Fic: Turn Away
Title: Turn Away
Author: antipamphlet
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R
Length: 6000
Spoilers: None/Kinda all
Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Fox and not to me. Title and lyrics taken from Turn Away which belongs to Bronski Beat.
Summary: 'She could wait hours or days in unerring calm before nudging Santana off the pyramid for implying that she had put on weight, and Rachel found it almost frightening - the way that Quinn didn’t, maybe couldn’t, forgive without getting her bit of vindication.'
A/N: Although I have checked it over, it's unbeta-ed so it will probably have some mistakes in it. Also there's a bit which is taken from Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, but I suppose if you've read it, you'll know it.
Turn Away
One thing Rachel learnt early on, when they were still in high school, was that Quinn, always and without fail, punished people when she felt they’d done her wrong. She could wait hours or days in unerring calm before nudging Santana off the pyramid for implying that she had put on weight, and Rachel found it almost frightening - the way that Quinn didn’t, maybe couldn’t, forgive without getting her bit of vindication.
The need has mellowed out over the years - Rachel hardly ever experiences it anymore. Every so often it rears its ugly head, but they’re both older and have been together for long enough not to feel the need to argue over everything.
Except they do argue, from time to time, and Quinn will stay out late with her friends from work to avoid her and leave Rachel in the flat to fume. She’ll sit for hours, brewing over how unfair it is that Quinn just wandered through high school, found herself in college and then slipped seamlessly into a steady job while Rachel has to scramble for each small role and doesn’t seem to really get anywhere. She knows that making it big takes time, has been told it often enough, and she’s never thought of giving up, but it doesn’t take away that subtle resentment that drives her to the bar downstairs.
Rachel sometimes just wants Quinn to hurt as much as she does, but she’s never played the game as well as Quinn does - a game in which Quinn is both player and judge, and Rachel doesn’t quite know the rules.
Rachel goes at everything with too much vigour - she wants too intensely - and with too little thought, instead of Quinn’s calculated and icy patience, which is why Rachel always ended up with coloured corn syrup sliding down her skin or as the target of pee balloons.
Which is why one night she ends up with unfamiliar hands grasping her hips, a too heavy body moving over hers while all she can think of is how the dim bedroom light is hurting her eyes - it’s too bright and it swims across her vision. She notes, rather blandly, that she’s drunk too much and that Quinn will probably berate her for it in the morning.
She doesn’t even hear the click of the lock as the door opens. The sound only soaks into her mind a few seconds after and only then does she let her head fall sideways to look.
Quinn’s face filters into view, drawn and pale with shock in the half-light and Rachel is suddenly a lot more lucid. She’s lucid enough to see the tears well up at the edge of Quinn’s eyes - they well up in her own, too - and that one quiver of her bottom lip, but her body is slow and sluggish.
Quinn is gone from the doorway before Rachel desperately pushes and untangles herself and soon - she can’t tell how soon, because her brain feels like it’s been filled with water - the man is gone too.
Only Rachel remains in the mess of sheets, breathing shallowly. She shakes away thoughts of Quinn’s despairing face, clouded images of the bar counter and lights and men and drinks, and promises to stay awake until Quinn returns.
-
There’s a slow creak of the floorboards, the creak of someone trying to move unnoticed. Rachel hears it faintly and curses herself for falling asleep.
Wrenching herself from the bed, too warm and sticky, she ignores her head-rush to stumble to the open doorway.
Her stomach drops painfully when she spies Quinn’s old duffle-bag sitting on the couch, all packed neatly. She wonders when Quinn entered the bedroom to retrieve her clothes, why she didn’t hear her, but decides it’s not important when she sees Quinn pulling items off the coffee table.
It’s quite obvious what she’s doing and Rachel doesn’t ever want to hear Quinn say it, but it seems that her mind and body aren’t cooperating, haven’t been doing so for the past several hours, because she vaguely hears herself ask.
“I’m moving out.”
Rachel’s left talking to a tense back because Quinn won’t turn around and Rachel’s not sure if she wants her to, if she wants to see the betrayal that is bound to stain Quinn’s face.
“Quinn -”
“What?”
“Qui -”
No words rise in her throat, just horrible heat in her chest as she takes slow steps towards her girlfriend, reaches out a small hand to brush against a stooped shoulder.
The crouched figure is on her feet immediately, swivelling and Rachel was right - she doesn’t want Quinn to look at her because Rachel sees none of the tenderness she is so used to.
Hazel eyes are cold and the rest of her face radiates anger as she flinches away from Rachel’s touch, darts away from where she’s standing. It hurts more than she had ever imagined - having someone she loves shrink from her, especially Quinn, who’s never once backed down from her.
She does now, though.
She skirts around for a few more minutes, ignoring Rachel, who watches her at every turn with wide eyes.
Only when she bends to pick up her bag does Rachel speak, realising she’s about to lose something she’s never dreamed of being separated from.
“Quinn. Please don’t leave.” Her voice is thick from sleep and tears and the blonde’s cuts it like a knife through butter.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Qui-, I love you.” It’s true and she compels Quinn to believe it, but the standing woman sobs out a laugh all the same.
“You cheated, Rachel. I walked into my flat to see my girlfriend,” her teeth pull at her top lip and her hand shakes while holding the bag, “with some man she doesn’t even know.”
Rachel chokes back more tears, says the only thing she can think of.
“I’m sor-”
“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.” Quinn yells and this time it’s Rachel who shrinks back from the figure trembling with barely suppressed rage. She’s surprised because Quinn hardly ever raises her voice and never at her - she can mostly get things done sharp sentences alone - and Rachel’s head is pounding. “Don’t you think I was sorry?”
Her voice drops to a whisper. Rachel wishes that she could take it all back, quell her stupid desire to watch Quinn ache, because Quinn’s drifting tears are breaking her, and Rachel’s already broken Quinn.
Instead of hot ire Quinn’s eyes rise with something hollow and dispassionate as, her face still wet and growing wetter, she reaches into her pocket.
“I’m leaving. I’ll be back to get my stuff.” She draws out her hand, tosses something to the ground while Rachel stares up at her. “You can have this. I don’t want it.”
Even when she’s upset, distraught, heartbroken, Quinn still knows how to make it hurt.
She sweeps out of the apartment, deaf to Rachel’s rueful entreaties and leaves her to drench the loose fabric of her shirt when she opens the little red box on the floor.
-
For once Rachel is thankful that she hasn’t landed a regular role yet. It gives her more time to hang around the flat, waiting for the sound of a key in the lock. She’s taken to sleeping on the couch, just in case Quinn comes back during the night to evade her.
She doesn’t know how many messages she’s left on Quinn’s cell, but the closest she’s got to a conversation was a hissed ‘stop’ to a call at midnight.
She doesn’t know where Quinn’s staying - she can guess - or what she’s doing or if Quinn’s still hers. So she spends three days mulling things over, revisiting memories of playful kisses, lazy mornings, easy nights and trying not to wonder if she’ll experience them again. It’s all very melodramatic, but she has no one to talk to - she still hates to tell anyone that she’s failed at something - and her thoughts just pile up until she’s about ready to burst.
When the handle does turn and the door swings open Rachel’s there in an instant.
Her smile falls when she sees that it’s Santana, regarding her coolly, and they share a moment of chilly appraisal before she moves off, back to her seat on the couch. They don’t talk as the Latina rummages around the flat, scooping stuff into a bag, her heels making that annoying clacking sound and her suit preventing her from reaching the shoes that Quinn keeps underneath the bed.
Rachel keeps her head turned to the side until the other woman is done and standing, hip cocked, in front of her. She can’t not look at her - propriety and all that.
“I knew you were no good for her.”
It’s ridiculous because no one ever thought that Rachel would be anything other than good for Quinn Fabray, after the disaster that was Quinn’s sophomore year. People might have been surprised, Mr Schuester might have gaped for an entire minute, but it didn’t stop them being that couple - the perfect couple in senior year, the only two who stayed together through college, despite arguments, papers and the three hour drive between Juilliard and Brown. The gleeks, once they had gotten used to the idea, had thought they would be the ones to last, and so had Rachel.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Oh my God, Berry. You can’t still be backward enough to think that an apology would fix this after what you did.”
Santana was always judging people, she never grew out of it, but this is the first time that Rachel feels the situation actually warrants it.
Her tone is all resignation when she admits, “No, I don’t,” so much so that Santana feels sorry for the pitiful brunette with dark rings under her eyes, until she remembers the forlorn blonde idly eating cereal at her kitchen counter.
She squares her shoulders, hoists the bag onto her hip and utters as disdainfully as she can, “Goodbye, Berry.”
“Tell Quinn that I love her,” floats behind her as she shuts the door and rests the back of her head on the wood. It’s sad, because she, like everyone else, sees how happy there are, were. She says they’re disgusting together, warns them half-heartedly that their cosy little state of affairs will only last so long, but she’s never actually believed it.
She doesn’t tell Quinn what Rachel said, doesn’t think that Rachel deserves it.
-
At the end of a lonely week Rachel dreams that Quinn is still sleeping next to her, always in a huge flannel shirt and with tousled hair splayed out on the pillow. She smiles languidly and strokes Rachel’s arm and the dream flows on in its constant placidity.
In the morning she dresses neatly, curls her hair and tries to wipe away the days of lethargy, and takes the bus to Quinn’s workplace. She’s sure that she’ll be there; Quinn never takes days off work, not even when she’s ill and has to run to the toilet every ten minutes.
She quells the discomfort in her gut and smiles widely at the secretary who points her in the direction of the right office. The whole room is full of files and files and files and staplers. She thinks it’s the wrong room until a blonde head pops up from behind a stack of papers and, just as quickly, pops back down again.
“What are you doing here, Rachel?”
Advancing around the desk she sits on the rickety chair opposite Quinn’s own and tries to look her in the eyes without trembling. She feels guilt, continuously. It haunts her, but it doesn’t make her want Quinn any less. It just makes her crave her all the more, makes her want to set things right.
Seeing her now in white shirt and black blazer, her hair pulled back into a ponytail - not as severe as the ones Coach Sylvester used to demand - and her complexion rather drained, Rachel’s sure she looks just as lovely as she did in her dream.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t want to see you.” Her eyes peer steadily at the lines of numbers in her file and Rachel’s suddenly desperate to have her attention again.
“I’m sorry,” she implores to Quinn’s bent head, “I didn’t mean to.” The first drip of tears creeps down her face. “I was angry and I had too much to drink. You know that I can’t take my alcohol and I fully realise that you-”
“Don’t ramble at me, Rachel. It won’t work.”
Of course Quinn knows how oddly charming her rants are and, at the minute, it’s the last thing that Quinn wants. She doesn’t want Rachel to try and skim over this like she hasn’t taken something important away from her.
“I never meant to hurt you and I’ll never do it again. I don’t know what I was doing in the first place, but I never thought that it would be like this.”
She can hardly see through her tears, but for a second she thought it looked like Quinn might reach over and comfort her. She runs a sleeve over her eyes, though, and Quinn just sits there looking distant. It’s something she does very well - she can just be utterly apathetic until she decides not to be.
This time, however, in the silence she gazes wistfully at the brunette, and murmurs softly.
“I never thought this would happen. Never. You ruined it.”
“We can fix it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then I can fix it. You don’t have to do anything. Just come back to the flat, and we’ll carry on like before.”
She takes Quinn’s silence as consideration and she searches falteringly in her bag while Quinn watches without deviation or reprieve until she pulls out the red velvet box, lays it on the desk.
“I thought that maybe I could give this back to you,” she nudges it with her fingertips, “and then one day you might give it back to me.”
The blonde stares at it with an unsteady look in her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek as they water a little, then shifts them back up to meet Rachel’s hope-filled ones.
“If you want it, Rachel, then keep it. I doubt I’d give it back to you.”
It doesn’t take a second for Rachel to burst into quiet whimpers again, but Quinn just looks on. It’s a horrible thing that she’d forgotten about Quinn; she can be cutting, completely uncaring of how much she hurts someone if she feels that they deserve it.
Rachel doesn’t feel like she deserves this, but she understands that Quinn didn’t deserve it either.
Still, she doesn’t expect Quinn to be so malicious as she regards Rachel impassively.
Grabbing the box, because Rachel’s sure that one day Quinn will revoke that sentiment, she stands. She’s not a quitter and she knows that one awful mistake won’t destroy them, or rather, she hopes that it won’t.
It just takes time, and this meeting’s too early - everything’s too raw.
Quinn remains seated, frowning. Rachel wonders if she wanted her to fight a little bit more, to prove that she was sorry, but right now she’s too upset.
At the door she stops with her hand on the handle and speaks firmly.
“This isn’t over, Quinn. It’s always you and me.”
She slides a benign smile over to the blonde.
“That’s just... how it is.”
-
It doesn’t get easier, trying to win back a woman who you hardly see anymore.
Back in high school they were in such close proximity that it was difficult not to make up after a few meagre hours. Quinn was always better at avoidance, though, and it seems that she still is.
She comes past the flat a couple of times. The first is to pick up more clothes and Rachel only just catches her as she walks back in from an audition, sees her cleaning out her drawer in the dresser and is so surprised that Quinn slips away without hindrance.
The second is to inform her that Quinn’s broken the lease on the flat and since she’s the one with any actual income, Rachel has to move out. It’s said without comfort, but Rachel draws some from the fact that Quinn mutters a quick ‘sorry’ before leaving.
So she packs and moves into a flat which can hardly contain all her things and thanks God when she finally catches a break in an off-Broadway ensemble. It’s a step in the right direction and far less obscure than some other things she’s been in. There’s a celebration dinner with some friends from college, drinks and the only dampener on the evening is having to tell them, when someone asks, that she and Quinn have split up.
She’s so glad that they don’t ask why, because wouldn’t be able to tell them - still doesn’t quite know what was running through her mind at the time.
-
A month and then another glide by with only a few strained phone calls about menial things. Every time she attempts another apology Quinn shuts her down bluntly, tells her she doesn’t want to discuss it.
The thing is, and Rachel knows this, they can’t move on without discussing what happened - Quinn will continue to feel bitter about it and nothing will get better.
Rachel, more and more often, gets this feeling that years of her life are just slithering away from her. Her job holds up, there’s new interest from another production, but her success seems a little bit empty - only a bit, because she knows how to appreciate her hard earned achievement - without someone, but not anyone, to reward her when gets home.
The annual McKinley reunion invitations are sent out and Rachel is tempted not to go.
It would be the first time she’s attended without Quinn Fabray’s arm around her waist to deflect the stares of numerous people who still don’t like her. It would just be Rachel, alone and still not a star and having lost her girlfriend. She imagines how smug that thought would make certain people, but in the end she goes and hopes that Quinn will turn up too.
She does. Sidles up with Santana and laughs airily with Artie and Mike, moves around to Finn, then Brittany, Kurt, Puck, but never comes to her. Rachel can only watch disappointedly out of the corner of her eye as she sashays over to all the ex-Cheerios, blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, looking about a hundred times better than Rachel feels seeing her like this.
It’s painfully obvious that everyone has heard about the break-up that never really happened - maybe that’s why Rachel keeps obsessing over it - from the sympathetic looks that she keeps receiving and the half-grimace that Mr Schuester sends her.
She doesn’t refuse, though, when Finn, Kurt and Mercedes pull her out with them, even if they do give her the most hideous looks of pity from behind their mugs of coffee.
It’s nice to see people again and it suddenly strikes her how isolated she’s been for the last couple of months. Sure she knows people at work and she gets on with them, but it’s not the same as friends who shared in the same exhilaration when you won nationals and who know how hard you’re taking this latest turn of events.
There’s small talk at first, but she can tell - she’s not that oblivious anymore - what they want to say. She doesn’t offer it, though. Just sips slowly from her cup, so finally it’s Kurt who breaches the subject.
“We’re sorry about you and Quinn, you know. I know I always thought you were both a bit too much to go together - and neither of you really pinged my gaydar, although the argyle... eurgh,” It makes her smile, the reminder of the stupid clothes she used to wear, voluntarily as well, “but, I’m sorry, really, that it didn’t work out for you.”
It’s a bit surprising and also alarming that everyone is writing her off so easily, Quinn, Santana and now Kurt, when she certainly doesn’t think that things are finished; she just hasn’t had the right opportunity to rectify it.
“We’re not over yet, Kurt.”
“Really? Because I heard that she was seeing some model.”
The way he says it, carefully - Rachel knows that he hasn’t just ‘heard’ and that he’s breaking the news softly, trying to dissuade the delusion he clearly thinks she’s under. And maybe she is, if she’s still wondering how things got this bad while Quinn is off with some girl who is probably taller, thinner... the thought trails off because she knows Quinn’s not that type of person, not any more.
“A model?”
“Aspiring.” Mercedes offers.
“Who did you hear it from?”
They share a look, the same one that used to flicker between them when they were conspiring against Rachel in sophomore year, but infinitely more hesitant as they say together,
“Quinn.”
-
After a while she’s left with Finn. A last side-hug from Mercedes and a pat on the shoulder from Kurt, along with a whisper of ‘try someone new’ and they’re gone.
She knows that they’re only trying to help, but she really doesn’t want to try anyone new - it’s just not what she wants. And it’s so hard when everyone encourages her to move on, when all she wants, the thought that keeps her awake at night, is finally having Quinn back lying next to her.
She never ventures over to Quinn’s new flat. Every time she tries she feels the crushing fear that Quinn might turn her away, like that day at the office. Instead she buys a CD of Motown’s greatest hits. Plays it quietly while cooking, because it reminds her of Quinn’s taste in music, which is limited to motown and rhythm and blues, even though Quinn is possibly the whitest person Rachel knows.
Now she supposes that it all sounds rather pathetic, that she’s been hanging on to this relationship when all semblance of her and Quinn as a couple had dissolved months ago.
“What do you think, Finn?” She ask cautiously, worried of the answer. He’s bound, like the others to tell her soothingly that it’s over, that she’s been grasping at straws for too long and, because it’s Finn, she’ll know that it’s true. It’s all over his face as he considers his words.
“Tell me, honestly, what do you think?”
When he turns to her it’s with solemnity and when he speaks he’s far more sombre and caring than anyone else has been.
“I think it’s sad... that you’ve given up like this.”
She can’t answer - the shock clogs her throat - so he continues, open and honest.
“You guys have been together for, like, years. If you grew apart I guess it would be okay to split up, but I don’t think you can just decide one day that things aren’t working - I don’t think things work that way.”
Rachel wonders, in between the myriad of other thought, how many of the details everyone knows - if they would be so accommodating if they knew that it was her transgression that caused it all.
“I guess the great thing about you two was that you always understood each other, well mostly, even when Quinn was all grrrrr and you were kind of stalkery, in a totally non-threatening way. I never really got either of you, and I went out with both of you and so did Puck, and he thinks exactly the same thing as me, except his thoughts probably involve fewer clothes.”
He smiles that same unassuming grin at her and she can’t help but grip his hand hard and confess, “I don’t understand her anymore. She doesn’t want me to.”
He sighs and shrugs.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Rach. No one really knows what happened. All I know is that I doubt Quinn would stop loving you, whatever happened. Relationships don’t end, just like that.”
“But she’s so angry with me.”
“Maybe you just need to get past that.”
“I don’t know how. She won’t talk to me and she’s like a completely different person from the Quinn I know. I don’t know what to do.”
She can hardly recognise that hopeless whine and apparently neither can Finn, because his forehead creases as he shakes his head.
“Man up, Rachel. You were always truthful and straightforward at school, even when no one wanted to hear it, and you always got what you wanted. Things always worked out in the end. Perhaps that’s what Quinn needs, the old Rachel, to set things straight.”
It seems that he’s run out of fuel now, slumping back on his seat, but that’s okay. It’s enough, what he’s said, enough for the dwindling hope within her to swell again, even if Rachel’s still afraid.
A strong arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her small frame against his side.
“She’s just as unhappy as you are. She’s just better at hiding it.”
-
Renewed and with Finn’s words stumbling over each other in her head she walks back to her dads’ house with her overnight bag, There’s a light on and a blonde stepping out onto the porch, closely followed by Rachel’s dads.
Quinn halts when she finds herself face to face with the woman she’s been persistently avoiding and the two men retreat, but not without giving Rachel that look which reads ‘We’ve got some talking to do’.
She waits until the door shuts before speaking.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
There’s a lull, Quinn looks just about ready to duck and start sprinting away and Rachel decides that she’s tired of this indecision. She’s suffering in this horrible limbo, and she’s never been one to suffer quietly - has always covered it up with loud confidence or loud complaints.
“Quinn. I need to talk to you.” She doesn’t stop, even when the blonde tries to interrupt. “Yes, I know that you don’t want to. You’ve told me so before and perhaps I don’t really want to, Quinn, but I need to. Please.”
The streetlights don’t afford her the best view of Quinn’s turned face, yet the reluctantly reasonable side of her clearly wins out. The constant dull throb in her stomach subsides somewhat when Quinn twists her mouth, but agrees, taking down Rachel’s address. Most of the time she looks down, but when her eyes accidentally catch Rachel’s the brunette is relieved to see some warmth there behind all the harshness.
-
When Quinn arrives at the flat that she’s been trying to make presentable Rachel is prepared, not ready, but prepared as she’s always been. The weeks of waiting for Quinn too patiently have put her on edge, dimmed her a little and she was always more comfortable just facing things outright, like Finn said.
It’s only a couple of days since they saw each other in Ohio, but neither Rachel nor Quinn can stand being in Lima for too long, so they always leave after scant days. And Rachel’s last day was spent placating her fathers, who, she’s sure, feel the breakup just as keenly as she does.
She repeats Finn’s words over and over again, tries to conjure up that famous Rachel Berry charm, preens herself painstakingly and she still doesn’t feel ready as Quinn stands in her doorway.
“Come in.”
Quinn looks beautiful, even though it’s plain that she would rather be anywhere else than with Rachel, who carefully takes her coat. She’s been missed, all of her, from the slender column of her neck, the curve of her hip to the line of her lips. It’s nice just to be looking at her again, though the room is dim because the light-bulbs keep breaking. Quinn always used to change the bulbs; she’s taller and doesn’t have to tiptoe precariously on a chair to reach them.
Running a tongue over her lips she crosses the short distance to sit on the couch, Quinn following a moment later to perch on the other end. It seems, to Rachel, that Quinn is purposefully making things difficult for her - another little punishment - but tamps down the urge to call her out on it. Quinn already looks awkward as it is, like she doesn’t quite fit and all Rachel wants to do it tell her that she does, that they fit together - they’re miserable apart.
“Quinn. I don’t know how long you’ll stay, so excuse me for not wasting time on niceties.” She shifts a little closer, tries to catch Quinn’s averted eyes. “We haven’t talked about what happened.”
“We talked enough.”
“Maybe for you, Quinn. But I’m still at a loss about what’s going on. We haven’t been together, I haven’t seen you for months, but I refuse to believe that you’ve stopped caring about me.”
“Who says I stopped caring? I wish I could.” Teeth bared and eyes piercing, Quinn’s voice rises until she drops her head into her hands, muffling her words. “I hate that I still care, that it still hurts. I hate you for doing this to me.”
Rachel’s chest aches and she winces when she hears the words, but she presses on.
“I said I was sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.”
“That doesn’t make it better, Rachel. Ignorance isn’t an excuse.”
“No, no... I know that. I just - I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to. Really, Quinn, I didn’t mean to.”
Quinn keeps her head down throughout her heartfelt plea. Her eyes are wide and glassy when she looks up to find Rachel much closer than before. He voice, though, regains some of its unwelcome distance - Rachel can tell that she’s slipping - as her gaze bores into Rachel.
“Then what was it? People don’t cheat for no reason, they don’t.” A pause. “Was I not enough?”
Her voice falters on the end of that question and Rachel now knows the thought, the insecurity, which plagues Quinn relentlessly. She sees the hurt that Quinn tries so hard to cover and rushes to ease it.
“No, Quinn. You’re more than enough. I was,” she hesitates for just a second, because she still doesn’t like voicing the ridiculous petty things that she still feels, “stupid. I was angry and jealous that you had a job and I hadn’t even landed a regular role and I was drunk. It was a senseless mistake, “ she touches Quinn’s hand and the blonde jumps up, makes to move away, but Rachel’s not willing to let go yet, clamps on to the slim, warm neck and brings Quinn’s reluctant face close to her own, “and I’ve never regretted anything more. I know it’s not enough, but I can make it up to you. Please.”
Quinn pulls, but Rachel’s hold is firm. She feels tears spread down her cheeks and is mildly stung when she sees none on Quinn’s. The blonde only shakes her head rigidly.
“We can’t go back to how it was, Rachel. I can’t forgive you.” She’s serious, unmoving, and the room is utterly still. “Whatever I do, it won’t hurt you as much as you hurt me. So you see, Rachel... I really can’t.”
And with that stony sheen in her eyes, that straight set of her mouth, Rachel believes her. It’s something she knows. It’s what got her into this mess in the first place - Quinn and her form of justice, that Quinn can’t seem to live without.
She can’t give up though.
Not when Quinn’s forehead is nearly touching her own and the form she’s dreamed about is solid beneath her hands.
Rachel can’t let her go, so she forces them closer, so she’s nearly in Quinn’s embrace, and whispers raggedly, “You can try.”
She’s not sure how Quinn would have responded if she hadn’t leaned up and slid her mouth over the familiar lips, slipped her tongue into a much-missed mouth. She hopes that Quinn would have said yes. She might have, but Rachel wants so much to feel again, to feel Quinn, that she surges up against her, trying to show though her kiss how much she wants, loves, Quinn - only Quinn.
They stand there, Rachel kissing feverishly, her arms still locked around that neck, Quinn’s own arms still at her sides, until the brunette slips a delicate hand under the collar of the customary white shirt, skimming over clavicle and collarbone, as Rachel exhales a breath of relief into Quinn’s mouth.
Soon clothes are being shed, Rachel reverently unbuttoning Quinn’s shirt and sliding the skirt down lithe thighs and calves before divesting herself of her dress. It’s been unbearably long, she thinks, when tracing the swell of a breast and the line of lean muscle on Quinn’s stomach.
She thanks God again when Quinn, at last, pulls Rachel to her, stares silently as she runs hands down tanned skin and towards the apex of Rachel’s thighs. Guiding them backwards, kicking off her heels on the way, Rachel feels the bed on the back of her knees and pulls Quinn over her as she lies back.
Quinn settles over her. There’s the reassuring weight of a body Rachel knows better than her own and the touch of an ever-soft hand on her breasts, stomach, hips and finally lower. She can’t see Quinn, but kisses her deeply, eyes squeezed shut, when Quinn pushes inside. Rachel can only think to break off to breath out an ‘I love you’ into Quinn’s cheek and dip her head into the crook of Quinn’s neck when her mouth doesn’t immediately meet the one that it’s seeking.
They move together, Rachel clutching the smooth skin of Quinn’s back, not bothering to hold back moans. She just revels in the heady delirium of the feeling, the taste and smell of her girlfriend and she rocks harder, gripping tighter and, at a scrape of Quinn’s fingers, sighs her fulfilment into Quinn’s hair.
Her grip slackens, but remains, as she draws Quinn next to her on the mattress. Her hazel eyes are lazy on Rachel’s face and she seems in no mood to demand reciprocation, so the smaller woman shifts closer, moulds herself to fit Quinn’s side and draws the lax arms around herself.
“I love you,” she utters again and is too tired to realise that Quinn says nothing, merely stares at the top of the head resting on her chest.
-
The sheets are cold when she wakes.
She runs an expectant hand over them, searching for a soft body and wonders, for a few seconds in her morning haze, where Quinn’s gone.
It doesn’t take long for Rachel to recognise that she’s left, again.
There are no more tears in her, at this moment, and she feels her heart break when she scans over her entire little flat, finding no trace of Quinn at all.
It’s all part of Quinn’s punishment, she thinks, as she leans on the headboard. It’s Quinn’s way, and she warned her, but Rachel can’t deny the wrenching inside her now, accompanied by a hollowness. She remembers what Quinn said, that she couldn’t hurt her as much as she wanted to, and thinks that maybe this hurts just as much.
She catches sight of the red box on her night-stand.
Sees that it’s open and empty, and only hopes that this is the last obstacle - the end of the punishment - and that next time she sees Quinn she’ll have that glint of forgiveness in her eyes.
Fin
Author: antipamphlet
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn
Rating: R
Length: 6000
Spoilers: None/Kinda all
Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Fox and not to me. Title and lyrics taken from Turn Away which belongs to Bronski Beat.
Summary: 'She could wait hours or days in unerring calm before nudging Santana off the pyramid for implying that she had put on weight, and Rachel found it almost frightening - the way that Quinn didn’t, maybe couldn’t, forgive without getting her bit of vindication.'
A/N: Although I have checked it over, it's unbeta-ed so it will probably have some mistakes in it. Also there's a bit which is taken from Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, but I suppose if you've read it, you'll know it.
Turn Away
One thing Rachel learnt early on, when they were still in high school, was that Quinn, always and without fail, punished people when she felt they’d done her wrong. She could wait hours or days in unerring calm before nudging Santana off the pyramid for implying that she had put on weight, and Rachel found it almost frightening - the way that Quinn didn’t, maybe couldn’t, forgive without getting her bit of vindication.
The need has mellowed out over the years - Rachel hardly ever experiences it anymore. Every so often it rears its ugly head, but they’re both older and have been together for long enough not to feel the need to argue over everything.
Except they do argue, from time to time, and Quinn will stay out late with her friends from work to avoid her and leave Rachel in the flat to fume. She’ll sit for hours, brewing over how unfair it is that Quinn just wandered through high school, found herself in college and then slipped seamlessly into a steady job while Rachel has to scramble for each small role and doesn’t seem to really get anywhere. She knows that making it big takes time, has been told it often enough, and she’s never thought of giving up, but it doesn’t take away that subtle resentment that drives her to the bar downstairs.
Rachel sometimes just wants Quinn to hurt as much as she does, but she’s never played the game as well as Quinn does - a game in which Quinn is both player and judge, and Rachel doesn’t quite know the rules.
Rachel goes at everything with too much vigour - she wants too intensely - and with too little thought, instead of Quinn’s calculated and icy patience, which is why Rachel always ended up with coloured corn syrup sliding down her skin or as the target of pee balloons.
Which is why one night she ends up with unfamiliar hands grasping her hips, a too heavy body moving over hers while all she can think of is how the dim bedroom light is hurting her eyes - it’s too bright and it swims across her vision. She notes, rather blandly, that she’s drunk too much and that Quinn will probably berate her for it in the morning.
She doesn’t even hear the click of the lock as the door opens. The sound only soaks into her mind a few seconds after and only then does she let her head fall sideways to look.
Quinn’s face filters into view, drawn and pale with shock in the half-light and Rachel is suddenly a lot more lucid. She’s lucid enough to see the tears well up at the edge of Quinn’s eyes - they well up in her own, too - and that one quiver of her bottom lip, but her body is slow and sluggish.
Quinn is gone from the doorway before Rachel desperately pushes and untangles herself and soon - she can’t tell how soon, because her brain feels like it’s been filled with water - the man is gone too.
Only Rachel remains in the mess of sheets, breathing shallowly. She shakes away thoughts of Quinn’s despairing face, clouded images of the bar counter and lights and men and drinks, and promises to stay awake until Quinn returns.
-
There’s a slow creak of the floorboards, the creak of someone trying to move unnoticed. Rachel hears it faintly and curses herself for falling asleep.
Wrenching herself from the bed, too warm and sticky, she ignores her head-rush to stumble to the open doorway.
Her stomach drops painfully when she spies Quinn’s old duffle-bag sitting on the couch, all packed neatly. She wonders when Quinn entered the bedroom to retrieve her clothes, why she didn’t hear her, but decides it’s not important when she sees Quinn pulling items off the coffee table.
It’s quite obvious what she’s doing and Rachel doesn’t ever want to hear Quinn say it, but it seems that her mind and body aren’t cooperating, haven’t been doing so for the past several hours, because she vaguely hears herself ask.
“I’m moving out.”
Rachel’s left talking to a tense back because Quinn won’t turn around and Rachel’s not sure if she wants her to, if she wants to see the betrayal that is bound to stain Quinn’s face.
“Quinn -”
“What?”
“Qui -”
No words rise in her throat, just horrible heat in her chest as she takes slow steps towards her girlfriend, reaches out a small hand to brush against a stooped shoulder.
The crouched figure is on her feet immediately, swivelling and Rachel was right - she doesn’t want Quinn to look at her because Rachel sees none of the tenderness she is so used to.
Hazel eyes are cold and the rest of her face radiates anger as she flinches away from Rachel’s touch, darts away from where she’s standing. It hurts more than she had ever imagined - having someone she loves shrink from her, especially Quinn, who’s never once backed down from her.
She does now, though.
She skirts around for a few more minutes, ignoring Rachel, who watches her at every turn with wide eyes.
Only when she bends to pick up her bag does Rachel speak, realising she’s about to lose something she’s never dreamed of being separated from.
“Quinn. Please don’t leave.” Her voice is thick from sleep and tears and the blonde’s cuts it like a knife through butter.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Qui-, I love you.” It’s true and she compels Quinn to believe it, but the standing woman sobs out a laugh all the same.
“You cheated, Rachel. I walked into my flat to see my girlfriend,” her teeth pull at her top lip and her hand shakes while holding the bag, “with some man she doesn’t even know.”
Rachel chokes back more tears, says the only thing she can think of.
“I’m sor-”
“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.” Quinn yells and this time it’s Rachel who shrinks back from the figure trembling with barely suppressed rage. She’s surprised because Quinn hardly ever raises her voice and never at her - she can mostly get things done sharp sentences alone - and Rachel’s head is pounding. “Don’t you think I was sorry?”
Her voice drops to a whisper. Rachel wishes that she could take it all back, quell her stupid desire to watch Quinn ache, because Quinn’s drifting tears are breaking her, and Rachel’s already broken Quinn.
Instead of hot ire Quinn’s eyes rise with something hollow and dispassionate as, her face still wet and growing wetter, she reaches into her pocket.
“I’m leaving. I’ll be back to get my stuff.” She draws out her hand, tosses something to the ground while Rachel stares up at her. “You can have this. I don’t want it.”
Even when she’s upset, distraught, heartbroken, Quinn still knows how to make it hurt.
She sweeps out of the apartment, deaf to Rachel’s rueful entreaties and leaves her to drench the loose fabric of her shirt when she opens the little red box on the floor.
-
For once Rachel is thankful that she hasn’t landed a regular role yet. It gives her more time to hang around the flat, waiting for the sound of a key in the lock. She’s taken to sleeping on the couch, just in case Quinn comes back during the night to evade her.
She doesn’t know how many messages she’s left on Quinn’s cell, but the closest she’s got to a conversation was a hissed ‘stop’ to a call at midnight.
She doesn’t know where Quinn’s staying - she can guess - or what she’s doing or if Quinn’s still hers. So she spends three days mulling things over, revisiting memories of playful kisses, lazy mornings, easy nights and trying not to wonder if she’ll experience them again. It’s all very melodramatic, but she has no one to talk to - she still hates to tell anyone that she’s failed at something - and her thoughts just pile up until she’s about ready to burst.
When the handle does turn and the door swings open Rachel’s there in an instant.
Her smile falls when she sees that it’s Santana, regarding her coolly, and they share a moment of chilly appraisal before she moves off, back to her seat on the couch. They don’t talk as the Latina rummages around the flat, scooping stuff into a bag, her heels making that annoying clacking sound and her suit preventing her from reaching the shoes that Quinn keeps underneath the bed.
Rachel keeps her head turned to the side until the other woman is done and standing, hip cocked, in front of her. She can’t not look at her - propriety and all that.
“I knew you were no good for her.”
It’s ridiculous because no one ever thought that Rachel would be anything other than good for Quinn Fabray, after the disaster that was Quinn’s sophomore year. People might have been surprised, Mr Schuester might have gaped for an entire minute, but it didn’t stop them being that couple - the perfect couple in senior year, the only two who stayed together through college, despite arguments, papers and the three hour drive between Juilliard and Brown. The gleeks, once they had gotten used to the idea, had thought they would be the ones to last, and so had Rachel.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Oh my God, Berry. You can’t still be backward enough to think that an apology would fix this after what you did.”
Santana was always judging people, she never grew out of it, but this is the first time that Rachel feels the situation actually warrants it.
Her tone is all resignation when she admits, “No, I don’t,” so much so that Santana feels sorry for the pitiful brunette with dark rings under her eyes, until she remembers the forlorn blonde idly eating cereal at her kitchen counter.
She squares her shoulders, hoists the bag onto her hip and utters as disdainfully as she can, “Goodbye, Berry.”
“Tell Quinn that I love her,” floats behind her as she shuts the door and rests the back of her head on the wood. It’s sad, because she, like everyone else, sees how happy there are, were. She says they’re disgusting together, warns them half-heartedly that their cosy little state of affairs will only last so long, but she’s never actually believed it.
She doesn’t tell Quinn what Rachel said, doesn’t think that Rachel deserves it.
-
At the end of a lonely week Rachel dreams that Quinn is still sleeping next to her, always in a huge flannel shirt and with tousled hair splayed out on the pillow. She smiles languidly and strokes Rachel’s arm and the dream flows on in its constant placidity.
In the morning she dresses neatly, curls her hair and tries to wipe away the days of lethargy, and takes the bus to Quinn’s workplace. She’s sure that she’ll be there; Quinn never takes days off work, not even when she’s ill and has to run to the toilet every ten minutes.
She quells the discomfort in her gut and smiles widely at the secretary who points her in the direction of the right office. The whole room is full of files and files and files and staplers. She thinks it’s the wrong room until a blonde head pops up from behind a stack of papers and, just as quickly, pops back down again.
“What are you doing here, Rachel?”
Advancing around the desk she sits on the rickety chair opposite Quinn’s own and tries to look her in the eyes without trembling. She feels guilt, continuously. It haunts her, but it doesn’t make her want Quinn any less. It just makes her crave her all the more, makes her want to set things right.
Seeing her now in white shirt and black blazer, her hair pulled back into a ponytail - not as severe as the ones Coach Sylvester used to demand - and her complexion rather drained, Rachel’s sure she looks just as lovely as she did in her dream.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t want to see you.” Her eyes peer steadily at the lines of numbers in her file and Rachel’s suddenly desperate to have her attention again.
“I’m sorry,” she implores to Quinn’s bent head, “I didn’t mean to.” The first drip of tears creeps down her face. “I was angry and I had too much to drink. You know that I can’t take my alcohol and I fully realise that you-”
“Don’t ramble at me, Rachel. It won’t work.”
Of course Quinn knows how oddly charming her rants are and, at the minute, it’s the last thing that Quinn wants. She doesn’t want Rachel to try and skim over this like she hasn’t taken something important away from her.
“I never meant to hurt you and I’ll never do it again. I don’t know what I was doing in the first place, but I never thought that it would be like this.”
She can hardly see through her tears, but for a second she thought it looked like Quinn might reach over and comfort her. She runs a sleeve over her eyes, though, and Quinn just sits there looking distant. It’s something she does very well - she can just be utterly apathetic until she decides not to be.
This time, however, in the silence she gazes wistfully at the brunette, and murmurs softly.
“I never thought this would happen. Never. You ruined it.”
“We can fix it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then I can fix it. You don’t have to do anything. Just come back to the flat, and we’ll carry on like before.”
She takes Quinn’s silence as consideration and she searches falteringly in her bag while Quinn watches without deviation or reprieve until she pulls out the red velvet box, lays it on the desk.
“I thought that maybe I could give this back to you,” she nudges it with her fingertips, “and then one day you might give it back to me.”
The blonde stares at it with an unsteady look in her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek as they water a little, then shifts them back up to meet Rachel’s hope-filled ones.
“If you want it, Rachel, then keep it. I doubt I’d give it back to you.”
It doesn’t take a second for Rachel to burst into quiet whimpers again, but Quinn just looks on. It’s a horrible thing that she’d forgotten about Quinn; she can be cutting, completely uncaring of how much she hurts someone if she feels that they deserve it.
Rachel doesn’t feel like she deserves this, but she understands that Quinn didn’t deserve it either.
Still, she doesn’t expect Quinn to be so malicious as she regards Rachel impassively.
Grabbing the box, because Rachel’s sure that one day Quinn will revoke that sentiment, she stands. She’s not a quitter and she knows that one awful mistake won’t destroy them, or rather, she hopes that it won’t.
It just takes time, and this meeting’s too early - everything’s too raw.
Quinn remains seated, frowning. Rachel wonders if she wanted her to fight a little bit more, to prove that she was sorry, but right now she’s too upset.
At the door she stops with her hand on the handle and speaks firmly.
“This isn’t over, Quinn. It’s always you and me.”
She slides a benign smile over to the blonde.
“That’s just... how it is.”
-
It doesn’t get easier, trying to win back a woman who you hardly see anymore.
Back in high school they were in such close proximity that it was difficult not to make up after a few meagre hours. Quinn was always better at avoidance, though, and it seems that she still is.
She comes past the flat a couple of times. The first is to pick up more clothes and Rachel only just catches her as she walks back in from an audition, sees her cleaning out her drawer in the dresser and is so surprised that Quinn slips away without hindrance.
The second is to inform her that Quinn’s broken the lease on the flat and since she’s the one with any actual income, Rachel has to move out. It’s said without comfort, but Rachel draws some from the fact that Quinn mutters a quick ‘sorry’ before leaving.
So she packs and moves into a flat which can hardly contain all her things and thanks God when she finally catches a break in an off-Broadway ensemble. It’s a step in the right direction and far less obscure than some other things she’s been in. There’s a celebration dinner with some friends from college, drinks and the only dampener on the evening is having to tell them, when someone asks, that she and Quinn have split up.
She’s so glad that they don’t ask why, because wouldn’t be able to tell them - still doesn’t quite know what was running through her mind at the time.
-
A month and then another glide by with only a few strained phone calls about menial things. Every time she attempts another apology Quinn shuts her down bluntly, tells her she doesn’t want to discuss it.
The thing is, and Rachel knows this, they can’t move on without discussing what happened - Quinn will continue to feel bitter about it and nothing will get better.
Rachel, more and more often, gets this feeling that years of her life are just slithering away from her. Her job holds up, there’s new interest from another production, but her success seems a little bit empty - only a bit, because she knows how to appreciate her hard earned achievement - without someone, but not anyone, to reward her when gets home.
The annual McKinley reunion invitations are sent out and Rachel is tempted not to go.
It would be the first time she’s attended without Quinn Fabray’s arm around her waist to deflect the stares of numerous people who still don’t like her. It would just be Rachel, alone and still not a star and having lost her girlfriend. She imagines how smug that thought would make certain people, but in the end she goes and hopes that Quinn will turn up too.
She does. Sidles up with Santana and laughs airily with Artie and Mike, moves around to Finn, then Brittany, Kurt, Puck, but never comes to her. Rachel can only watch disappointedly out of the corner of her eye as she sashays over to all the ex-Cheerios, blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, looking about a hundred times better than Rachel feels seeing her like this.
It’s painfully obvious that everyone has heard about the break-up that never really happened - maybe that’s why Rachel keeps obsessing over it - from the sympathetic looks that she keeps receiving and the half-grimace that Mr Schuester sends her.
She doesn’t refuse, though, when Finn, Kurt and Mercedes pull her out with them, even if they do give her the most hideous looks of pity from behind their mugs of coffee.
It’s nice to see people again and it suddenly strikes her how isolated she’s been for the last couple of months. Sure she knows people at work and she gets on with them, but it’s not the same as friends who shared in the same exhilaration when you won nationals and who know how hard you’re taking this latest turn of events.
There’s small talk at first, but she can tell - she’s not that oblivious anymore - what they want to say. She doesn’t offer it, though. Just sips slowly from her cup, so finally it’s Kurt who breaches the subject.
“We’re sorry about you and Quinn, you know. I know I always thought you were both a bit too much to go together - and neither of you really pinged my gaydar, although the argyle... eurgh,” It makes her smile, the reminder of the stupid clothes she used to wear, voluntarily as well, “but, I’m sorry, really, that it didn’t work out for you.”
It’s a bit surprising and also alarming that everyone is writing her off so easily, Quinn, Santana and now Kurt, when she certainly doesn’t think that things are finished; she just hasn’t had the right opportunity to rectify it.
“We’re not over yet, Kurt.”
“Really? Because I heard that she was seeing some model.”
The way he says it, carefully - Rachel knows that he hasn’t just ‘heard’ and that he’s breaking the news softly, trying to dissuade the delusion he clearly thinks she’s under. And maybe she is, if she’s still wondering how things got this bad while Quinn is off with some girl who is probably taller, thinner... the thought trails off because she knows Quinn’s not that type of person, not any more.
“A model?”
“Aspiring.” Mercedes offers.
“Who did you hear it from?”
They share a look, the same one that used to flicker between them when they were conspiring against Rachel in sophomore year, but infinitely more hesitant as they say together,
“Quinn.”
-
After a while she’s left with Finn. A last side-hug from Mercedes and a pat on the shoulder from Kurt, along with a whisper of ‘try someone new’ and they’re gone.
She knows that they’re only trying to help, but she really doesn’t want to try anyone new - it’s just not what she wants. And it’s so hard when everyone encourages her to move on, when all she wants, the thought that keeps her awake at night, is finally having Quinn back lying next to her.
She never ventures over to Quinn’s new flat. Every time she tries she feels the crushing fear that Quinn might turn her away, like that day at the office. Instead she buys a CD of Motown’s greatest hits. Plays it quietly while cooking, because it reminds her of Quinn’s taste in music, which is limited to motown and rhythm and blues, even though Quinn is possibly the whitest person Rachel knows.
Now she supposes that it all sounds rather pathetic, that she’s been hanging on to this relationship when all semblance of her and Quinn as a couple had dissolved months ago.
“What do you think, Finn?” She ask cautiously, worried of the answer. He’s bound, like the others to tell her soothingly that it’s over, that she’s been grasping at straws for too long and, because it’s Finn, she’ll know that it’s true. It’s all over his face as he considers his words.
“Tell me, honestly, what do you think?”
When he turns to her it’s with solemnity and when he speaks he’s far more sombre and caring than anyone else has been.
“I think it’s sad... that you’ve given up like this.”
She can’t answer - the shock clogs her throat - so he continues, open and honest.
“You guys have been together for, like, years. If you grew apart I guess it would be okay to split up, but I don’t think you can just decide one day that things aren’t working - I don’t think things work that way.”
Rachel wonders, in between the myriad of other thought, how many of the details everyone knows - if they would be so accommodating if they knew that it was her transgression that caused it all.
“I guess the great thing about you two was that you always understood each other, well mostly, even when Quinn was all grrrrr and you were kind of stalkery, in a totally non-threatening way. I never really got either of you, and I went out with both of you and so did Puck, and he thinks exactly the same thing as me, except his thoughts probably involve fewer clothes.”
He smiles that same unassuming grin at her and she can’t help but grip his hand hard and confess, “I don’t understand her anymore. She doesn’t want me to.”
He sighs and shrugs.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Rach. No one really knows what happened. All I know is that I doubt Quinn would stop loving you, whatever happened. Relationships don’t end, just like that.”
“But she’s so angry with me.”
“Maybe you just need to get past that.”
“I don’t know how. She won’t talk to me and she’s like a completely different person from the Quinn I know. I don’t know what to do.”
She can hardly recognise that hopeless whine and apparently neither can Finn, because his forehead creases as he shakes his head.
“Man up, Rachel. You were always truthful and straightforward at school, even when no one wanted to hear it, and you always got what you wanted. Things always worked out in the end. Perhaps that’s what Quinn needs, the old Rachel, to set things straight.”
It seems that he’s run out of fuel now, slumping back on his seat, but that’s okay. It’s enough, what he’s said, enough for the dwindling hope within her to swell again, even if Rachel’s still afraid.
A strong arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her small frame against his side.
“She’s just as unhappy as you are. She’s just better at hiding it.”
-
Renewed and with Finn’s words stumbling over each other in her head she walks back to her dads’ house with her overnight bag, There’s a light on and a blonde stepping out onto the porch, closely followed by Rachel’s dads.
Quinn halts when she finds herself face to face with the woman she’s been persistently avoiding and the two men retreat, but not without giving Rachel that look which reads ‘We’ve got some talking to do’.
She waits until the door shuts before speaking.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
There’s a lull, Quinn looks just about ready to duck and start sprinting away and Rachel decides that she’s tired of this indecision. She’s suffering in this horrible limbo, and she’s never been one to suffer quietly - has always covered it up with loud confidence or loud complaints.
“Quinn. I need to talk to you.” She doesn’t stop, even when the blonde tries to interrupt. “Yes, I know that you don’t want to. You’ve told me so before and perhaps I don’t really want to, Quinn, but I need to. Please.”
The streetlights don’t afford her the best view of Quinn’s turned face, yet the reluctantly reasonable side of her clearly wins out. The constant dull throb in her stomach subsides somewhat when Quinn twists her mouth, but agrees, taking down Rachel’s address. Most of the time she looks down, but when her eyes accidentally catch Rachel’s the brunette is relieved to see some warmth there behind all the harshness.
-
When Quinn arrives at the flat that she’s been trying to make presentable Rachel is prepared, not ready, but prepared as she’s always been. The weeks of waiting for Quinn too patiently have put her on edge, dimmed her a little and she was always more comfortable just facing things outright, like Finn said.
It’s only a couple of days since they saw each other in Ohio, but neither Rachel nor Quinn can stand being in Lima for too long, so they always leave after scant days. And Rachel’s last day was spent placating her fathers, who, she’s sure, feel the breakup just as keenly as she does.
She repeats Finn’s words over and over again, tries to conjure up that famous Rachel Berry charm, preens herself painstakingly and she still doesn’t feel ready as Quinn stands in her doorway.
“Come in.”
Quinn looks beautiful, even though it’s plain that she would rather be anywhere else than with Rachel, who carefully takes her coat. She’s been missed, all of her, from the slender column of her neck, the curve of her hip to the line of her lips. It’s nice just to be looking at her again, though the room is dim because the light-bulbs keep breaking. Quinn always used to change the bulbs; she’s taller and doesn’t have to tiptoe precariously on a chair to reach them.
Running a tongue over her lips she crosses the short distance to sit on the couch, Quinn following a moment later to perch on the other end. It seems, to Rachel, that Quinn is purposefully making things difficult for her - another little punishment - but tamps down the urge to call her out on it. Quinn already looks awkward as it is, like she doesn’t quite fit and all Rachel wants to do it tell her that she does, that they fit together - they’re miserable apart.
“Quinn. I don’t know how long you’ll stay, so excuse me for not wasting time on niceties.” She shifts a little closer, tries to catch Quinn’s averted eyes. “We haven’t talked about what happened.”
“We talked enough.”
“Maybe for you, Quinn. But I’m still at a loss about what’s going on. We haven’t been together, I haven’t seen you for months, but I refuse to believe that you’ve stopped caring about me.”
“Who says I stopped caring? I wish I could.” Teeth bared and eyes piercing, Quinn’s voice rises until she drops her head into her hands, muffling her words. “I hate that I still care, that it still hurts. I hate you for doing this to me.”
Rachel’s chest aches and she winces when she hears the words, but she presses on.
“I said I was sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.”
“That doesn’t make it better, Rachel. Ignorance isn’t an excuse.”
“No, no... I know that. I just - I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to. Really, Quinn, I didn’t mean to.”
Quinn keeps her head down throughout her heartfelt plea. Her eyes are wide and glassy when she looks up to find Rachel much closer than before. He voice, though, regains some of its unwelcome distance - Rachel can tell that she’s slipping - as her gaze bores into Rachel.
“Then what was it? People don’t cheat for no reason, they don’t.” A pause. “Was I not enough?”
Her voice falters on the end of that question and Rachel now knows the thought, the insecurity, which plagues Quinn relentlessly. She sees the hurt that Quinn tries so hard to cover and rushes to ease it.
“No, Quinn. You’re more than enough. I was,” she hesitates for just a second, because she still doesn’t like voicing the ridiculous petty things that she still feels, “stupid. I was angry and jealous that you had a job and I hadn’t even landed a regular role and I was drunk. It was a senseless mistake, “ she touches Quinn’s hand and the blonde jumps up, makes to move away, but Rachel’s not willing to let go yet, clamps on to the slim, warm neck and brings Quinn’s reluctant face close to her own, “and I’ve never regretted anything more. I know it’s not enough, but I can make it up to you. Please.”
Quinn pulls, but Rachel’s hold is firm. She feels tears spread down her cheeks and is mildly stung when she sees none on Quinn’s. The blonde only shakes her head rigidly.
“We can’t go back to how it was, Rachel. I can’t forgive you.” She’s serious, unmoving, and the room is utterly still. “Whatever I do, it won’t hurt you as much as you hurt me. So you see, Rachel... I really can’t.”
And with that stony sheen in her eyes, that straight set of her mouth, Rachel believes her. It’s something she knows. It’s what got her into this mess in the first place - Quinn and her form of justice, that Quinn can’t seem to live without.
She can’t give up though.
Not when Quinn’s forehead is nearly touching her own and the form she’s dreamed about is solid beneath her hands.
Rachel can’t let her go, so she forces them closer, so she’s nearly in Quinn’s embrace, and whispers raggedly, “You can try.”
She’s not sure how Quinn would have responded if she hadn’t leaned up and slid her mouth over the familiar lips, slipped her tongue into a much-missed mouth. She hopes that Quinn would have said yes. She might have, but Rachel wants so much to feel again, to feel Quinn, that she surges up against her, trying to show though her kiss how much she wants, loves, Quinn - only Quinn.
They stand there, Rachel kissing feverishly, her arms still locked around that neck, Quinn’s own arms still at her sides, until the brunette slips a delicate hand under the collar of the customary white shirt, skimming over clavicle and collarbone, as Rachel exhales a breath of relief into Quinn’s mouth.
Soon clothes are being shed, Rachel reverently unbuttoning Quinn’s shirt and sliding the skirt down lithe thighs and calves before divesting herself of her dress. It’s been unbearably long, she thinks, when tracing the swell of a breast and the line of lean muscle on Quinn’s stomach.
She thanks God again when Quinn, at last, pulls Rachel to her, stares silently as she runs hands down tanned skin and towards the apex of Rachel’s thighs. Guiding them backwards, kicking off her heels on the way, Rachel feels the bed on the back of her knees and pulls Quinn over her as she lies back.
Quinn settles over her. There’s the reassuring weight of a body Rachel knows better than her own and the touch of an ever-soft hand on her breasts, stomach, hips and finally lower. She can’t see Quinn, but kisses her deeply, eyes squeezed shut, when Quinn pushes inside. Rachel can only think to break off to breath out an ‘I love you’ into Quinn’s cheek and dip her head into the crook of Quinn’s neck when her mouth doesn’t immediately meet the one that it’s seeking.
They move together, Rachel clutching the smooth skin of Quinn’s back, not bothering to hold back moans. She just revels in the heady delirium of the feeling, the taste and smell of her girlfriend and she rocks harder, gripping tighter and, at a scrape of Quinn’s fingers, sighs her fulfilment into Quinn’s hair.
Her grip slackens, but remains, as she draws Quinn next to her on the mattress. Her hazel eyes are lazy on Rachel’s face and she seems in no mood to demand reciprocation, so the smaller woman shifts closer, moulds herself to fit Quinn’s side and draws the lax arms around herself.
“I love you,” she utters again and is too tired to realise that Quinn says nothing, merely stares at the top of the head resting on her chest.
-
The sheets are cold when she wakes.
She runs an expectant hand over them, searching for a soft body and wonders, for a few seconds in her morning haze, where Quinn’s gone.
It doesn’t take long for Rachel to recognise that she’s left, again.
There are no more tears in her, at this moment, and she feels her heart break when she scans over her entire little flat, finding no trace of Quinn at all.
It’s all part of Quinn’s punishment, she thinks, as she leans on the headboard. It’s Quinn’s way, and she warned her, but Rachel can’t deny the wrenching inside her now, accompanied by a hollowness. She remembers what Quinn said, that she couldn’t hurt her as much as she wanted to, and thinks that maybe this hurts just as much.
She catches sight of the red box on her night-stand.
Sees that it’s open and empty, and only hopes that this is the last obstacle - the end of the punishment - and that next time she sees Quinn she’ll have that glint of forgiveness in her eyes.
Fin