases. She couldn't even lift them more than a couple of inches. Thank goodness for the wheels.
Rachel was organising the CDs and records, transporting them across the apartment to nearer the door so that they were ready to be taken downstairs when she realised that the shower was still running.
It was a strange time for a shower but she didn't think much of it when her head was so full of other things. Mainly the future.
"Hey, are you almost done?" Rachel called out loudly. "I'm packing up your stuff out here but I don't know what to do with some things, so you're going to have to tell me what I can throw out. Hopefully everything I don't like," was muttered as she stared at a Pink Floyd record.
Rachel flipped it over and was reading over the track list, noting which songs she hated less than others, when something dropped to the floor in the bedroom. It went in one ear and out the other.
She moved the last pile of records over to the door and glanced at the time. "Quinn, we don't have all day! I have a bathroom at my place, remember? With clean running water instead of whatever garbage I'm sure still comes out of your shower head. You'll probably catch something."
The kitchen didn't have anything that either Quinn or Rachel wanted to take. The appliances were hardly state of the art and Rachel had everything they needed, including things they didn't. She'd never once made her own pasta —and probably never would— but she kept a pasta machine because it made her feel closer to her Daddy and like she could be a Michelin style chef if she had the time to cook to that standard, which she didn't. But if she did, there was no doubt she'd excel in the kitchen too.
The only thing Rachel wanted to take from the kitchen was the instant coffee in the cupboard. Not that it affected her personally, but the jar at her apartment was almost empty. She'd had diner coffee better than that. Motor oil probably tasted better.
Rachel went back over to the entertainment rack in the living area and was contented with the half-emptiness of it. She began to pull books off the other end. She didn't think they were organised in any sort of order but made piles in the exact order she'd pulled them off the shelf, just in case.
It had only been a couple of minutes since she'd shouted Quinn but Rachel was eager to get gone and the shower was still running. Her brows crinkled once more in confusion. The timing of Quinn's personal hygiene was awful; spectacularly so.
"Quinn!" Rachel sighed walked over to the bathroom, knocking on the door. "Are you particular about your books or can I pack them up however I want?" The water still ran. "Am I to take your silence as permission?"
She took it that way.
"I'm going to check for books in your room. I don't want to pack them all neatly only to find an armful of books sitting in your bedroom." Rachel listened closely for a reply that never came. "Okay, so if you see someone in your bedroom when you come out, don't shoot. It's just me."
The light was on in the bedroom and when Rachel walked fully inside and saw the body on the bed, she started, dropping the box of books to the floor in her fright.
"God, Quinn, you nearly scared the talent out of me!" Rachel took a moment to compose her rapidly beating heart and crouched down to pick up the fallen novels. "If you were going to nap, you could have told me in the van." Unless Quinn had suddenly developed narcolepsy, it was a valid comment to make. They were due to be changed and ready for a celebratory dinner with their friends in just over two hours. Time was wasting.
Rachel's head turned towards the door. Water was still running.
"I thought you were in the shower." Rachel faced her properly this time. "Quinn," she said, more forcibly.
There was no point getting mad when Quinn looked so lovely sleeping. Rachel climbed onto the bed and kneeled next to her, lightly scratching her cheek with her pointer finger. "It's time to get up, Sleeping Beauty."
It took Rachel several seconds to realise that Quinn's chest was still, and one more to notice the needle sticking out of her arm.
X
"A living nightmare, I think is what most people here can agree on. Tonight's special Nightly News features, of course, the devastation and effects of Hurricane Fay on Ft. Lauderdale and its residents. Damage is far worse than officials predicted. Who's to blame? Have your say. Seventy per cent of the area is under water, people are trapped, and the death toll keeps rising. I'm told that it currently stands at just under fifteen hundred with more names sadly being added. Tonight we talk to Kemal Valdez, a survivor with an incredible story. All that and more coming up in the next hour."
More often than not, Rachel Berry found watching the news to be an uplifting affair. It wasn't that she was blind to the awful stories, and it wasn't that she didn't sympathise with any of the victims or pray for justice —which would come sooner or later; she had full trust in the New York police department, it was just that the good news stuck with her more. How much people overcame the odds. For the past five days, however, describing watching the news to be an uplifting affair would fall short by a long stretch. South Florida had been hit with the worst hurricane in years and the devastation rippled out to every part of the country.
Less than a week and donation ads were on billboards, radio shows, magazines and newspapers, the television. Rachel couldn't even log online without seeing a charity asking for donations.
It was to be expected, Rachel knew that. She had already sent a generous cheque and three of her favourite dresses to be auctioned. Once a day her twitter account was used to retweet a list of charities accepting and dealing with donations for Ft. Lauderdale's victims. Rachel was doing all she could. She had even begun a fan contest with the person or group (she wanted the biggest donation possible) who raised the most money; they would receive a thirty minute phone call from her.
Rachel couldn't escape from news about the hurricane, nor how useless she felt sitting around catching bits of news coverage early in the morning or in the evening. She was a respected Broadway actress with a platinum-selling debut album, surely there was more she could do.
"You know, you could just stop watching the news if it affects you like this."
Rachel stirred her sweetener around her second cup of coffee that evening, not taking her eyes off the swirling liquid. "I won't pretend to be blind to other people's pain, Antonio. If you don't know that about me by now, I think this relationship is headed off a rocky cliff."
Antonio smiled, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "It's one of the things I love about you. But you're doing a good thing. You're advertising donations; you made a donation as well planning to auction off some of your clothes. You're helping."
"I should be doing more," Rachel sighed. "Did you know that my fathers were looking into moving there just last month? I mean, what would have happened if they'd moved? I would be a sobbing wreck right now and no amount of dresses that some snooty, stuck up celebrity auctioned off would make me feel better. It wouldn't take away from the fact that my
Dads would either be dead, missing, or had lost everything. Viewing things from the best possible angle, they'd still have a life to rebuild with no money or hope of ever getting things back to the way they were."
Antonio's eyes widened as he downed an espresso. Rachel was being dramatic. "You're not stuck up."
"I have to do something."
"Auction all of your clothes," he said. "Walk around the city naked if it will make you feel better. But it isn't going to fix all their problems. Whatever you do, however much you do, it won't solve everything. It has to be a collective effort, and judging from the country's response, it is. Give it some time." Antonio covered Rachel's hand. "Patience, babe," he teased. "Remember what that means?"
"I have no idea," Rachel responded lightly, gently blowing the steam from the surface of her coffee and taking a sip. The news reporter filtered through her thoughts, actually considering selling another dress —her most revealing.
"To all of those affected by this disaster, we hope you remember that more aid is on its way and the nation is doing everything it can to help. Don't stop believing in a better future."
The epiphany came barreling out of nowhere, full cause of the coffee she had to cough out of her windpipe. "An album!"
Antonio shrugged, moving away from the table they were sat at. It was hardly a rare occurrence that Rachel suddenly needed to listen to a particular song with alarming desperation. Some days just called for it. He had albums that he listened to during certain moods too. "Which one?"
With unsteady hands, Rachel placed her cup back on the saucer. "I'm making an album," she declared.
"A follow-up? I thought you were waiting eighteen months?"
Rachel's grin was wide. Her head shook. "No."
Antonio smiled, catching up. "For the victims."
Rachel laughed and ran into him, kissing him firmly on the lips.
Any idea that Rachel Berry got into her head only ever grew. She didn't sleep more than three hours that night. A list of appropriately-themed songs was compiled, as well as ideas for cover art and her personal dedication. She had a Tony for her second headlining Broadway show and a Grammy to indicate the success of her debut album, so Rachel was confident the record company would support her endeavour. Solo, that is. The hard part would be convincing her bosses that the other names written down on her list would be worth spending thousands of dollars on given that one half of the list hadn't exactly been as commercially successful as some of the others.
It wasn't to say that none of them had become successful in their attempts to break into their scene of choice. They were all doing well for themselves as far as she knew. Rachel didn't have much time to see or talk to her old friends as often as she liked. Life always got in the way. But she remembered birthdays and holidays and had good intentions. Her thoughts of her old Glee club were always fond.
Over the past few years Rachel had performed with legends, had hyperventilated backstage before a performance with them because of her nerves and then blown everyone away with her voice like she had never been anything but ready to be there in that one song. Rachel had shared the stage with lots of people, all of them equally if not more honoured to be singing with her, but there was still one thing she knew.
No-one performed the way her Glee club used to.
The once self-proclaimed underdogs had overcome everything to get to where they currently were. Mercedes and Santana were signed. Rachel had purchased their albums twice, once on iTunes and once on CD. She nearly died the day she heard Santana Lopez's voice blaring from speakers on her way down a crowded New York street two years ago. She practically dropped to the ground as if a bullet had been fired.
As far as she knew, Puck didn't decide to pursue a career in music. He was still in Lima with a business behind him, but he'd been trying to build his reputation back up after serving a six-month jail sentence for something or other. Rachel didn't really know or care to find out. She'd been too disappointed in him.
Artie was getting more demos ready; Kurt was the target of many girls and boys obsessions as soon as he hit the stage a year after Rachel, and Blaine just last year. They all had a strong fanbase. Tina had a moderately-sized following for her small stage roles, mostly community theatre, but her fanbase grew when she began releasing acoustic versions of songs on her YouTube page.
Finn worked in a tyre shop but was also in a band. It wasn't popular, or even known at all outside of friends and family, but he didn't mind. The guys weren't that great yet, anyway. They definitely had a lot of practice to do. But he was doing what he loved, had hot girls around him at shows, and he didn't have to dance. After three years of trying, Finn decided it was best to leave it to the professionals like Mike. And Brittany, when she wasn't working with kids.
And Quinn, well, Quinn was in a good place, doing whatever made her happy. At 4:13 in the morning, it began to nag at Rachel that she didn't know exactly what that was. She was certain that she knew, it was just evading her. The only thing more ludicrous than Rachel not remembering what Quinn was up to was not knowing altogether.
It was chalked up to the late hour.
Whenever Rachel asked about Quinn in the past she had always received a "Good, just busy, you know? She says hi," from her old school friends, so Rachel thought nothing more of it. Why should she? She was busy herself. She understood. Rachel always allowed herself a few minutes every now and again to think about Quinn Fabray and imagine how wonderful her life must be by now. Rachel's smile would be soft and nostalgic most of the time.
When she got the chance, sometimes she'd send Quinn a quick e-mail but it was never answered. Rachel figured Quinn was too busy or she'd changed her e-mail address, which, frankly, was irresponsible without sending a mass e-mail to let your contacts know you were switching to a new name. Rachel had had her e-mail address since she was twelve years-old. If it was good enough then, it was good enough now.
Mostly due to not seeing her for the longest time, Rachel was most anxious to meet with Quinn. She could barely wait.
"No."
Rachel's face was frozen in horror for a good two-and-a-half seconds. "I'm sorry, what?"
Rachel's manager, Johnny, shook his head, disappointed himself. "They're onboard for a solo project, or shared with Kurt and Blaine, Snix, and Mercedes Jones. But an album half-filled with nobodies? It's going to take a hell of a lot more than the persuasive essay that you kindly drafted up to go along with your proposal."
Rachel removed her sunglasses despite the harsh early-August sun in her face, rubbing her temple. "Do they seriously think I'd waste my time making an album with people I didn't fully respect or believe in?"
"Unless you have proof that the rest of your friends are worth it, I'm sorry to say, but I think solo would be your best shot."
"This is garbage."
"Rachel, if I may—"
"The funny thing is, no-one in there knows that I know all of them from Glee —a choir we were all in during high school. If that much talent can come out of half a group, what do they think the other half is like? We were a force of nature, let me tell you."
Rachel's manager began to sweat and pale at the same time. "Whoa, wait, wait, wait. You know all of them from high school? Not just Kurt and Blaine?"
Rachel's smile was a little smug. "Force of nature, I told you. Don't you listen?"
"Did you really let me propose your project only knowing half the story?"
"I have a DVD," Rachel admitted, pulling it out of her purse. "It has what I consider our top ten group numbers from the duration of Glee club, showcasing everyone's voice at one point or another. I wanted the label to agree without having to watch this but if you think it will help, go ahead."
Rachel's manager surveyed her curiously. "I can't believe you didn't give this to me earlier," he sighed. "I'll make the call right now; see when I can get back in there."
X
As soon as the project was green-lit, Rachel cleared her schedule and sat down on the sofa with a glass of wine, making her way through the list of phone numbers she had for her friends. She told them of her project and how her label had already consented, so all they had to do was fly out to the city and they would be put up in accommodation while they got to work working out the kinks and recording the vocals.
The cause had every one of them interested.
All but one.
Rachel was talking to Brittany, confirming dates for her and Santana to fly in. "Write it down, okay? It's the 15th, which is next week. I realise it's short notice but we can't afford to wait around. If Santana has something to say about it, you tell her to call me and explain what exactly is more important than those victims."
"15th," Brittany echoed. "Got it."
Rachel glanced down to the notepad in her lap, staring at the number with three question marks next to it. "Brittany, would you give me Quinn's number? I had an old one and I think Kurt wrote this down wrong. It never works when I try to—"
"I would, but I don't have it."
"Have Santana text it through when she gets home. I still need to talk to Quinn about this. I know she'll be excited to be involved."
"San doesn't have it either."
Rachel swallowed a large gulp of wine. "Why wouldn't she have it?"
"One day Quinn changed her number and didn't ever bother to give us the new one."
"When was this?"
"I don't know. Three years ago?"
"What?"
Brittany's voice went softer when she heard Rachel's quiet disbelief. "Maybe two."
That was impossible. It was just a few short months ago that Rachel had asked Kurt — who had been talking to Santana at the time— how Quinn was doing. He had relayed the message that Quinn was good, just busy, but she had said to Santana recently that they should all hang out soon. Rachel didn't think Kurt would lie to her face.
"Brittany, this is really important. I need to talk to Quinn."
"If you get her number, can you call me and give it to me? I miss her."
Rachel couldn't process it. "But if you haven't heard from her in years, where is she? What is she doing? How do you know how she is?"
"I don't. We were just trying to keep you happy around the holidays or whenever you asked. San says friends from school lose touch all the time, it's no big deal. And then she calls Quinn really mean names."
"What about her address?" Rachel perked up. "I'll just…fly out," she grimaced.
"We tried that. Quinn moved, and her landlady was kind of a bitch. Santana said that's probably the reason she packed up and moved."
"Has anyone else heard from Quinn?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, no-one's heard from her."
"I see," Rachel said.
"What are you going to do?"
"It's obvious that I have to find her."
"Why?"
Brittany's question threw Rachel for a moment. Why wouldn't she try to find Quinn? "Because I want her there and she's our friend, and those victims need us. Whether Quinn likes it or not, she's part of the group. We should all be together."
"But she doesn't want to be found. What if she gets mad?"
"She's not going to be mad," Rachel said easily. "Like me, she will be thrilled to see someone from her Glee days. Every time Sam and Mercedes make the effort to stop by, I get a little misty. It means a lot, just like you and Santana agreeing to fly out here and make a difference to those people's lives. I'm sure I'll get flowers and a card the next day. It's the proper thing to do."
"The last time I heard from Quinn, I don't know, I don't think she was feeling very proper."
"Everybody has their bad days, Brittany. You probably caught Quinn on one of hers."
"Yeah, maybe."
"I'll e-mail her again before I do anything crazy," Rachel said. "I didn't say it was urgent in the previous three titles, so it's understandable if she hasn't got around to reading them yet. I'm sure we'll see her next week."
X
Adrenaline surged through Rachel's veins when she stood and paused behind the door for a delayed moment, inhaling deeply. Her old school friends hadn't all been together in one place since graduation. A smile began to adorn her face and she opened the door, entering with a dramatic flair.
It was an entirely pointless use of her energy given that the studio was empty, except for Johnny.
He smiled. "Good morning, darling."
Rachel looked around, half expecting them to jump out and scare her. "Morning, Johnny," she replied distractedly. She whipped her head around when she was certain it was just the two of them. "Did you put the correct details on the e-mail? I find it difficult to believe that I'm the first person here."
"You're a half hour early."
"And you just avoided a question."
"Everything was correct, Rachel. Give them some time."
She sat down heavily, sinking into the couch. Her fingers drummed against it. "I can do that. I wonder how everyone's going to look," she mused. "I mean, photos on a computer screen don't tell you everything, do they? I hope it's not awkward. Do you think it'll be awkward?"
"Not for long," Johnny assured, clicking through his e-mails on the latest Blackberry phone.
Rachel knew it would be awkward with Kurt. She hadn't spoken to him much since the day she found out that he'd been lying to her about Quinn. He'd called, left messages, but Rachel had made it a point to avoid him like the plague. But after enough was enough, Kurt had forced himself past Antonio and inside Rachel's apartment, needing to see for himself that she was okay. All he had heard from Antonio was that Rachel wasn't feeling well.
As her best friend, he knew that Rachel never fully recovered from any cold or bug unless she'd snuggled under a blanket with him for an afternoon, watching as many of their favourite movies as they could.
He'd found Rachel in the kitchen, preparing a salad to go along with whatever Antonio had cooked. She looked good, certainly not anywhere near close to her death bed, which Kurt assumed was the case seeing as she hadn't been in touch personally. Either that, or Antonio had finally snapped after spending so much time with her. That was also understandable. Kurt's stare over to him was sharp.
Understandable, yes, but never acceptable.
Rachel recalled the fight they'd had in the kitchen with some level of regret. She didn't fight with Kurt very often, and though she knew that her words and actions were justified, she could never stand family tension. Her fathers rarely fought in front of her as she grew up and she hadn't long learned how to resolve an issue without admitting to being wrong and caving in entirely.
Kurt was her brother now and she loved him unconditionally but she was still angry and had every right to be. She knew he at least understood that. He wouldn't push her today.
Rachel rubbed her hands over the tops of her thighs. "Why am I nervous?" She sighed. "None of this would have happened if they'd been here when I expected them to be."
"There's no reason to be nervous, Rachel. Relax."
"Nice tip."
"I know, I'm full of them."
Rachel thought of Quinn. She had yet to respond to her e-mails and there was something about that which didn't sit well with her. Sure they hadn't left school as best friends, but they understood each other. If Rachel had sent her an e-mail, she would have never waited this long to respond. A couple of days, maybe. But it had been a week, and if she counted all of her other unanswered messages, it had been a lot longer than a week. It didn't feel right.
She looked at Johnny with her head cocked thoughtfully.
"Johnny... would you do something for me?"
"What is it, hon?"
"I need an address," Rachel said. "And I would appreciate your discretion. I don't want this discussed in front of my friends today."
Johnny nodded, accepting her wishes. He continued to click around on his phone, pulling up a blank document to type into. "Of course. What is it?"
"An old friend. Her name is Quinn Fabray, but she might go by Lucy now, I'm not sure. We're the same age —twenty-three if you've forgotten— and her last known address," she muttered, rifling through her bag, eventually pulling out a slip of paper from an appointment book. "Is here." Rachel half-stood and stretched over the chair separating them to pass it over.
Johnny studied it and copied it onto his phone. "Okay, I'll let you know as soon as I do. But a head's up, my sister won't be thrilled at the request so don't go making this a habit, okay?"
"I understand. Thanks, Johnny."
They moved to the same couch and got caught up going over plans and specifics in regards to timelines, and before Rachel knew it the door to the lounge opened, in bursting ten of her friends talking over each other.
Rachel got to her feet with a short laugh.
"Hi, guys!" she said, her tone notching up; a clear indication of her anxiety. "It's so good to see you."
A voice barked an order for the crowd to move and then Mercedes charged through the slight gap, eager to get to Rachel first. She pulled her into a warm hug. "Oh, man, I'm so damn happy to see you! How long has it been?"
"Close to four months, Mercedes."
"No. Really? Wow, feels longer."
Puck appeared behind Mercedes and Rachel stared up at him, noting with fondness how the years had been almost as kind to him as she'd imagined. He was still gorgeous. There was something distinctly different about him, too. Rachel couldn't put her finger on it.
"Move, it's my turn," Puck said, hurrying Mercedes along before an hour had passed and nobody else had gotten a chance to greet Rachel.
They hadn't seen each other in four years.
Puck smirked at her and took her hand, bowing. "The Jewish princess is now a Queen."
It was through another laugh that Rachel got it.
"Oh, my God, you have hair!"
X
In the end, the first meeting with her school friends wasn't worth fretting over.
The second meeting, held the next day, had gone just as well. Everybody had been nice to each other or relaxed enough to tease. Kurt had been mature enough not to bring their tension into the studio and Rachel was grateful. As expected, they'd asked about Quinn within the first ten minutes. Rachel told them she was working on it after Johnny had pulled her to one side several hours earlier and told her that it was done; all she had to do was check her phone. Sure enough, a text message was already waiting.
Rachel pecked him on the lips and declared her love for him right there.
X
However, now she was inclined to rethink that statement.
Rachel arrived at the building listed as Quinn's home address and noticed, with an air of disdain as she took in the abysmal state of the decor, the distinct lack of doorman or security cameras. She thought that perhaps describing the building as a dive would be giving a bad name to derelict buildings. Surprisingly, it was only thirty minutes away from her own apartment. She'd been expecting a plane ride, at least. Rachel made her way to the elevator and pulled her emergency autograph pen out of her purse, using it to press the appropriate button for Quinn's floor. There was an odour inside the elevator, she realised halfway up, one that she recognised and was horrified to even think about what kind of person it would take to commit to the act in such an unsanitary setting.
Johnny was obviously off his rocker if he thought this was where Quinn Fabray was currently living. There was no way.
Nevertheless, Rachel was looking forward to knocking on 8E's door to have an awkward seven-second conversation with whichever drug addict happened to live there, proving her theory right. She'd certainly deduct Johnny's pay for putting her through this —she'd never once been anywhere as undignified. People called this place home? Rachel would laugh if it wasn't so sad.
The first thing she heard when she stepped off the elevator was nearby police sirens and what sounded like a domestic fight two doors down. The hallway smelled marginally better than the elevator, this time of stale cigarettes, something she couldn't quite identify, and musty.
Graffiti adorned the walls, along with several empty beer bottles neatly piled up in a stack of six on the floor. Rather suddenly, Rachel felt out of place and uncomfortable being there alone. She was anticipating walking out of the building and never looking back.
Her heeled shoes were loud in the hallway, gaining closer to 8E with every clicked step. The closer she got the more Rachel thought of Quinn. This would be a hilarious addition to her eventually released autobiography at some point, and she was sure she would be laughing over coffee about this with Quinn in no time at all, once they figured out where she really was.
Rachel wondered if she was married.
She was in the middle of imagining Quinn's husband, getting as far as his broad chest and how incredible the man looked in a suit —he'd have to look good in a suit to be on Quinn's arm— when the domestic fight back towards the elevator heated up. Plates and glasses smashing with an encore of shouting and swearing were too much of a distraction even for Rachel.
It was just as well now that she was standing in front of 8E.
Rachel looked at the door, dark green with old flecks of blue paint underneath where it appeared to have been kicked at. She frowned.
Yes, Johnny would pay for sending her to this dead end.
Rachel's knuckles rapped on the door three times before she stepped back politely, shouldering her handbag and using two fingers to sweep back the hair from her eyes.
She concealed a faint smile when the door opened and she saw a pale, too-thin blonde with dark circles under her eyes standing there, pulling money out of her pocket. Johnny was never going to hear the end of this. Rachel Berry was never wrong, and she spoke almost right away.
They spoke over each other.
"I'm sorry; I think I have the wrong apartment."
"What took you so l—"
It was a pull of Rachel's brows at first. Confusion. Her head pulled back lightly. Denial. Her eyes betrayed her, darting all over the woman standing in front of her in search of Quinn. In the blink of an eye, rivalled horror began to slowly spread over both of their faces.
Rachel hadn't even recognised Quinn at first glance. Quinn, on the other hand, had no such problem identifying Rachel the second her eyes fixed on her. Worse than a verbal onslaught from Rachel Berry was the gradual dropping of her jaw and the strained quietness following it.
Quinn couldn't tear her eyes away.
It had been six years since they'd been this close to each other.
The years had been better to Rachel than they had been to her. They were always going to be better for Rachel. Gone was the awkward teenage frame, placed with an older, fully developed body in grossly overpriced clothes.
Emotions were flitting over Rachel's face as she looked at her, whereas Quinn seemed to be stuck on the same expression of frozen horror she'd been wearing since the second her brain registered that it was not who she had been expecting, but Rachel Berry.
"God, Quinn." Rachel's chest felt weighted and she considered the possibility of a shock-induced heart attack at twenty-three years-old. She stumbled forward, sliding her arm around Quinn's neck, misjudging the size of her waist when she attempted to place her hand low on her back. Quinn was tiny now.
Arms hanging by her sides, Quinn's expression passed to fragmented curiosity when Rachel pulled back. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you okay?"
"Fine."
"What are you doing here?"
"I asked you first," Quinn said.
"I was looking for you." Rachel was giving Quinn a look that was seconds away from getting her a slap to the face. Pity never did well to be directed at Quinn Fabray. Never would. "Do you live here?"
"I'm apartment-sitting."
A rush of air was expelled from Rachel's mouth. She smiled, her hand pressed to her chest in relief. "Oh, thank God."
According to the steeled gaze and the way Quinn disappeared back inside the apartment, door slamming behind her, it was the wrong move to make. It took Rachel a few seconds to register the sarcasm present in Quinn's voice. It had been a long time since she'd heard it. However, persistence was one of Rachel's best and most admirable traits. She knocked on the door again. Predictably, it wasn't opened.
"Don't you want to find out what I came here for?" It certainly wasn't to stare at an ugly green door but that's what Rachel was doing. "Quinn, please, I know it must be a shock but this is important to me. I e-mailed but you didn't reply. It's about those people in Florida. Can you hear me? I can give you the basics through the door, if you want?"
The fight down the hall reached a new level and Rachel sighed. "I can't hear you. Excuse me, but I think it's time I told Sid and Nancy to keep it down."
The door swung open soon after and Rachel breezed past Quinn inside the apartment without waiting for an invitation. The apartment looked and smelled miles better than it did in the hallway or the elevator. It wasn't quite homey but there was only so much you could do with a place like that.
"I didn't invite you in."
"I'm not Dracula, I don't require a verbal invitation."
"Actually, you do."
"You didn't really think I'd discuss a business venture through a door, did you?"
Quinn closed the door no less gently than the way in which she'd opened it. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry this is so out of the blue. Excluding my previous attempts over the years, I've been trying to contact you, rather unsuccessfully, for a while now."
"Why?"
"We're making a CD where all the profits will be donated to the victims of Hurricane Fay. We'd like you to be involved."
It was stated in a simple, efficient manner but Quinn wasn't getting any of it. "What?"
"Which part are you unclear on?"
"All of it."
"Hurricane Fay," Rachel repeated. "The catastrophic tropical cyclone that tore through Florida —mainly Ft. Lauderdale— recently and has been plastered across the news?"
"I don't watch the news."
"It's been in every single newspaper and all over the internet."
Quinn shrugged. "I don't read the paper and I don't waste my time on the internet."
"You live in a dump, not under a rock. This is one of the biggest natural disasters this country has ever seen. You can't seriously tell me that you had no idea it ever happened."
Rachel's clipped, condescending tone made Quinn's back straighten. "Really?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't come here to insult you, I came here to ask you to be involved."
"With the album?"
"Yeah," Rachel smiled. "Everyone from Glee... we're all together again, like old times. It's going to mean so much to so many people and it would really mean a lot to me if you'd agree to help."
Quinn tried to make sense of the reason Rachel Berry was standing in her apartment. The simple explanation was that Rachel wanted her to sing on an album with her. A professionally produced, recorded in a real studio album. She did a quick mental sweep of her day, starting from the moment she woke up, trying to remember if she'd done anything to hallucinate this badly.
She hadn't.
"No."
The answer nearly floored Rachel. "What?"
"You asked, I'm saying no."
"Why?"
"Because I don't care."
Rachel smiled and rummaged through her bag. "I have your contract right here. All you have to do is read it over a couple of times —preferably with a lawyer present, sign your name and join us tomorrow for vocal coaching. Some haven't been singing lately and I thought a few warm-up sessions would be good to rebuild their confidence and patch up any areas that need a little work. We were all brilliant at one point. That doesn't disappear, it just gets forgotten."
"I'm not joking," Quinn said evenly. "I don't care what happened in Florida. I don't live there and I don't know anybody who does."
Rachel searched Quinn's face for any sign of humour, however dark. She couldn't find any. "People died. Over fifteen-hundred people have died, Quinn. This is big."
"Not my problem."
Rachel turned and followed Quinn when she walked away into the kitchen. "How can you say that?"
"What do you expect me to say?"
"That you care."
"Why would I?" Quinn turned her back to Rachel and stretched to reach the coffee in the cupboard.
"Because you're a human being?"
"Maybe I'm part not-so-teenage mutant ninja turtle. It would explain my sudden urge for violence and pizza with my coffee."
"Why are you being so rude?"
Quinn turned around, directing dull eyes solely on Rachel. "You're not wanted here. What kind of message would it send if I was nice to you?"
"Maybe I'm not wanted," Rachel admitted, "but it seems like I'm needed."
It was said with so much sincerity that Quinn's soft laugh was genuine. "How long has it been since we were forced to be in the same room? Six years? If I need anyone, Rachel, it sure as hell is never going to be you. You don't know me and I don't know you, so are you going to tell me why you're still here?"
It was like high school all over again the way Rachel felt two inches tall. It happened a lot during their senior year; every time Rachel begged Quinn to leave those ridiculous Skanks who were dragging Quinn's reputation to the bottom of the ocean under their collective weighted issues. Sure, Quinn re-joined Glee club after a lot of begging on Rachel's behalf, but nothing stopped her from leaving her friends. The Skanks knew who she was, bad parts and all, and never judged her for it, never asked her to change.
"I'm here for a friend," she proclaimed.
Quinn looked around. "I don't think she's here."
"I think she is."
"Well, luckily, nobody cares what you think. You look like someone who clings onto the past, so there's one more fact from high school that still remains for you."
Rachel stared at Quinn. The difference of this Quinn and the one she remembered was so glaring that it seemed to punch clear through her stomach. "What ever happened to you?"
"Your friends are going to be asking the same question if you don't get out of my apartment in the next five seconds, Rachel. You came here to ask me if I'd be involved with the CD and I said no. There's nothing left to say."
"We need you!" Rachel insisted. "There are so many cool things coming up, Quinn. You'd be a fool to miss out. And everyone misses you so much. Nobody understands why you just cut them out of your life without so much as an explanation. Don't you think you owe them—"
"I owe them now? What, exactly?"
"That's for your conscience to decide, not mine."
"That's big of you."
Rachel's shoulders moved. "Maybe you could start with why you gave up on everyone at the same time, or why it took my manager and his connections to track you down."
"Your manager?" Quinn sneered lightly. "You had to drop that in there."
"I didn't know something was wrong," Rachel said softly. "I swear, if I'd known, I would have found you sooner." She hesitated. "I-if you need some help getting back on your feet, I could co-sign a loan or—"
"That urge for violence and pizza is back, stronger than ever."
Rachel bristled. She didn't expect this. She didn't expect any of this. There were a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue but she decided to go for a low blow to see if it would snap Quinn out of it. Her eyes scanned over Quinn's thin frame purposefully. Above the three-quarter length sleeved top she was wearing, her wrist bones poked out harshly. Rachel thought a strong gush of wind would snap Quinn in half. "Aren't you full from your last meal, a week ago?"
A faint look of surprise slipped over Quinn's face before it was gone again. "That was weak. You can do better after so many years, can't you?"
"You look awful," Rachel stated unapologetically. "In fact, I've never seen anyone look as bad as you do right now."
"Weaker. Want to give it another go?"
"You look like a drug addict." Quinn's eyes darkened towards her like a light had been flipped off. Rachel supposed it was natural; she did just insult her to a shamefully deep level. "Why are you here, Quinn?"
"I must have missed this, but what gives you the right to pass judgement here? It's not your home; I'm not your friend. I didn't ask you to come here. Did you see my face when I opened the door because I'm pretty sure it fell off."
"Fine, you're not my friend, but I still consider you to be one of mine. I don't let my friends make mistakes like this without putting up a fight. This album that I'm asking you to be a part of could change your life too, you know. I'm going to make an assumption —maybe it's totally out there— and say that you don't have a job right now. If you do, it clearly doesn't pay what you're worth. I have a feeling in my gut that it's going to be one of those perfect records. I want you to be part of it. It's that simple."
"It's never that simple with you."
"I thought we didn't know each other anymore."
Quinn stared at her. "Call it a hunch."
"Would you tell me if you were sick?" Rachel asked quietly, unable to ignore how Quinn's appearance was making a cold shiver run down her spine. Something wasn't right.
Quinn frowned at the concern on Rachel's face. "Would you want to know?"
"Yes."
"Then I'd tell you."
"So, you're okay?"
"A little anaemic, maybe. But yes, Rachel, I'm fine."
That seemed to placate Rachel on the matter but her head still shook, stuck on other matters. "You don't belong here," she said. "I don't know what happened for you to end up in a place like this but it's not where you belong."
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Pretending you care. It's stupid."
"I do care. You say that like anyone ever has a choice. It's never up to us."
"I'm not doing the album," Quinn said. "I don't care what it's for or how much you beg or try to emotionally blackmail me."
"That's your decision."
Quinn licked her lips. "How'd you get up here?" she asked.
"What?"
"To the floor."
"Oh." Rachel's mouth was twisted in faint disgust at the memory. "The elevator."
"That was your second mistake. Use the stairs on your way out."
Rachel's stomach turned at the thought of using the elevator again. She would most definitely be taking Quinn's advice. "What was the first?"
"Coming here in the first place."
This was not new. Giving Quinn Fabray space was something that Rachel could still remember from high school. It was a proven method, successful because Quinn always needed the control. Apparently that was one thing about her that hadn't changed over the years. It didn't take long to consider how pushing versus backing off would affect their next encounter.
"Okay, I'll go," Rachel began gently, "on one condition." She pulled one of her cards out of her bag. "You promise to use this. Regularly."
"What happens if I don't?"
"I'll have to come back."
"Fine."
"My definition of regular contact is at least three times a week. I like to talk to people."
"Okay," Quinn agreed softly. Getting Rachel out of her apartment was the hard part. Losing her number would be a piece of cake.
"Okay? You promise?" Rachel was dangerously close to a smile.
Quinn didn't say those words but she reached out for the card before Rachel had extended her arm to meet her halfway. The extra few inches caused Quinn's sleeve to ride up her arm, revealing a red, circular puncture to her skin. Rachel's eyes flickered down to it, pulled like a magnet.
The card and her bag ended up on the floor when Rachel's hand shot out like lightning, grasping Quinn tightly around the wrist and used the other to push the sleeve up until it was bunching high on her arm.
There were five punctures in total, tracking all the way up Quinn's forearm.
The first track mark Rachel had seen was the least shocking. It was contained to the smallest area, red almost as if aggravated; like an insect bite. The second puncture, higher up by half an inch, was larger, surrounded by a ring of purple stretched around it. It had started to scab over, like a needle wasn't as smooth going in or out as the one before. The third and fourth marks weren't as small as the first but their sizes didn't rival the second either; a mixture of purple and red that was stark against Quinn's fair skin.
The fifth puncture was to the inside of her elbow, easily the largest and most severe. It was healing in a mixture of faded red and purple, a large scab covering the wound.
Rachel felt the air leave her lungs. She looked up to Quinn with desperate, imploring eyes. "No." Quinn's wrist slipped through her hand and Rachel closed her eyes like it would erase the image burned into her retinas. Her chin trembled with a weighted sigh and she shook her head. When Rachel opened her eyes again she saw Quinn in such a different light that it terrified her. Her large brown eyes were wet. "Quinn?"
Quinn had quit whatever act she'd been putting on. Now her eyes were full of anger and resentment, both directed at the brunette putting all of this on her. She looked away when she saw Rachel's chest catch sharply at her silent admittance.
Rachel's fingers covered her mouth. "Oh, God," she gasped quietly. Her voice was a little harder the next time. "Oh, God, Quinn, what have you done?"
Quinn pressed her teeth together, her chest moving in and out rapidly. She hated Rachel for this.
"You wouldn't do this. You would never be so— please tell me you wouldn't," Rachel begged. "Tell me it's not what I'm thinking."
"I'm diabetic," Quinn said, with no real emotion behind it.
At that, Rachel launched herself forward and Quinn's body stiffened, readying for an attack that never came.
"Don't you dare treat me like I'm stupid," Rachel spat out. "Don't you dare!" She wanted to say more but a fresh wave of tears stopped her. The reality and severity of the entire situation rendered her nearly speechless. How could this have happened?
"How could you be so stupid?"
Rachel's voice had gone higher in her hysteria. Quinn couldn't stand it. "You can go now."
"I'm not going anywhere! How could you do this?"
"It was pretty easy."
"You have to stop. You have to stop right now!" Quinn's lips quirked and Rachel felt like slapping it off her face. Did Quinn think this was a joke? "Oh, my God, do you think you can do this forever and be fine? You'll die." Quinn stared blankly at her. "Quinn, you'll die!"
Quinn angled her jaw when Rachel dissolved in another fit of tears.
"You're selfish!" Rachel told her. "What do you think this is going to do to the people who love and care about you?"
"It's not that bad."
"Not that bad? How could it be worse?" Purposely staring at her, something occurred to Rachel. "Look at me. Are you high right now?"
There was little Quinn could do to keep that laugh inside. "I wish."
"You're an idiot. What do you think everyone is going to say when I go to the studio tomorrow?" Rachel's eyes lowered to Quinn's arm. The evidence of drug use made her heart clench painfully, a sickening sensation climbing up her throat. Her hand gently closed around Quinn's wrist. "Quinn, please, you have to—"
"I have to what?" Quinn demanded. "This is none of your business! I haven't seen you or anyone else from that stupid high school club in years. Let's not pretend we care about each other."
"I do care about you. I thought everything was fine. I figured you were too busy to ever call me back. Kurt a-and Brittany and everybody else relayed your messages to me, they always told me you were fine. They told me you were happy. Apparently they didn't want to hurt my feelings." Rachel's thumb swiped over the first track mark and she pulled her eyebrows tight like it hurt her.
Quinn ripped her wrist free of the grasp, directing a glare at Rachel. "There are no cameras here Rachel, so you can stop the waterworks. Nobody is going to think any less of you if you walk out of here and never look back."
"I could never do that," Rachel said, her eyes back on Quinn's arm. She couldn't stop looking despite the way it affected her to see them.
Quinn followed her line of sight and lifted her arm, giving Rachel an unobstructed view. "Are the marks bothering you? Don't worry, Rachel, every one of those vacations was well worth the price. Now, why don't you do us both a favour and take your thousand-dollar outfit and your pity, and get the hell out of my apartment."
"So, what? So you can shoot up again in private?"
"So we can forget this ever happened. I didn't see you and you didn't see me."
Rachel shook her head. "I'll never forget this."
"I don't know how much plainer I can say this, but you are neither wanted nor needed around here and I strongly suggest you don't come back."
"There are so many rehabilitation centres that can help you. I can take care of the cost. Just give me the word, okay? I can make the call right now."
Quinn's face was blank until she sighed at Rachel's stubborn stare, shrugging a shoulder almost noncommittally. "I can't pay you back," she muttered.
"It doesn't matter," Rachel rushed out.
"Fine."
Rachel's outfit might have been on the crazy side of expensive in Quinn's opinion but she still knew her fashion and the handbag that Rachel had picked up and was elbow-deep in as she searched for her phone was over a grand itself. It would pay for a really good time for Quinn if she was to get her hands on it.
As soon as she saw the phone, Quinn snatched it away and flung it down to the floor. They both heard the glass break.
"You're still an idiot, Rachel," she sneered, "tangled in those stupid fantasies of yours. When are you going to grow up?"
"What happened to you?"
Quinn grabbed Rachel's arm hard enough for it to hurt when Rachel struggled and pulled her towards the door. "Welcome to the real world."
"Quinn, please don't do this." The door was wrenched open and Rachel suddenly found herself standing on the other side of it.
"Don't ever come back here."
X
Rachel didn't sleep that night.
She spent it thinking about Quinn, crying enough to worry Antonio who stayed over because he was concerned, and who wouldn't stop asking her what was wrong. It stung when she refused to tell him but it mattered less when Rachel curled against his side and pulled one of his arms around her.
It wasn't her fault, she tried to tell herself. She didn't know.
How long had Quinn been trying to kill herself? Weeks, months, years?
What had she been doing the first time Quinn ever pushed a needle inside a vein and injected herself? Had she been laughing? Carefree?
The guilt came in waves.
X
It wasn't easy facing the day when sunlight attacked her senses. Rachel took three painkillers to numb a persistent headache and downed two shots of espresso just because Antonio had poured them for her. She looked up just in time to see him leaving the bathroom with a towel around his hips.
He remembered something Rachel said every time she was genuinely upset about something. It always helped to bring her out of it, see the positive side of things.
"It's a new day, right?"
Rachel nodded at him. "Right."
The corner of her lips began to curve upwards in a faint smile of appreciation when she thought about Quinn again; imagining her shooting up before she'd even had breakfast. Rachel wanted to vomit.
X
When she got there, the atmosphere in the studio was skies higher than she felt. Everyone was talking amongst themselves or laughing and joking. Not all of them were there to sing but being around each other again, in a professional studio no less, was too good to pass up. It had them all wanting to spend as much time together as possible. Kurt was sitting at the drums, twirling the sticks around in his hands as he smiled at whatever Brittany and Santana were talking to him about.
Finn noticed Rachel first. He threw a balled up piece of paper at her and smiled when it bounced off her shoulder. "Hey."
"Good morning, Finn. To you all."
"Where've you been? I tried calling."
"I lost my phone."
"Where's Quinn?" He crumpled up another piece of paper, waiting for his second victim. He was going to get her in the face. Rachel was just the warm up shot.
Rachel avoided all the eyes she could feel on her at Finn's question. She busied herself with lyric pages strewn on the table, reorganising them in terms of difficulty to sing. "Quinn won't be joining us."
"And why's that?" Santana asked.
"It's not a good time."
"Did you tell her what it was for?"
"Yes, of course," Rachel said. "It's unfortunate, but Quinn can't make it work."
"What did she say?"
"You know, she just... can't manage the time off work. Her boss won't allow it."
"Bullshit," Santana said.
Rachel's mouth pressed together. "Agreed. But it is what it is, so we should get to work. Who's up first today?"
Puck watched Rachel's throat bob with a thick swallow, brushing the hair behind her ears. She looked like crap and he knew it had something to do with Quinn. There was nothing wrong with Rachel yesterday. She barely stopped yapping about how excited she was to start changing lives again.
"Screw Quinn," he shrugged. "If she doesn't want to be here, we don't need her."
"Guys, she can't be. Okay? And it's her decision, so let's just focus on why we're here."
"I say we try again," Artie spoke out after Rachel. "I mean, it's Quinn..."
"So what?" Santana sneered. Stupidly she'd had her hopes high for Quinn joining them. "She had her chance. She's had three years' worth of chances with me and Britt. If her head is still rammed up her ass, I say we leave it there. We can do this without her."
"Let's just start," Tina suggested softly from the back of the room. "She knows where we are if she changes her mind. Rachel's right, anyway; ultimately it's Quinn's decision."
"Tina's right," Sam agreed, earning a nod from Mercedes. "And we've got a lot of ground to cover today. We should probably get to it."
As the buzz and chatter started back up, her friends all around her, Rachel realised that she didn't even get that far yesterday. Quinn wouldn't know where to find them if she changed her mind.
Very quickly, Rachel likened that to Quinn not knowing where to go for help when she needed it. That wasn't an option. It couldn't be. The minute she was out of the studio, Rachel would go back. She was under no illusion that Quinn would receive her being there any better than yesterday but she would have to get over it.
Rachel declined to join the group for lunch when they stopped to eat, running out to replace her phone instead.
She would try again with Quinn.
Again and again, just like always.