Chapter Seven
"Why?"
Rachel's fully aware her voice has taken on a whiny quality but she's far from caring, at this point. She wants to know why her two friends would think dressing her up as Baby from Dirty Dancing was ever going to be a good idea.
Technically, they're all dressed as dancers, but Rachel feels the most exposed, even if she is wearing stockings and a sleeveless, striped cropped top. They leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"Why would you do this to me?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "You have to show off those legs, Berry," she says. "It'd be illegal if you didn't."
Still, Rachel feels uncomfortable in her skin, and she imagines that everyone is looking at her. It's not wildly off-base, but she studiously avoids looking anybody in the eye as she allows Brittany to drag her further into the Ballroom. The lighting is dim and the smoke machine has turned the air hazy. It's heady and she's already starting to regret ever coming.
Also, her teased hair keeps getting in her eyes and it's annoying the crap out of her.
"Fabray, two o'clock," Santana says, and Rachel's eyes snap to her right. The second her gaze lands on Quinn, clad in a Grace Kelly getup, her heart practically leaps out of her chest. She's managed to get some semblance of control of herself, and she's avoided the blonde like the plague since, well, she slid down Brittany's door and burst into tears at the injustice of liking a girl she can never have.
Rachel's still ignoring Brittany's theory that Quinn may like her back. At the moment, the devastation is a little easier to handle than the hope.
Rachel would know.
Brittany tugs on her arm again. "Let's get some punch, and then you and I are going dancing."
The protest dies on Rachel's lips when Quinn suddenly looks her way and they lock eyes. It's one of those cliched moments, really: two people, gazes connecting across a crowded room, and just knowing.
Because Rachel does know.
This thing, whatever it is, is going to ruin her. It's practically written out in all the marks on Quinn's body.
Brittany tugs again, and the spell is broken.
This time, Rachel goes willingly.
After the third time she has to decline an offer to dance, Quinn is ready to pull out her own hair. She knows, of course, that she could have attended the dance with any number of people as her date, but she just wasn't interested. She's treating this entire evening as part of her Head Student responsibilities, which means there's no time for... enjoyment. She wouldn't even know how to do that if she tried.
Really, what she would like to do now is sneak out the back of the Ballroom and go up to her bedroom, lie on her carpet and try to erase the image of Rachel Berry's toned abdomen from her mind.
Also, it's unfair, really, that a human being that size can have legs that long.
Or, a face that pretty.
"Quinn?"
Her gaze snaps up to look at a sophomore boy, smiling at her with all the hope in his eyes. "Hello, Peter," she says easily, smiling at his Spider-Man costume.
"Would you like to dance?" he asks, his earnest eyes tugging at what's left of her cold dead heart. "Pretty please?"
She chuckles lightly, says, "Sure," and lets him lead her to the dance floor.
"Oh, stop moping," Santana says, bumping Rachel with her hip. "Someone told you that you looked cute when you pout."
"I'm pretty sure that was you," she grumbles back, refusing to take her eyes off Quinn, who has been dancing with some pubescent kid for three whole songs. Logically, she knows she has no claim to Quinn or even any right to be jealous, but she can't help it. She wants Quinn to be looking at her; to be dancing with her.
It's never going to happen.
"She's just dancing with him because he's safe," Santana says. "It doesn't mean anything."
Even if it doesn't, it doesn't make it hurt any less. "Will it always feel like this?" she asks.
"Probably."
"You're lucky."
"Am I?"
"The girl you like actually likes you back."
Santana can't stop her grin at the mention of Brittany, but she quickly schools her features. "That may be so, Berry, but the girl I like also knows."
Quinn lets out an unexpected giggle when Peter spins her and, for the first time all week, her smile is open and genuine. So, predictably, it floors the boy, and he stumbles slightly, which makes them both laugh.
"I thought for sure you would be a terrible dancer," Quinn finds herself saying.
Peter pretends to look insulted. "Why? Why would you say such a thing?"
She laughs now, stepping forward and then back again. "You're really tall," she says.
He shrugs. "It does make me a little uncoordinated," he admits sheepishly. "I'm still growing into these pesky limbs."
"But you're not terrible," she clarifies.
"You're actually very good," he comments.
"Surprising, isn't it?"
He nods his head, his expression one of awe and something very serious. "I think there are many things surprising about you."
Quinn places a gentle hand on his shoulder, suddenly knowing he's too young and good and pure for all the darkness living inside of her.
"Are you ever going to let one of these idiots dance with you?" Santana asks, coming up next to Rachel and handing her a cup of punch.
"Probably not," she admits truthfully.
"Why not?" the Latina questions. "Maybe it'll make Quinn jealous."
At the mention of Quinn, Rachel's eyes drift to where the blonde and Kurt are happily bouncing in the middle of the dance floor. She looks at ease, happy in this one way she's allowing herself to feel and show.
"They're going to start thinking you're a stiff, you know," she says, and it's an offhanded comment that puts Rachel on edge.
"I don't care what they think," she says, and the edge has managed to creep into her voice.
Santana looks at her, mystified. "Okay...?"
"If I don't want to dance with a boy and feel his hands all over my body, I'm not going to," she adds tightly, and Santana immediately understands.
"Of course," she agrees. Then: "does that mean you won't dance with me?"
Rachel lets out a long breath, relieved that Santana isn't questioning her further. She downs her drink, drops the cup onto a table and allows Santana to lead her towards the dance floor where Brittany is dancing against Shane.
Santana merely slides an arm around the blonde's waist and drags her back. The squeal she lets out brings a smile to Rachel's face, and the three of them settle into a simple rhythm.
Somehow, their little group gets larger, and Rachel feels Quinn's presence before she sees her. At first, Rachel ignores her, forcing herself not to react to the girl just across the circle of dancing students, but that hope falls away immediately because Quinn is staring at her. It's not even a little bit in the realm of 'observing.' It's blatant and Rachel's cheeks flush under her scrutiny.
Santana leans into her at some point, her mouth close to Rachel's ear. "Your eye-sex is downright filthy," she says, and heat shoots right down and back up Rachel's entire body.
Rachel lets out a surprised laugh, shaking her head but keeping her eyes on Quinn. Eye-sex, huh? Don't you need two to tango?
After the third song, the group starts to dissipate again, and Santana and Brittany gravitate towards each other. Rachel seeks out Quinn with her eyes, but the blonde's attention is caught between Kurt and Blaine as they dance in a huddle. Rachel can't help thinking she looks good like this, light and a little carefree.
Breathing a sigh, Rachel turns to leave the dance floor... and comes face to face with a smirking Azimio Adams. She gasps because, yes, she's managed to forget this boy actually exists. Compartmentalisation has always been a strong suit when it comes to the subject of those flyers.
"Why why, Miss Berry," he slurs, and her eyes widen. It's obvious he's drunk. "Where are you running off to so soon?" he asks. "Spare a dance for a bastard like me?"
Rachel frowns, but still manages to shake her head. "No, thank you," she says, making to move past him.
He steps to the side to block her path. "Oh, come now," he says. "Just one dance?"
"No!" she repeats, using the word with enough force that it shakes her entire body. He startles slightly, and she uses the opportunity to shove past him. She doesn't stop walking until she's out of the Ballroom, just needing some fresh air. She trudges to the left, towards the stairs leading to the storage rooms below the Ballroom, and leans against the railing.
Rachel's hands are trembling and her heart is beating rapidly. She hates this. She hates that everything still affects her. Memories and words and sounds and smells. She shuts her eyes tightly, trying to force it all away. Not tonight.
Please, just not tonight.
Just when she thinks she's got a handle on it all, a sound rips her from her reverie, and Azimio is standing right in front of her, chuckling darkly, with a sinister look in his eyes. She steps back in surprise, but the railing digs into her back.
"You know," he says, stepping forward and placing his hands on the railing on either side of her. "I just don't understand you." His breath smells of alcohol and Rachel is frozen in another place in her mind. "Why would you dress up so fucking slutty and then have the nerve to say no to me?"
Rachel has enough sense to register her own anger and disbelief but, the moment his hands move to her waist, she screams. It's loud, raw and aching, but Azimio just laughs menacingly.
"Nobody can hear you," he says, eyes alight with mischief. His grip tightens and she does all she can to shove him away, but he's so much stronger than her, and she's not in the right frame of mind to fight back.
She hates this.
She hates feeling weak and helpless, and she beats at his chest. His smile just grows as he steps closer, practically pinning her against the railing as he leans in to kiss her.
There's a moment. Rachel knows this moment well, when you can choose to keep fighting with all your might, or you can give in and let it happen because it will hurt less.
Thankfully, the decision is taken away from her when Azimio is violently tugged back and thrown onto his back. Before Rachel can even register what's happening, Quinn is right in front of her, decidedly not touching her. How she knows Rachel doesn't want to be touched, she'll never ask.
The blonde doesn't say anything as her eyes travel over Rachel's body, searching for something, anything, out of place. When she deems the girl relatively unhurt, she spins around to face Azimio, who's just getting back to his feet.
"Get lost!" Quinn snarls at him, her body shielding Rachel's.
Stupid or drunk, Azimio steps towards the girls.
Quinn tenses at the whimper Rachel lets out but she doesn't turn around. "I'm going to count to three, Adams," she coldly says. "Walk away, right now, and I'll make sure this incident results in only a suspension."
His eyes narrow. "Oh, you're doing me favours now, huh?" he spits out. "Of course, you're going to tell, because you're a fucking snitch!"
Quinn's features harden. "What I am is the Head Student," she says; "who just interrupted what looked like an assault. So, I would tread carefully if I were you."
"Good thing you're not, huh?"
Quinn doesn't respond, and the glare she sends him is enough to make him second guess his next move.
Azimio eventually huffs. "Whatever. She's not even worth it."
Quinn holds her tongue as she watches him shuffle backwards, and then turn and walk - stumble - away. She waits until he's out of sight before she turns back to Rachel, her eyes once again searching.
"Hi," Quinn whispers, keeping her distance.
"Hi," Rachel manages to say.
"You're shaking."
"Am I?"
"Cold?"
"Freezing."
Immediately, Quinn shrugs out of the red blazer she's wearing and, as carefully as she can, drapes it over Rachel's shoulders, making sure she doesn't make contact with any skin. "Better?" she asks carefully.
"A little."
Quinn tilts her head to the side. "Do you want me to get you some water? Maybe some punch, for electrolytes?" The second she makes a move to leave, Rachel grabs for her wrist, but Quinn doesn't flinch. She's come to expect contact from Rachel. "Okay," she says. "I'm staying."
Rachel steadies her breathing. "What are you doing out here?"
Quinn instantly blushes. "Umm."
"Were you looking for me?"
She shrugs. "Maybe."
Rachel's grip slides down from Quinn's wrist until she can link their fingers together between their bodies. It feels like everything and nothing, and her heart is beating much faster. Quinn's hands are so soft and warm and the tingles are spreading right through Rachel's body. This entire night has been crazy.
"Quinn," she whispers, wanting nothing more than to bring the blonde closer and wrap her in a tight embrace, but she thinks that's too much for one night.
Hazel eyes lock on chestnut brown. "Rachel," she breathes.
The air is charged and heavy but, before it can spark, there's a sound. Quinn spins around, immediately on the defensive. It's a good thing, too, because Azimio is back.
Only, this time, he's not alone.
"I changed my mind," Azimio says, clearly very stupid and very drunk. "She is worth it. In fact, you both are."
There's a moment.
"Stop crying," Santana hisses. "God, will you just stop fucking crying!"
Brittany shoots the Latina a heated look of disapproval and slides her arms around Rachel's trembling form. "It's okay, Rach," she whispers into Rachel's hair. "It's okay. She's okay. You're okay."
Rachel's sobs intensify, forcing a scoff from Santana.
Brittany's eyes snap towards her. "If you're not going to be helpful, you can leave," she barks, and the Latina looks suitably chastised. Brittany turns her attention back to Rachel.
They're in the Deputy's room, Rachel and Brittany sitting on the edge of the bed and Santana pacing the length of the room. It's just after two o'clock in the morning, and they've heard no news about Quinn since she was taken to the hospital.
When Rachel's sobs start to subside, Brittany pulls back slightly. "We should get you cleaned up," she says, because now Rachel can get clean. She's had to sit through questions a plenty as Mr Schuester, Miss Pillsbury and an External Enforcer tried to get to the bottom of what exactly happened.
Because it is Dalton Academy, everything will be handled internally, which is a good thing. The name 'Rachel Berry' has already been ruined in New Haven County. She would do well to try to stay anonymous here.
Brittany grabs Rachel's things and then walks her across the corridor to Quinn's room, so they can use the private bathroom. She helps her undress and guides her into the shower to wash away the dirt and grime and makeup and... blood.
There's blood on her hands, and skin under her nails.
In the moment, under the right circumstances, Rachel now knows how to fight.
And, given the choice, she would do it again and again.
Rachel can't get to sleep.
It's unsurprising, of course, but the exhaustion finally catches up with her and she tumbles into a restless slumber.
She dreams of Quinn eyes, dark and distrustful.
She dreams of Quinn's screams and tears, loud and frightening.
She dreams of Quinn's pain, ringing on a loop in her ears.
She dreams of Quinn's blood.
At the first sign of dawn, Rachel crawls out of bed and calls her father. She knows he'll be awake because he's determined to be the best kind of farmer, even if he's rather hopeless at it.
As soon as she hears his voice, she bursts into tears.
Before she can even start explaining, he's saying, "I'm coming, baby. I'm coming to get you."
"No," she howls. "Don't. No. Don't come here."
His mouth snaps shut with an audible clack of his teeth. "Sweetheart, what's going on?" he asks as calmly as he can.
So, she tells him.
She tells him everything from the fight with Quinn to making up with Quinn to realising she might be in a lot of like with Quinn to going to the dance with Santana and Brittany to Azimio Adams to Quinn saving her. She pauses.
"Sweetheart," he presses, hearing her hesitance.
"They were going to hurt her," she whispers brokenly. "They were going to hurt her."
"It's okay," he assures her. "It's okay."
"She already hurts so much," Rachel says. "I couldn't let them hurt her any more."
"What happened?"
She sucks in a breath before she explains that Azimio returned with two of his friends from the football team, Tim Armstrong and Ian Gallagher, with the intention of -
She chokes back a sob.
It seems we're just going to have to take what we want.
Her heart beats faster. "There was a fight. She's quick, but there were three of them and two of us. I don't - I tried - they - Daddy."
"I'm right here," he says. "I'm right here."
"There were stairs, and Quinn was too close, and then one of them pushed her and she fell and - " she cries out. "She was knocked unconscious, and I - "
"Baby, what did you do?"
"I fought."
Hiram Berry doesn't ask anything more. He knows what that means because she insisted on taking lessons in self-defence after... just, after. It was LeRoy who first suggested it, and Rachel jumped at the opportunity. She wanted to feel powerful after so much power was taken from her.
"Mr Schuester will probably call you some time today or tomorrow."
"Okay," he says. "Are you hurt? Is Quinn hurt?"
"I'm fine," she says. "Just a few scratches." It's not enough to leave any permanent marks - not like the scars Azimio is surely to have. "Quinn is - she's at the hospital."
"Concussion?"
"They think so," she says. "She landed quite heavily on her left side, so they wanted to take her for an X-Ray and maybe an CT."
He hums. "Do you want me to get LeRoy to call to inquire about her level of care?"
She's tempted, but eventually declines. Wallingford and Dalton are to be kept separate. She made the decision, so she's going to stick to it.
Nearing the end of the call, Hiram reminds her to take her medication and tells her to get some sleep. It's Saturday, so breakfast is a little later, but she can't even think about food. Or sleep.
All she can think about is Quinn.
Really, she wants to think of little else.
Quinn has been hiding.
She was able to sneak into her room while the rest of the school was at the Sunday evening chapel service and then dinner, and she's been sitting on the edge of her bed ever since, her teeth clenched and her eyes tightly shut.
It hurts.
Everything just fucking hurts.
She loves it.
Rachel notices the light first. Her eyes already always automatically flick towards Quinn's bedroom door whenever she goes to her own, so, when she sees the light on under the door, her heart leaps into her throat.
Quinn.
With trembling fingers, she crosses the corridor towards the Head Student's door. She isn't even sure what she's going to say to her, but she knows she has to see her. So, steeling herself, she knocks lightly, and immediately opens the door.
The room is dimly lit from Quinn's bedside lamp, and the girl is sitting on the edge of her bed, completely still. Quinn barely looks up when Rachel steps inside and walks towards her, once again dropping to her knees in front of the blonde.
It's a familiar position, and they both find surprising comfort in it.
"Hey," Rachel whispers, getting her attention.
Quinn's eyes meet hers slowly, her face slightly pinched in obvious pain. "Hi."
"When did you get back?"
"An hour ago."
Rachel wants to touch her, so she does. She slides a gentle palm over her calf and massages lightly. It's all she can do not to react to the sight of Quinn's left arm in an ugly, green cast and held securely in a sling.
"I'm broken," Quinn whispers.
Rachel meets her gaze once more. "Concussion?"
"Mild."
"Shoulder?"
"Dislocated."
Rachel shakes her head. "Arm?"
"Fractured radius."
She hisses in response, taking note of Quinn's laboured breathing. "Ribs?"
"Bruised."
She breathes out. "I'm so sorry, Quinn."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Why are you apologising?"
"This is my fault."
"No, it's not," she immediately argues. "This is not your fault, okay?"
Rachel says nothing as her hand slides up over Quinn's knee and along the top of her thigh. They both watch the movement with focused eyes, neither of them willing to make it to stop.
"Are you in pain?" Rachel asks, which they both know is an unnecessary question.
Quinn doesn't bother to respond.
Rachel moves her hand from Quinn's thigh to her cheek, feeling the soft skin under her fingertips. "Regardless of what you think about what happened, I still owe you," she says. "I don't - I can't even think about what would have happened if you - "
"Rachel," she cuts her off. "Stop, okay? It happened, and I'm just glad you're okay, okay?"
Rachel rises to her full height while still on her knees and shuffles forward, forcing Quinn's legs apart. She moves in close and carefully wraps her arms around Quinn's neck, drawing her into a gentle hug. For a moment, she panics, thinking this is the absolute worst thing to be doing, but then she feels the soothing pressure of Quinn's right hand at the small of her back, and they both relax into the embrace.
"Thank you," Rachel whispers against her skin.
Quinn just sighs, resting her chin against Rachel's shoulder. "Rachel - "
"I don't care what you say," Rachel murmurs, gently interrupting. "I'm saying thank you and you're accepting it."
Quinn's eyes slip closed, the fight leaving her. "Yes, dear."
Much to Santana's long-suffering annoyance, Rachel spends a worrying amount of time with Quinn during the first week of her recovery. Whether it's out of guilt or some sick sense of masochism, the Latina doesn't know, but she finds it bothers her to no end. Whether it's to do with Quinn or to do with Rachel, she's unsure.
Santana watches them carefully, searching and waiting for the moment their tentative 'coupling' explodes, because they all know it's going to. It's only a matter of time before one of them loses patience with the other, because Quinn is a terrible patient and Rachel is a doting carer.
It's inevitable, really.
Something's got to give.
It happens a week later while Rachel is walking Quinn back to her room after a long day of classes. The corridors are relatively empty, given that everyone else is on their way or already at their extracurriculars. Rachel's risking being late for her own dance lesson to make sure Quinn gets safely to her bedroom, and it's a truth not lost on either of them.
For some reason, it irritates Quinn. She doesn't want Rachel to have to adjust her schedule for her. She doesn't want her to feel as if she has to. All of this; it's suffocating, and she can't seem to accept that Rachel is doing any of it because she wants to, and not because she feels obligated to.
"I think people have finally stopped staring," Rachel says conversationally.
Quinn snorts. "At you, or at me?"
Rachel tilts her head in thought. "Both," she finally decides. It's not as if they're that far from each other, anyway.
"I suppose it helps that all the disciplinary hearings are over as well," she says, referring to the procedure they've all been pulled through to get to the bottom of the incident and execute the appropriate punishment.
It's safe to say Azimio Adams will not be bothering them again. Suspension was never going to be an option, and all three boys were handed expulsions, effective immediately. Rachel's never been more relieved not to have to walk through the corridors and see their stupid faces.
Just another difference between Dalton and Wallingford.
"How do you feel about that?" Rachel asks, her voice quiet.
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "What are you my therapist now?"
Rachel shakes her head, unsure if Quinn is actually teasing her or not. "I'm just wondering how you're doing, Quinn."
"I'm fine."
Rachel wants to call her out, and, without heading her own warning, she does.
And, predictably, it escalates quickly, with Quinn on the hurt defensive and Rachel on the persistent offensive. Questions are asked and deflected, demanded and avoided, under Quinn practically growls in frustration and distaste as she grabs for her bag off Rachel's shoulder and squares up to the brunette.
"Nobody asked you to do any of this! Dammit, Berry, I can take care of myself!" she snaps. "God knows I've been doing it long enough!"
Rachel is left utterly dumbfounded when Quinn storms off without once looking back. What the hell? She's tempted to call after her, but the sound of slow clapping stops her, and she spins around to find a blond boy lounging on one of the window sills, his knowing eyes on her.
"Well done," the boy says, ceasing his clapping.
Rachel furrows her brow. "Excuse me?"
"I said well done," he repeats, sliding his feet to the ground and rising. "In all the time I've known Quinn Fabray, I don't think I've ever seen her react so... strongly. So, congratulations."
Rachel feels supremely uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, but, uh, who are you?"
The moves towards her. "How rude of me," he says, holding out his hand. "The name's Sam Evans. I think we have World Geography together."
Rachel shakes his hand, somewhat distractedly. "Rachel Berry," she says. Then, her curiosity getting the better of her, she asks, "You know Quinn?"
"I don't think anyone actually knows Quinn," he says, somewhat darkly. "But, yes, I suppose I do. We dated for a couple of months sophomore year."
"Oh."
He gives her a curious look. "Don't worry," he says. "I'm sure my relationship with her is long forgotten. It was more of a show, really. She was never quite into me, you know?"
No, Rachel doesn't know, but she still nods.
"Like I was saying, I've never seen anyone quite get under her skin the way you do," he says. "It's kind of funny, in a truly not funny way."
Rachel isn't sure what to make of any of this conversation.
"She's a special one, that Quinn Fabray," he says wistfully. "She doesn't let just anyone in close enough to see it, so I'd be careful, if I were you."
Rachel swallows audibly, unsure how she feels hearing things her subconscious already knows.
"You keep pushing and pushing," he says, almost conversationally. "It's all good and innocent now, but you don't know her at all. You keep calling her out for always being in control, but you have absolutely no idea what she's been through. You don't know how alone she forces herself to feel, so the guilt doesn't eat her alive. You don't know anything.
"Because, if you did, you wouldn't push as much as you do. She may look strong, but she's fragile, and you need to be careful, Rachel Berry." He closes his eyes for a moment. "I get scared that, one of these days, you're going to push just hard enough for her to fall off the edge."
Once again, Rachel is left shocked, rooted to the spot, as another blond head walks away from her.
What the hell?
Like, just, what the actual hell?
Without even realising it, Rachel's opinion of Quinn changes.
Everything she thinks she knows, she probably doesn't. In the beginning, she thought she could see something she recognised in Quinn's eyes, but now she knows better.
Quinn is different to her.
Quinn's darkness is darker.
It's the horrible, beautiful kind.
Rachel knows this is unhealthy for her, pining over a girl who, even if she did harbour any kind of feelings for her, would probably never act on them. Quinn has many a number of secrets, and Rachel isn't going to disillusion herself into thinking Quinn would ever tell her.
She talks to her father about it, and then she talks to her mother. Rachel's relationship with Shelby has grown strained over the years, since the divorce and since Rachel prefers to be in New Haven County with her father, but they've been trying to repair it since the... incident.
Daughters need their mothers for those kinds of things.
These days, they talk more and Shelby has more patience for Rachel's dramatics and Rachel has stopped comparing her parents to each other the way self-absorbed children tend to do. The main thing is that they do communicate better than they have since the divorce.
So, when Rachel calls Shelby to talk, they both know it's serious.
Rachel explains the situation in its entirety, even going so far as to mention her worries about pushing Quinn too far. The conflict comes from the idea that Quinn wants to be pushed, and Rachel is at a loss as to what to do.
"I think she's noticed," Rachel says, curling a strand of hair around her forefinger as she lies on her bed. "I mean, I feel all this anxiety and guilt whenever I feel like disagreeing with her now. I mean, we haven't even really spoken about the Adams thing, and I swear Sam Evans is haunting me. I went my entire Dalton career without really noticing him, and now he's everywhere." She growls in frustration. "I just feel so... I don't even know, Mom. What am I supposed to do?"
Shelby waits a moment. "I think you're making this more complicated than it is, Honey," she says. "Why don't you just talk to her?"
She huffs in annoyance. "You sound like Brittany."
"She's a smart kid."
"Don't tell her that," she warns; "it'll go straight to her head."
Shelby chuckles, the sound dangerously similar to Rachel's. "I don't know what you want me to say. I think you already know what you have to do and say, and you're just looking for somebody to give you another option."
Rachel takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "Well, I know what I want to say and do, but those are very different to what I know I have to say and do."
"Why?"
Rachel doesn't have enough time in the world to explain that, so she doesn't even bother. "I've been thinking of inviting her home for Thanksgiving," she says.
Shelby is quiet for a moment. "What did your father say?"
"He's fine with it," she says. "They all are, actually. They want to meet her, apparently, which is actually a little terrifying."
"I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to ask her then," she says. "The worst that could happen is she already has plans."
Rachel hums. That definitely is not the worst that could happen, but who's counting?
"Just talk to her, Honey," Shelby finishes. "If I've learned anything through my many, many failed relationships; it's that communication is key."
"I hear you, Mom."
"I think you do."
Rachel hasn't really talked to Quinn since the day she met Sam. She's been trying to give the girl space, but she thinks she's overcorrecting because she can't even recall the last time she knocked on her door when she stands right in front of it, waiting.
Hmm.
After a quick knock, a 'come in' sounds from behind the door, and Rachel enters the room expecting to find Quinn at her desk or lying on the floor.
She does not expect to find Quinn Fabray in running gear.
"What on earth are you doing?" Rachel immediately asks.
Quinn gives her an incredulous look. "Going for a run."
"Absolutely not," she hisses. "You're injured."
"I'm fine."
"Quinn," she says, closing the door behind her. "Please be logical about this. I know it sucks not being able to play sport, okay, but you're barred from playing for a reason. It's barely been three weeks. How much healing can you honestly expect to have done in that amount time?"
"I'm fine," she dismisses.
Rachel blocks the door, leaning against it and shaking her head. "Why? Tell me why you're insisting on potentially aggravating your injuries."
Quinn clenches her jaw. "You don't understand. I need to run," she says. "I'm going crazy in here."
"There are other things you can do."
"Like what?"
"I don't know," she says, exasperated. "Read a book, watch a movie, play some chess. Just, not anything physical."
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "Anything physical, huh?"
Rachel forces herself not to blush. "I will consistently fight you on this, so please can you just stand down, okay? There will be no running occurring today. You may as well put on your pyjamas."
They stare each other down for the longest time, and Rachel actually - and surprisingly - wins. Quinn mutters something under her breath, spins and stalks towards her closet. Unnecessarily violently, she removes clothes from a shelf and then disappears into her bathroom to change.
Rachel is both disappointed and relieved.
Sensing the victory, she pushes off the door and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. She's unsure if her presence will still be welcome but she's going to stay, anyway. There are things they need to talk about. Her mother and Brittany would be so proud.
When Quinn comes back out, she's in a purple t-shirt and sweatpants, her feet covered in purple socks and her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She's ridiculously stunning.
"You're still here," Quinn deadpans.
Rachel nods once. "I need to talk to you about something," she says, patting the space beside her. "Come sit with me for a minute."
"Only a minute?" she questions as she crosses the small space and settles next to Rachel.
"Maybe a little more," she allows.
"What's wrong?"
Rachel wrings her fingers together in her lap. "I have to admit that I've been... struggling with this entire thing," she begins. "I'm - I'm not like you, who can just sweep it under the rug and move on without actually dealing with it."
Quinn can barely look at her.
"I know you must have your reasons, but it worries me that you just hold everything inside the way you do. I've been a right mess, really, walking on egg shells around you because I'm the one who's supposed to push you, but I just - I can't."
"Then you don't have to," Quinn offers, as if it's the simplest solution. "You don't have to do it anymore."
"But I want to."
"You're confusing me."
"Sam mentioned that - "
"What?" Quinn cuts her off, recoiling. "Sam? Sam Evans?" At Rachel's nod, Quinn grows pale. "You talked to Sam?"
Rachel doesn't know what to make of her reaction. "Umm, well, he actually talked to me, and he mentioned that - "
"I don't want to know," she forces out, lifting her right hand to stop Rachel. "I don't want to know what you two discussed."
"Quinn," she says, taking hold of both the blonde's hands. "Can you just wait a minute, please? He didn't really tell me anything I didn't already know or suspect. I already knew about the self-harm, remember?"
Quinn tenses, not used to it being talked about so freely.
"I just didn't think there was a chance it would be a little more serious than that."
Quinn raises her eyebrows. "He made you think I was five seconds away from offing myself?"
"Well, I wouldn't exactly put it as crudely as that but, essentially, yes."
"Jesus, Berry, if I was going to do that, I can assure you I would already be gone."
Rachel bristles. "I'm sorry, but that doesn't make me feel any better about this."
"It's not meant to."
Before Rachel can reply, Quinn's phone starts to ring, and the ringtone immediately alerts the blonde to who it is. The way her face slips on the mask of nothing is unnerving to Rachel, but she doesn't comment as Quinn rises and retrieves her phone from her desk.
"Hello, Mother," Quinn answers, keeping her back to Rachel. "It's fine. Yes, I am. I have." Quinn sighs, her shoulders slumping, and all Rachel wants to do is go to her and wrap her in the warmth of her arms. "Of course. It makes perfect sense. It's only a few days, anyway. I'll be fine. You too."
When the call ends, there's a beat of tense silence, and then Quinn spins quickly and flings her phone at her bed, making Rachel duck, even though it was nowhere near her. It's enough for Rachel to know the contents of the phone call.
Quinn is staying here for Thanksgiving.
Well, not if Rachel has any say in the matter.
A moment later, Quinn crumples right before her eyes, her knees buckling and forcing her to lean against her desk. It's a mixture of physical and emotional pain, and Rachel is up in an instant, rushing towards her.
"Quinn," she says, trying to catch her gaze. "Quinn, talk to me."
Quinn shakes her head. "I need you to go," she says. "Please, go."
"I'm not leaving you," Rachel argues. "Something's obviously wrong, and I'm not leaving you. I'm not going anywhere, so you're just going to have to deal with it."
"Why are you so fucking stubborn?" she asks, but there's absolutely no bite behind it.
"It's in my genes," she simply says, reaching out and pinching the fabric of Quinn's t-shirt between her thumb and forefinger.
Quinn sighs. "I really don't want to fight with you, right now."
"Then accept that I'm staying."
Quinn's eyes finally meet hers. "I have no choice, do I?"
"None, whatsoever."
Quinn lifts her right hand to run the backs of her fingers against Rachel's smooth cheek. "I sometimes wonder if you're real."
"I'm real."
"I don't deserve your patience."
"I'm the furthest thing from patient," she says, leaning into Quinn's touch before her hand falls away. "I'm annoyingly persistent."
"I'll give you that one."
Rachel's fingers release the t-shirt, and she spreads her palm across Quinn's abdomen, pressing down and feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Can I talk to you about something else, then?"
"I feel like I don't have a choice."
Rachel risks a step closer, adding slight pressure to her hand, wary of the still-healing ribs beneath her fingers. "I want you to come home with me for Thanksgiving."
Quinn's eyes widen. "What?"
She blinks, unsure what to make of that reaction. "Unless you have plans, of course," she adds. "But, umm, this is an invitation to come home with me. My parents would like to meet the girl who took on three football players for me."
Quinn turns beet red at the sound of that. "You told them about that?"
"I tend to tell them everything," she confesses. "It's a problem, sometimes."
Quinn smiles sadly. "I can't talk to my parents about anything," she says.
"Then, well, you can talk to mine."
She chuckles softly. "Are you sure you want me to come with you?"
"I'm sure."
"And your parents are definitely okay with it?"
"Fully supportive."
Quinn's eyes light up slightly, the 'yes' on the tip of her tongue. Then: "Wait, how would we be getting there?" she asks, tensing.
"Probably by train."
She visibly shudders.
"Not a fan?"
"One could say that," she admits quietly. "I can't do trains, Rachel. I just can't."
Rachel is desperate to know the reason why, but the scared look in Quinn's eyes stops her from asking. "I'm sure we can figure something out, okay?"
"You shouldn't have to change your plans for me," she argues immediately.
"I should, and I will," she counters right back. "I'm not about to force you to do something you don't want to do. We'll figure something out, okay?"
"When I was younger, they contemplated just sedating me for the entire trip," she offers with a small grin.
Rachel taps her abdomen in platitude. "We'll save that for Plan B, okay?"
"Maybe it should be Plan F," she grumbles.
Rachel smiles warmly. "But, just to clarify, that is a yes, right?"
Quinn nods, her hand coming to rest over Rachel's on her abdomen. "It's a yes."
"Good," she murmurs, her hand warming at Quinn's touch. It feels nice, safe, like home. "Good."
"You already said that."
"And, I mean it."