Faithful are the Wounds
Author: pratz
Disclaimer: RIB's.
Note: Basically, I just want to address how canon!Quinn seems too lively for someone who's just experienced a series of the hardest hardships in life. On a different note, I still don't have a beta, and I'm still taking this fic slow. However, I've roughly drafted the next three chapters, so I hope I can update faster. Now, do let me know what you think, good readers.
-.-.-.-
Chapter 3
Hand-holding was a serious business, Rachel decided.
Take Quinn, for example. Holding Quinn's hand when she was sedated was one thing, Rachel realized, but holding her hand when she was awake was an entirely different subject.
"Yes?" Santana glared.
"I had rehearsals," she repeated. Lame, she knew it. Quinn had been released from the hospital for a week now, and today it was announced that she was going back to school. The glee club had prepared for a welcome party, and here she was: a captain who had been not-so good in practicing what she preached about the club being a family.
"Doesn't justify the fact that you've been chickening out—again," Santana spat. "So here's what you're going to do today, dwarf. You're going to be there in today's practice, you're going to take the front seat with your dopey-faced fiancé, and you're going to see Quinn when she's up and fully aware of her surroundings."
Rachel could not help squirming under the scrutiny of Santana's heated glare, but she held her tongue until Santana passed her with a scowl. Yet she did not even have a chance to exhale in relief when Finn appeared at the end of the corridor. Not exactly the person she wanted to see after a confrontation with Satan herself, that is.
He landed a quick peck against her lips, but she felt only the breeze of it, head still spinning from the force of truth of Santana's words. It was not until Finn mentioned the possibility of their future wedding that she snapped back to reality.
"I can't stop thinking about Quinn," she blurted out.
Finn looked taken aback, but she did not give him a chance to respond.
"She's—she's got in an accident when she's coming to our wedding, and—and—" Great, now she was stuttering. "I've practiced some apology speeches and I've considered making her cookies, but today she's coming back to school and I'm not sure if I can face her if she's—"
"—right behind you," Finn finished.
She whirled around to see the devil they were speaking of. Though the title is better for me, she corrected mentally.
The last time she had seen Quinn was about three days ago—Santana did not need to know that, though. She had snuck into the hospital, intending to just see how Quinn had progressed from her latest surgery. She stopped in front of Quinn's room, catching up soft voices of people talking inside. She recognized Santana's and an older feminine one's. Judy Fabray, she presumed. The blinds were not closed properly, so she could make out their figures. Quinn was sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to the window. A improvement, Rachel had initially thought and wanted to shout in joy, but the idea died quicker than she was able to open her mouth as Judy helped Quinn lift her hospital gown.
Long, crisscrossed surgery scars ran from the small of Quinn's back to the area between her shoulder blades and reached around her torso that Rachel could not see, marking Quinn forever for the accident she survived and the multiple injuries she recovered from. The skin wrinkled around the stitches, and some discolorations were still visible even though they had begun to fade.
She watched Judy lift Quinn's arms one by one to help her put on a sweater. She watched Santana look away as Quinn let out a soft 'ow' when her left arm was raised a bit too high for her comfort. She watched Quinn pull her hair free from the collar of her sweater and was about to turn to look at the window. And she, in lack of better words, chickened out—again—dramatically to the safe refugee of her bedroom and locked herself until Leroy came knocking to announce that dinner was ready.
So now she braced herself for a scolding... that never came.
Instead, Quinn's smile made her frozen on the spot, imaginary jaw on the floor.
Then Quinn talked about her almost being on the obituary page of their yearbook and God's grace and the day being the happiest day of her life, and Rachel's imaginary jaw dug its way deeper into the ground.
Quinn took her leave as Artie approached, saying that she was looking forward to seeing Rachel and Finn in the evening session.
Finn recovered first from the shock—she had to give him credit, really. "What was that?"
Wordless and bewildered, Rachel further dreaded the glee club's evening session.
Which looked normal, by the way.
Really, Rachel? Her inner self snickered in disbelief. Really?
But it did. Everybody was there. Quinn sang a duet with Artie, and though the title of the song was ironic, it was an uplifting number. Everybody went to give Quinn a hug right after she finished her speech about her body's road to recovery; in addition, her promise to dance on the Nationals was so Quinn Fabray that even Rachel believed in it. Santana's hug lasted the longest, and her glare towards Rachel was less hostile than this morning. Then they all proceeded to end the session with a promise to stick together closer, stronger, for the better. It all looked normal.
Well, again, it did—until the invisible hands of reality dropped the bomb the following day.
Everybody immediately clamped shut as 'Quinn, I'm so sorry' escaped her mouth.
Quinn's smile froze for a brief moment, and Rachel died a little bit more inside.
She rambled on about how wrong it was to discuss the glee club's plan for their senior ditch day while Quinn was wheelchair-bound. Really, had everybody gone crazy and become the worst ignoramus the world had ever seen? Was it even logical to discuss possible outings when not all of them could join? Was it not far from being sympathetic for even having this kind of discussion just a day after Quinn's return?
The silence that followed was deafening. Finn's hands hovered above her shoulders, close to touching distance but that was all. Kurt looked uncomfortable in his seat for a reason Rachel did not know. Santana looked like she was anticipating for the next drone bomb. And she—she could not bear to look at Quinn even though she was only two feet away.
"Come here."
It was firm, accompanied by a sharp tilt of Quinn's head, but it rang all the more thunderously in Rachel's ears.
Quinn was looking at her in the eye. Waiting. Inviting her to come to her. Opening her arms as—oh God—she asked for a hug.
Still speechless, scared and horrified, her feet moved on autopilot. Standing in front of Quinn, she knew her friends were watching, holding their breaths. Her hands clenched and unclenched on her sides, giving away her anxiety.
All it took to make her dive in for a hug was that small lift at one of the corners of Quinn's mouth. Then Quinn, chuckling softly, said, "Come on." Quinn's smile was genuine, unlike her blinding ones back then in the corridor. Now this was the Quinn that she knew. This—this was—
And she broke.
The hug, relieving as it was, was short-lived as Quinn pulled back and started on another speech about how she did not want to be the reason the glee club did not undergo the ditch day tradition. Puck appraised her decision, and tension gave way to enthusiasm. Now this is normal, Rachel thought.
Except that all the time Quinn did not let go of her hand.
-.-.-.-
How do you explain laughter?
Simple. It was a reaction to a series of stimuli such as jokes or tickles or other positive emotional states. The sound it produced bubbled from the diaphragm, rose to the throat, and finally erupted through the mouth. It was most often a visual expression of amusement. A good amount of laughter was an indicator of joy, and it was healthy.
From behind one of the pillars in the school library, she saw Artie coach Quinn to keep going on to take the ramp on the south wing of McKinley High. She saw him high-five Quinn as she conquered the steepest ramp in McKinley High. Just like pushing a baby out, he said, to which Quinn responded playfully that she did not want him to make her laugh.
But why wouldn't she?
She had never heard or seen Quinn laugh so openly, but she decided that it was going at the speed of sound to be one of her favorite sounds in the world. The sound of Quinn's laughter was typically alto, throaty and a little rough at the edge. It has a certain lilt, and the repertoire of the pitch ranged from deep chuckles to almost hysterical screeches—though Rachel admittedly frowned at that. Quinn's laughter was sort of an embodiment of all she knew about laughter.
And more.
"Ready to go?"
She turned to find Finn grinning enthusiastically at her. Sighing, she moved from her spot. Six Flags was waiting, after all.
Too bad it did not provide world's most intriguing laughter.
-.-.-.-
Kurt once told her that he often wondered whether she suffered from Multiple Personalities Disorder. Well, truth be told, she was indeed tempted to check herself in for an appointment with a psychologist. It was not like she realized she was psychologically challenged, no—people were not capable of detecting disorders by themselves, after all. It was just that sometimes she went from one extreme to another in a blink of eye. Take her fiancé, for example. One moment she was eager to marry him; the next second she was texting her maid of honor, rushing her to come the wedding, and throwing the wedding—and her fiancé, to some extent—to the wind as she heard about said maid of honor's accident.
She frowned. Bad, bad example, Rachel. She did not want to think about the wedding much less the accident.
Okay. What about this? What about being a total coward for weeks and suddenly finding the guts to approach the person who's somehow involved in making me a total coward?
It's not a disorder; it's called irrationality, her inner self supplied.
Kurt would have been so proud of her mental banter, really.
"Rachel?"
She abruptly jumped to her feet at the mention of her name in that voice. "Hi, Quinn."
The wheelchair-bound girl eyed her suspiciously, but Rachel had long been used to Quinn's first stage of defense mechanism. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I'm picking you up. I've called your mother and let her know that as I'm passing your therapy center, I'm more than glad to drive you home in her stead." Smooth, Rachel.
"How did you—" Then Quinn launched herself to the second stage of her defense mechanism: anger. "Save your nurse game for someone else."
Rachel blinked, totally not expecting Quinn's reaction. "No! It's not like that!" Why would Quinn think so?
Duh, her mind berated. Because you're still in your outfit for Six Flags, slow brain.
Oh. Her mind had sounded more and more like Santana lately, especially with the name-calling, but at least it always told her the truth no matter how unenthusiastic she was to listen to it. She inhaled deeply. "I don't have any ill intentions, Quinn. I really am here because I want to."
"The ditch day?"
"Done," she said. "Everybody's gone home. Or, in some cases, has proceeded with a Breadsticks date." She did not mention that she had immediately driven to the therapy center right after Finn had dropped her in her house. "How's therapy today?"
Shrugging, Quinn pointed at the duffle bag on her lap. "Like a Cheerio practice with so much more manhandling."
"What?"
Quinn waved dismissively at her, and Rachel realized that she was just joking. That in its entirety was more than enough to bring on another jaw drop. She hoped it was not counted as a symptom of insanity.
I told you it's called irrationality, her mind replied—and was properly ignored.
"Um—do you have to time for a brief visit?" Steering back the conversation to her original plan sounded great for now. "And by brief, I promise it's really going to be brief."
Quinn was considering, she knew. "You owe me coffee for three days."
"Deal," she swiftly agreed. "Shall we?" She pointed to the handles of Quinn's wheelchair, wanting to push Quinn to her car.
"I can do it myself." Quinn started and was ahead of her in no time.
Sighing, Rachel fell into steps beside her. Even though all-smile-Quinn was relatively pleasant to have around, she was more familiar with grumpy-Quinn. At least this one she knew how to handle.
She opened the door for Quinn but waited if Quinn would ask her to help her get on the car. Quinn locked the wheels and grabbed the car's hand bar to hoist herself, and the next second she was sitting neatly in the passenger's seat. Rachel could not help admiring the smoothness of her moves.
"Stop gaping and help me fold the chair," Quinn said.
"Oh! Right. I'm sorry." Then she looked down at the wheelchair. "Um—I believe you need to assist me."
Listening to Quinn's instruction of how to fold her wheelchair was so unlike the previous experiences of arguing and singing with her, and Rachel was struck by how fast Quinn mastered the art of adapting to a new life. Weeks before she had listened to Quinn's letting her know firsthand of her Yale acceptance. Weeks before she had steadfastly been holding on to the idea that a marriage was the only option she had to keep her afloat amidst her NYADA hopes and fears.
And look at where they were and what they were doing today.
Her eyes stung, but she managed to keep her tears at bay.
She drove in a slow speed to the place that had been her intention since she had listened to Quinn's laughter yesterday. Quinn seemed to notice, though, as she told Rachel that while she was still anxious to be in a car—much less being in the driver's seat, her nightmares were less frequent nowadays.
"You have nightmares," she repeated quietly, feeling much worse than the time she started planning this.
"Look," Quinn cut in. "I've accepted it already. I was the one who chose to text you back. You didn't cause my accident, okay? Deal with it."
She opened her mouth to counter that no, she did not believe Quinn had accepted it, but they had arrived to the destination. "We're here." Without waiting for Quinn's instruction, she bolted to get Quinn's wheelchair from the back seat, set it up, and almost offered Quinn a hand to get her settled in the wheelchair.
But she held back.
Quinn looked at the house. "And this is?"
"A friend's," she said. "Well, to be more correctly, he's Finn's friend first before I was introduced to him."
A kind looking middle-aged woman opened the door for them. Rachel hugged the woman briefly, apologizing that she had not been able to visit for quite a long time, before she motioned to Quinn behind her. Tearing up at the gesture, the woman ushered them inside and led them to a room.
"Sean, Rachel's here."
"Send her in, Mom!"
Rachel had long realized that she was not above playing dirty to get what she wanted. She was not proud of it, but she was also not going to deny it. The moment she stepped aside to let Quinn inside, the way Quinn's eyes widened and her face paled made her immediately torn between wanting to make Quinn stay and bring her away from the place.
Hey, sometimes evil was necessary, her inner voice defended.
"Sean, this is Quinn Fabray." She turned to the blonde. "Quinn, meet Sean Fretthold."
-.-.-.-
Thankfully, it was Sean who took the initiative to break the uncomfortable silence. "Looking good, Rachel," he greeted. "And Quinn, isn't it? How're you?" At getting nothing in reply, he continued, still in that easy tone that Rachel wished would unfreeze Quinn. "Bet Rachel didn't tell you."
If I did, she wouldn't even want to come, she answered silently, watching in worry as the walls Quinn had built around herself shot up back just like whenever they had an argument.
"Does Quinn sing, too, Rach?"
"Yes. The best alto we have in the glee club—Belinda Carlisle and all."
"That good, huh?" Sean grinned.
"How?"
Sean went quiet, and Rachel dreaded the moment he answered Quinn's question. If Santana was a hand grenade with a short fuse, Quinn was a landmine: covered beneath so many layers but equivalently lethal. A wrong move would result in nothing but a disaster.
Then, if anything, Sean's flashed a gentle smile, the wisdom in his eyes beyond his age. "Rachel really didn't tell you anything, did she?" He shook his head a little. "Well, let's just say that I went from being tackled to the ground in a football match to thinking that wheeling is much better than being bound to this sorry bed."
"I—" Quinn started, but she closed her mouth again, expression hardening.
Sean laughed. "But I grow fonder of it, actually."
"I'm different!" Quinn snapped. "This is temporary! I'll walk again and I'll—"
"I used to think like that, too," Sean interjected gently. "Just to, you know, torture myself."
"Sean," Rachel tried to intervene. Perhaps this was not a good idea as she had thought it would be.
Sean focused on Quinn once more. "I know you're different. Heck, you won't survive in Rachel's crazy club if you aren't. No hard feeling, though." He laughed again. "I wouldn't want you to be someone you're not, and I'm sure Rachel here doesn't want it either."
"What if I don't know how to be someone I really am?" Quinn whispered, bitterness and self-hatred creeping into her voice.
"That's not for me to answer," Sean said. "Rachel, can you get that album on the desk—no, not that one—the one on your left. Right, that's it. Now, Quinn," he paused, "Finn gave me this picture of your glee club's winning team. What was it? Sectionals? Regionals?"
Rachel opened the album for them, searching for the aforementioned picture. It was a picture of the glee club, the boys clad in red shirt and the girls in black and white dress, in the Sectionals. Quinn was a lead at that time, and they won solidly. And, more importantly, it led to the first time she held Quinn's hand when they were celebrating their victory by singing Dog Days are Over.
She watched as a myriad of emotions flashed through Quinn' face, making it more difficult to read than ever.
"And I love the picture, you know. You all looked amazing," Sean said. "I guess that's how people look when they really live their lives."
"I don't—" Quinn could not continue.
"This," Sean looked down to point at the blanket that covered him and to Quinn's wheelchair, "matters, Quinn. It really does. But it doesn't define who you are. So live."
-.-.-.-
Their journey home was even more chilling than the moment they entered Sean's room, air crackling with barely concealed frustration and irritation, the atmosphere strangling. Quinn refused to talk to her at all since they left the Frettholds' house, and Rachel wondered if she once again returned to being the girl who sent Sunshine to a crack house merely because she was too selfish.
"Pull off the road."
"I'm sorry?"
"Pull. Off. The road," Quinn said through gritted teeth. "Now."
Okay, here comes Normandy.
Shut up, she snapped at her Santana-like inner self.
Obediently, she pulled off the road and parked safely, waiting.
Apparently, Quinn did not waste time. "Happy now, Rachel?" she hissed. "Satisfied playing Mother Teresa?"
"Quinn, I—"
"Save it," Quinn dismissed her harshly, slamming herself back onto the seat, wincing when apparently the collision ended up being a bit too hard. "Just—just drive."
She considered doing what Quinn asked her to, but she decided to go against it. "Do you think I'm not happy to see you return to the club? Do you think I'm not happy that you—" didn't die, she wanted to say, shuddering, "are back?"
"Then this is all about you," Quinn retorted just as vehemently. "I told you I didn't blame you, and this is what you do? You're just using me to clear your conscience off your guilt!"
"I—what—no!" At the sight of Quinn's imminent tears, she fished out the piece of paper that she had long prepared to show Quinn from the pocket of her coat. Wordlessly, she handed it to Quinn, who received and began to read what was printed on it. "You promised me that, and I don't see you're doing it, not with all the bright smile and fake optimism and obvious evasion of certain subjects you put as a front! And if you think I take pleasure in having to introduce you to Sean just to make you see, clearly you underestimate your own worth!"
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe, Rachel. Just breathe.
Quinn did not cry and her hand didn't shake, but Rachel's sharp ears picked up the hitch in her breath and the slight tremble in her voice.
"'When I stand before thee at the day's end,' Quinn read, "'thou shalt see my scars—'
"'—and know that I had my wounds and also my healing,' Rachel finished softly. "I don't even read Tagore, you know. You're the one who gave it to me. You forgave me even before I found the courage to apologize. You told me before that you wanted to support me. And you did even when you're subjected to a worse circumstance."
Quinn was quiet.
"I—I don't know if I can help. Or be any kind of help, that is. But I want to." She took a pause. "I get that you don't want my apology, but I want to support you. To see your scars. To know your wounds. To—to know your healing."
Quinn inhaled in a shuddering breath. Slowly, she folded the paper and looked away. None of them seemed courageous enough to break the silence lest it would result in another emotional wreck, but Rachel knew better from the way Quinn's shoulders sag.
"Tagore is a bitch, isn't he?"
She could even hear the smile, really. "But a brave bitch nonetheless."
Quinn reached out to tap the folded paper to Rachel's hand and enveloped Rachel's in her own. "Keep it. It's meant for you, after all."
"So I owe you coffee for three days, right?"
"A week."
"Deal, deal."
This time nobody let go of each other's hand—until she dropped Quinn in her home, that is.
A serious business, indeed.
-.-.-.-
Next chapter preview:
"Quinn, you don't understand. I'm going to have to sing with Santana. Santana! She's going to kill me if I mess up since she's a grenade personified!"
"And your fiancé is a time bomb. You'll make a good bomb-defusing specialist, Rachel."