A/N: Been a while, I know. Sorry about that. Thanks to everyone still reading.

"Is this seat taken?"

There were many voices in Quinn's life, each of them battling for dominance in her head. Ghostly memories that murmured softly, too far for her to truly hear, too close for her to block out. Then there were the louder ones that also never let go: a woman's voice, high and thin. Don't take my Quinnie! A man's voice, deep and falsely reassuring. Don't worry, Quinn, you'll never be away from me forever. Those two voices stayed just beyond her periphery, loud enough for her to hear, constant enough for her to ache.

And then there were the ones that she sometimes forgot, the voices that took with her time and space and memory. That replaced her waking hours with confusion, with fear, with the painful realization that she'd struck someone… she loved. The voices that were her reason for sitting here, "alone" save for the nurse; in a "library" that was little more than a small room with a cart full of books.

But there were other voices that ruled those out: a tender lullaby sung in Spanish; the gravelly tone of a man with a beard that tickled her face as he hugged her. A sarcastic voice that spoke of homework and jobs around a mouthful of food, a swig of beer, a smile only hers. Voices of love to turn the icy winter of her disorder into a roaring fire.

It was easy for Quinn to separate the voices of her life into categories: those she wanted to hear, and those she didn't. Her parents and her personalities fit into one, her family the other. But this voice, this voice that addressed her with hope and caution, this quiet little sound… was a gray area. She figured it was a vestige of Beth that she liked colors so much; when she was Quinn she liked words, fashioning them into a map of rhyme and reason, but when she was Beth she preferred color, life and vibrancy lifting off a page of SpongeBob or superhero coloring sheets. The color was gray, Quinn thought, keeping her eyes focused on the book in front of her. What to Expect When You're Expecting.

Wanting and not wanting, rejecting and needing, black and white melting together until there was… nothing.

"Quinn?"

And then a splash of color. A green, maybe, light and fresh as a flower, winding around her wrist to her chest and tugging close. She actually stopped and pressed her hand to her heart, the spine of the book clacking to the table and Quinn winced.

"You shouldn't be here."

Of course the seat wasn't taken, she was the only one sat at that particular table. No one else liked to have visiting hours there, in the too-small room with its faded paint and tattered, used books – maybe ten of them – on the dingy gray cart.

Library. Right.

"You don't want to be here."

She knew the dance her companion would have had to go through for the right to even seat herself at Quinn's side, as she was doing now. The first step would be at the door, when the guard would have had to let her in. She'd have had to leave everything in her car except her keys, and Quinn knew what a lost feeling it could be, all the security of cell phone, purse, had she brought snacks? being left behind. Feeling as if you were being taken… where? To an execution chamber? No, only a desk. A simple desk commandeered by a woman bent from too many hours with not enough pay, who directs you to sign a sheet and fill out a nametag. Name, date, relationship to patient.

Quinn stole a glance at the tag. One word, in a solid, even-handed black.

Friend.

Ha, Quinn thought. A friend. Rachel was less, and Rachel was more, and everything in between. She couldn't exactly put girlfriend, and although "sister" would have worked, that would have been way too awkward.

"No, I don't," Rachel said, and Quinn smiled a little, grateful for the honesty. Too many people thought skirting around the truth was the easiest thing for her. The only people in her life who had ever been brutally honest with her had been her therapists, and that was one of the tricks of their trade. Never get involved.

But Rachel was involved, and she was honest.

"Then you should leave." She turned back to the book, flipping its pages and trying to seem indifferent. That she wasn't indifferent, that she could never be indifferent to Rachel Berry, was going to be her greatest crime in life. She wasn't sure if she could love her or hate her, she wasn't sure if it wasn't perhaps a mixture of both. But she knew that no matter where she was or what she did, she could never be indifferent to the woman that was Rachel Berry.

The worst thought was that maybe, someday, Rachel Berry would be indifferent to her.

The only way to be positively positive that you're pregnant – at least this early on – is to produce that positive pregnancy test. But that doesn't mean your body is staying mum on whether you're about to be a mom.

"You're right, I should."

But she didn't, and so Quinn sighed inwardly. She didn't want this, to talk to Rachel, to sit with her, to be in her presence. She could barely stop herself from sneaking little glances at her from out of the corner of her eye; it was just enough for her to make out the healing cut on her lip. The cut she had put there, four days ago.

"I'm sorry." It was such a simple phrase, such inadequate words to convey how she truly felt about the reddened mark on Rachel's lip, the mark that she had caused. The mark that she was terrified was just a precursor of future marks. Not just on her lips, but on Rachel's heart, her soul.

Quinn Fabray was terrified that she could destroy Rachel Berry, just by virtue of being herself. The thought would be maddening, if she wasn't already mad.

We're all mad here. Quinn smiled to herself a little.

"I know," and just as her own apology had seemed simply and inadequate, Rachel's was such a simple statement of fact, carrying with it so much weight, so much truth, that Quinn felt like she could sob if she had any tears left.

"And I know it was you-and-not-you, that you weren't in control, that you never meant it to happen. I know that if you could've stopped it you would have, and that it wasn't my fault. I also know it wasn't yours. And I forgive you."

"How can you?" She didn't lift her eyes from the page, terrified that if she did so she'd be confronted with Rachel's deep brown ones, understanding and loving. For a split second she hoped that if she was ever actually successful in dying, and was lucky enough to go to heaven, Rachel would be the God waiting for her.

"I wouldn't forgive me."

"That's why you're here."

"Oh, so you're an armchair psychologist now?" Quinn exploded, finally slamming the book shut and shifting around to look at Rachel. The sight of the fading wound on her lip made Quinn almost lose her resolve, as did the familiar argyle and the barely-there curl of Rachel's hair against her shoulders. But she couldn't stop the words, the frustration that her carefully-constructed four day wall of no visitors had just been fairly bulldozed.

"So tell me, where did you earn your degree? The Rachel Berry School of I Know Everything, Especially About Quinn? What are your credentials? What is my diagnosis, Rachel? Child from a broken home, abused and abandoned, crazy psycho bitch with voices in her head, destroying everything she comes into contact with? But oh, if she could just find someone to love her she'd be just fine? What's your treatment? A hug? Kisses? Wait, wait, I know, a really good fuck, that'll fix me right up, won't it?"

"Is there a problem here?" the nurse asked from the corner, as at the same time Rachel asked softly, "Feel better?"

"Yes, I do," Quinn retorted, and then shook her head at the nurse. "I'm fine."

She was fine.

She was fine, and she was tired. The medication they'd been giving her to help her sleep wasn't working except to make her feel groggy and disoriented the next day. She longed to curl up in her bed at Mami and Papi's house, her head snuggled up against Colley. She'd be able to sleep, blissfully sleep, but no, she still had another ten days to go in this hellhole.

She'd feel a lot better if Rachel would stop staring at her.

"Go home, Rachel," she said wearily.

"I love you."

Quinn's mouth dropped open. "N-no you don't," she said, shaking her head. "You're just saying that, and that's really… cruel."

Rachel's smile was sad but knowing; Quinn didn't realize that Rachel had expected this, all of this, just because of a conversation in an ER waiting room, 4 days ago.

"Why are you here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Rachel's face was tearstained, and she held a ragged tissue in her hand that was really nothing more than shreds.

"She's going back to Lima."

"Oh."

"That all you got to say?" Santana said, her tone slightly mocking.

"What do you expect me to say?"

"That you're going to take care of her, that she won't have to leave New York, that she'll be safe with you. That you may not understand everything but you're going to try."

"You don't want me to say any of that."

"Nope."

"But you know I'm going to try anyway."

"Yup."

And there it was, a kind of grudging acceptance. There was a slight grin on Santana's face, mirrored on Rachel's, and they regarded each other with a sort of "I don't really like you but I think you just became family" realization.

At least until Santana looked away. "If you hurt—"

"I love her."

"Doesn't mean you won't hurt her."

"It means I'll fight like hell not to."

Santana sighed. "You've got a rough road ahead of you, do you get that? I mean I barely tolerate you, and my parents, my brothers and sisters? Do you have any idea how protective of that girl they are? They don't want her here, they never wanted her here, and they're going to try to keep her away from anyone that says she should stay, that she belongs."

"I'm not worried about you, or your parents, or your siblings. My concern is Quinn." Rachel brushed off her skirt, as if to ward off any further negativity, and she looked at Santana, her lips set into a tight line of determination.

"Your downfall in this argument, Santana, will be the fact that you do not know me. You neither know who I am nor what I have had to fight for in my own life. You haven't the slightest idea how protective I am of Quinn, but also protective of myself. I know who I am and what I need, what I want, what I deserve. Quinn is neither a crutch nor an object of my savior complex. I know I can't heal her, despite what you may think of me, and I don't want to heal her. I just want to be there. I just want to be with her."

"What about what she wants?"

"Not for anyone else to decide. Not even you."

"She'll fight you," Santana shrugged. "She's good at coming up with eight hundred reasons why no one should love her."

"I have eight hundred and one reasons. So I win."

Santana rolled her eyes, and Rachel smirked. "She'll be mean to you, say ugly stuff, just to try to get you to leave."

"I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"I hope to god you can," Santana said, pushing on her knees with her hands and standing up.

"Because if you can, maybe you really will save her."

"I am not 'just saying that.'" Rachel reached out to touch Quinn, only to draw back when Quinn jerked away before their fingers met.

Quinn hated herself for the flicker of hurt that danced over Rachel's face. But it disappeared quickly, and she turned back to the book.

Your pregnancy may not be showing in your belly yet, but it's most certainly showing on your face. Here's the good, bad, and the ugly about face care when you're expecting.

"I love you," Rachel said again, quietly. "I know you don't believe me, and that's okay. I know you're going to try to push me away, and that's okay too. I want you to know that if you really don't want me here, all you have to do is say it, and I'll leave. I'll go, and I won't come back, and that'll be the end of it. Of us. All you have to do is say it."

She wanted to say it so badly that her fingers itched. There was no way that any good could come out of her being with Rachel, even if hearing the girl say she loved her had sent Quinn's heart soaring, had given her a glimmer of hope that she hadn't felt since she'd swallowed the first pill. Being with Rachel would cause nothing but heartache, for Rachel, and Quinn couldn't bear to do that to her, not anymore. What if she hit her again? What if she did worse to her when she was switched? It would be so much better for Quinn to just walk away, to leave New York and Rachel behind. It would be so much better for both of them if she just told Rachel to leave.

She opened her mouth… and said nothing.

For the rest of the visit, Quinn said nothing, and neither did Rachel. Quinn simply sat there, flipping the pages of the book but not reading, or even seeing, the words. She knew that Rachel probably was wondering what the book was, and why Quinn might be reading it, but to Rachel's credit, she didn't ask. She just sat there, resting her chin on one hand, the fingers of her other hand flat on the table. Close to Quinn, but not touching.

Just there.

Ten minutes later the nurse announced that Rachel's visiting time was over, because the Lopez clan would be arriving any minute. Rachel just smiled and nodded, before finally saying to Quinn, with a gentle look, "See you tomorrow, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

It was the only thing Quinn heard for the remainder of the day, even as her mother and father and brothers and sisters chattered to her, filling her mind with nothingness, mindless rapport that spoke volumes of their willingness to ignore the fact that she had tried to end her life.

Santana sat close by, holding her hand. Just before they left she leaned down to kiss Quinn's cheek.

"She coming back tomorrow?"

Quinn drew back surprised, and then shrugged. "Maybe?"

Santana smiled. "She will."

And though Quinn wouldn't know it until later, when a nurse told her, Santana was right, because the next day that found her sat in the main visitor's room, a coloring book in front of her, Rachel walked in.

She walked in and sat down, all breathless and cold from the rain, with the scent of wet leaves and something spicy around her. She sat down and smiled at the girl next to her.

"Ray?"

A pause.

"I'm here, Beth," Rachel said. "I'm here."

Rachel came every day after that, and every day Quinn tried to tell her to leave. Every night before, she'd think of the words, carefully crafted sentences of regret and rejection, of dashed hopes, of finality. And every time Rachel would visit, every time she'd walk through the door of the visiting room or the "library," every time she smiled at Quinn in that cautious "who am I talking to today? But I still love you no matter what" way, every resolve Quinn had flew out the window.

"I have a new personality," she said on the 8th day.

Rachel looked up from where she was studying the pattern on the table. "You do?"

"Yeah."

"Girl or guy?"

"Lucy."

Rachel nodded thoughtfully. "That's a nice name."

"She thinks I'm pregnant."

Rachel drew back a little in shock, and tilted her head. "Well, that's…" She pointed to the book in front of Quinn.

"That explains that."

Physical and mental fatigue can also exacerbate the symptoms of morning sickness (conversely, severe morning sickness can increase fatigue).

"She keeps asking the nurses what she should do with the baby, if she should keep it or give it up for adoption."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen. Or seventeen, it's not really clear."

Rachel's eyes were sympathetic, and Quinn wasn't sure if she hated the girl for it, or fell in love with her a little more.

"Sometimes I can feel her, I think, or at least feel like I know she's there. A couple times I've 'woken up' with my hand on my stomach. I wonder what it would be like if there was an actual baby. Then again I think I have enough people inside me."

To her surprise, Rachel laughed. It was a strong, melodic, entirely not mocking laugh, and Quinn found herself grinning a little.

But Rachel reached for her hand, and Quinn pulled away.

For the rest of the visit, they said nothing.

"Do you still want to leave?" Santana asked her later.

Quinn had asked that she come alone; as much as she loved her parents their constant talk was tiring, and she wanted the chance to just be quiet for a while. Santana was the only other person with whom Quinn could sit and say nothing, the only person with whom words weren't necessary. Quinn had only met one other person who was as in tune with her as her sister was, and that was unnerving.

"It'd be the best thing for all of us."

"Best way for you to hide."

"I'm not hiding," Quinn said through clenched teeth, even though she knew the truth.

"Then what are you going to do when you get there? What kind of job will you get?"

"Surely there's a position for resident freak show somewhere."

"God, would you just fucking stop it?" Santana threw up her hands, bringing them down with a thump against the table. Quinn winced. "Sorry," Santana said apologetically. "But come on, baby sis, you've got to stop the woe is me act eventually."

"I thought that's the act you wanted me to have, so you could act like my knight in shining armor?"

"Only you're locked up in the tower for the rest of your life, and this is a fucking stupid metaphor anyway."

"Rachel loves metaphors…"

"Rachel loves you."

"I know," Quinn whispered. She looked at Santana. "Since when did you become such a big Rachel fan?"

Santana sighed and leaned in, resting her head on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn kissed the top of her head gently. "You've put us through a lot of shit but you never once tried to kill yourself for it. If you felt so bad about what you did to Rachel that you wanted to die, she has to be pretty damn special."

"Do you… realize how messed up that is?" Quinn said, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, I do," Santana mused. "But like you said, Rachel's big on symbolism and metaphor and all that other shit you guys learn in college, so I figured she'd appreciate it."

"How's Brittany?" Quinn asked suddenly, and instantly regretted it for the pained look on Santana's face.

"She's mad," she said with a shrug. "I keep trying to explain things, trying to help her see what it's been like, but she doesn't get it."

"San?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want me to stay for me and Rachel, or do you want me to stay for you and Brittany?"

"That's a low blow, Q, and you know it," Santana snapped, but sighed as she visibly deflated, pulling away from Quinn.

"I want you to stay because New York needs you, and you need New York. That obnoxious little loud mouth with the crappy clothes and the—"

"San."

"Big smile full of love for you and the flawless pitch and the voice of an angel who is just practically perfect in every w—"

"Santana!"

"Rachel needs you. But more than that, she wants you. As you are. Warts and all."

"I'm not a frog."

"Well yeah, she kissed you."

"You suck."

Quinn feebly punched Santana in the shoulder, and her sister grinned.

"Look, I love Britt. And Britt knows that. But I've got more baggage than just you to get over."

The day before her last at the hospital came all too soon, or not soon enough, depending on who you asked. For Quinn, she was both relieved at the idea to be going home, and then… not exactly sure where home would be. She knew that Papi and her brothers and sisters had gone back to Lima, and that Mami was still in New York waiting for her decision. Quinn knew what decision Mami wanted. Knew what Santana wanted, what Rachel wanted, but she still wasn't sure what she wanted.

Rachel breezed into the visiting room with all the air of someone on edge, nervous and expectant, but she didn't speak of any of it to Quinn. Instead she took up her normal routine of smiling at her and, seeing that it was Quinn and not one of the others, sitting next to her a little closer than normal. As if she was afraid it'd be their last time together, Quinn realized.

Rachel had come every day, when Quinn had finally been allowed visitors. Every day without fail, every day with nothing more than herself, a word or two, and a calm presence next to her. Every day she'd try to take Quinn's hand, and every day Quinn would pull away. But still Rachel didn't leave. Still Rachel stayed, whether she was greeted by Quinn or Beth, even though she didn't know if it'd be Puck snarling at her as soon as she entered the room, or Lucy with her heartbroken queries of "What do I do for my baby?"

They wouldn't say anything; Quinn would be sat there warring with herself, trying to come up with the simplest of words.

"I don't want you. Please leave."

Wondering why she couldn't say them. Six easy words, so easy to say in the "comfort" of her hospital room, but so difficult when faced with brown eyes and soft pink lips inviting with the memory of a kiss. Six words that faded away when faced with the imagining of a life together, of being held during a thunderstorm, of gentle touches giving way to urgency and moans. Of being loved.

Rachel's voice shattered the silence. It was small and insecure, mournful.

"Please just tell me. If you're going to tell me, tell me now. Do it, Quinn, break my heart. Because not knowing is worse."

Rachel's chin rested in her right hand, while her left was in its normal place – on the table, fingers flat and waiting. Close, but not close enough.

Quinn thought. About life, about Beth. Puck and Lucy, other names she didn't know, Mami and Papi and siblings. Rain. Thunder. And Rachel. Rachel with her gentleness and her love, her scared little voice and the fingers gently trembling against the weathered wood of the table.

Underneath her palm were gouges, deep wounds into the wood that Quinn had only seen just yesterday.

RL+BF

Quinn took a breath, and slid over her hand.

Fingertips touched, pinky against pinky. Quinn's hand slid further until Rachel turned over hers.

Their fingers locked.

Quinn looked up.

Rachel smiled, and Quinn smiled back.