none of it was ever worth the risk, rachel/quinn, pg
Title: none of it was ever worth the risk
Author: intobrakelights
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn.
Rating: PG
Length: ~2300
Spoilers: All of season one, I suppose? There's really only vague references.
Summary: A proposal gone entirely wrong.
Author's Notes: Just something that happened. It also happens to be a super late birthday present for my favorite person ever. ♥ I know it wasn't worth the wait, but it's yours anyway, babe.
It’s the eighteenth of December.
It’s the eighteenth of December, which means two things. The first, and inevitably the most important, is that it’s Rachel Berry’s birthday. Rachel Berry her girlfriend, Rachel Berry the love of her life, Rachel Berry who takes up ninety-eight percent of her mind on the average day, which leaves school with a measly two percent, which has very nearly accorded her a vast amount of trouble on numerous occasions and inevitably means last-minute cramming for exams. Which is really not a good thing, if she ever plans on graduating.
(She’s told Rachel this, too, on multiple occasions, but it doesn’t exactly feel like the worst nightmare ever when Rachel’s curled up against her in their shared apartment, her nose softly pressed against Quinn’s neck, her breath warm against Quinn’s collarbone. Which makes it entirely Rachel’s fault, because even if she’s always insisting Quinn study because studying is important because graduating is important because it’s important for them to be successful together, no sane person could be expected to separate from Rachel Berry at eight-thirty in the morning in order to study. Or for any other reason.
It’s totally Rachel’s fault. Really, Quinn has every right to be furious.)
The eighteenth of December also means the beginning of their shared vacation from their respective universities-Julliard and NYU-which means returning to Lima, along with everyone else. Along with everyone else who was lucky enough to escape. And it’s not that Quinn wouldn’t taken a certain measure of interest in reconnecting with those with whom she’s lost touch, it’s just that it always meant pretending she and Rachel don’t have this. And having to hide someone who also happens to be the best thing that’s ever happened to her, ever-well, it sucks.
But it’s December 18, 2015, and Quinn Fabray is determined to change everything. To be fair, she feels altogether less determined and entirely more terrified when it occurs to her exactly what it is she’s planning to do (and even reminding herself she’s Quinn Fabray doesn’t solve her problems and she kind of can’t talk to Rachel about this, which is the whole point), which explains the lack of sleep that occurs until about five-thirty in the morning. And it isn’t until ten-thirty that she realizes she’s slept past her alarm and, oh God oh no oh dammit to hell she’s already screwing everything up.
There was a plan. Quinn Fabray had a plan that involved breakfast in bed and roses and maybe a little bit of singing. With a wave of panic, she sits up sharply. Rachel’s gone. It’s Rachel’s birthday and she’s gone and oh my God, she’s screwed.
“Rachel Barbra Berry,” she threatens, having raced toward the kitchen and witnessed Rachel pulling pots and pans onto their stove, “if you do not step away from the pan immediately, there will be disastrous consequences.”
And Rachel turns, unable hide her smile but rolling her eyes nevertheless. “You do realize this isn’t high school anymore? You can no longer order the football team to slushie me, Quinn.”
Three years ago, the same comment would have sent a wave of guilt crashing over her, drowning her. Three years ago, there would have been uncertainty trembling at the corners of Rachel’s lips, and even though her voice would never shake, the hurt in her eyes would be unmistakable. Even two years after they had begun dating-the summer following their Junior year, when Rachel Berry had picked up all the pieces of Quinn Fabray and put them back together again-and Rachel swore it was all behind them, that they both understood what it meant to suffer, the memories would choke her.
(She doesn’t think there will ever be a time when she will not feel the weight of it, but maybe that’s okay-because it ties her to the ground, because it keeps her steady, because it reminds her that every day she will try to be better for Rachel.)
But now Rachel’s smile is unmistakable and unfaltering and her eyes are bright with joy. (And Quinn will make up for it every day if it means seeing this, a girl who smiles like she means it and loves like Quinn is exactly who she’s always wanted.)
So Quinn raises her eyebrow like she did when she was the head cheerleader and everyone fell to their knees in her honor. “I don’t know, Berry-do you really want to test your luck?”
Rachel, for her part, looks entirely unimpressed, but Quinn is already stepping into her personal space and pressing her against the edge of the kitchen counter and kissing her like she’s never meant anything more. By the time Quinn pulls away, the pan is firmly in her grasp.
“Good morning,” she whispers with a smirk, and for an instant it’s just like high school all over again-the head cheerleader coming out on top by manipulating the loser, the freak, Man Hands into submission. Except that Quinn is chewing absently on her bottom lip and looking at Rachel like she’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Like if Rachel asked, it would be enough.
Quinn would step in front of Rachel. Quinn would take the slushie. (And after all these self-defense classes, Quinn would kick someone’s ass.)
---
Quinn’s expectations for today had not amounted to being trapped in the airport for hours because of a storm. Her plans had been marvelous and grand, had included a show the likes of which may have even half-deserved the attention of Rachel Berry, rising Broadway star. This is none of that. This is a line at the airport and this is Rachel Berry who looks to be mentally preparing herself for a confrontation which will no doubt include mention of her ties to the ACLU if she can manage to fit that in (or even if she can’t). This is not romantic.
But in that moment-as Rachel rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest and breathes an entirely overdramatic sigh-the words tumble out before Quinn has a chance to consider the implications. They’ve been there all day, on the tip of her tongue, lodged in her throat; they’ve been making it difficult to swallow and sometimes to breathe. She’s been thinking them so much that first the insanity and stupidity of the question-worse, even: statement-does not occur to her.
“Rachel Berry,” she murmurs, unable to hide the amused and infatuated smile tugging at the corners of her lips, “marry me.”
By the time she has finished, Rachel has gone from frustrated to bewildered to flabbergasted to this, her face frozen and her eyes wide, a cross between shock and something else Quinn cannot read. It is not until that movement that the weight of her words hits her, twists around inside of her stomach, and she imagines her expression must be a mix of panic and sheer horror.
Rachel opens and closes her mouth repeatedly as if searching for the appropriate words, as if searching for any words, and perhaps that terrifies Quinn most of all, to bear witness to a speechless Rachel Berry. And Quinn would say something if she could, but there are people pressing in around her and she’s suffocating and she did not just say that. She did not just ask it like that, in the middle of an airport like it doesn’t matter.
“Quinn Fabray,” she whispers, eyes still wide, “if-if that was meant to be a joke, it was done in very poor taste. And if you…actually intended it to be genuine, I…” She’s looking at Quinn with mouth agape, incredulous. “The setting is not exactly…conducive to that particular question. You…”
Quinn knows that Rachel needs an explanation; her look is searching, horrified, desperate. And Quinn wants to give her one that will make sense of everything, that will provide her with some peace of mind, that will make it okay. Except that it’s not okay and none of it makes sense.
“Rachel, no, I didn’t-” she finally begins, because Rachel won’t stop looking at her and Quinn knows that she deserves a reason, but all she has is the tightening in her chest and her absolute insanity.
Rachel expects an answer and Quinn should give it to her. She should apologize and make it right and craft some brilliant excuse, but it is eleven-thirty at night and they are certainly not going to make it to Lima in the midst of this weather and Rachel is her girlfriend and all Quinn wants is this, forever. (Well, maybe not this-maybe not airport delays and endless frustration-but Quinn thinks she’d rather have all of that with Rachel than anything else without.)
“I want you to marry me,” she repeats, because she’s Quinn Fabray, the girl who managed to attend school for nine months with her head held high and her tears hidden when it counted, the girl who returned to her spot at the top of the food chain a matter of months later, the girl for whom the students would part in the hallways. (But with her heart lodged in her throat and absolute terror her only momentum, Quinn has become strikingly aware that none of it compares to confessing to Rachel in the middle of a crowded airport that she wants nothing more than to have this for the rest of her life.) “Rachel, marry me.”
“Quinn Fabray, what on earth,” she begins, her confusion having dissolved enough that she has found her voice-and Quinn is familiar with this introduction, with the intake of breath and the wide, determined eyes. If Quinn lets her, this speech will surely be endless and Quinn will lose what little nerve she has. She cannot afford it.
“Rachel,” she whispers, “I know this isn’t-ideal.” Rachel folds her arms across her chest and raises her eyebrows but closes her mouth-reluctantly-and Quinn is entirely willing to count this as a victory. “I know this is an airport.” And then she feels the weight of her frustration, crushing, and suddenly words fall uninhibited and all attempts at sanity vanish. “I know that you deserve better than this-it was going to be better than this. In Lima, there was supposed to be a plan. You deserve a grand performance in your honor and heart-wrenching romantic gestures and something meaningful and important that you can’t ever forget. You deserve all of the romantic clichés-all of the roses and beautiful words in the world and all the while the acknowledgement that none if it could ever match up to you. Because you also deserve more than the clichés.” Quinn glances away, only distantly aware that they have begun attracting attention. “We both know that you deserve more than me.
“I’m Quinn Fabray--and that mattered in high school. Everyone knew my name. I did everything to get to the top. I was ruthless. But you-you’re Rachel Berry, and that will matter in the world. Everyone in the world will know your name. You will get to the top because you care the most and you try the hardest and because you are the most talented person the world has ever seen.
“I want to be there with you. I want to always be there with you. I want to be there with you when you become the most famous Broadway star ever to have lived. I want to tell people that you’re my wife. I want you to be my wife.”
Quinn falls to the ground on one knee on the tile of the airport, grasping Rachel’s hand as she does so, past the point of no return. This is it, she thinks, because this is all she has, because all she has is staring down at her with wide eyes and tears falling freely down her cheeks and a hand trembling in her own.
It’s not until Rachel raises her free hand to brush the tears from Quinn’s cheeks that she realizes she’s been crying, too. “I want you, Rachel. I want you the same way that you want Broadway. It took me seventeen years to realize you were it for me-and I guess that means I should never criticize Finn for his obliviousness because even he knew. But I want the rest of my life to never forget.”
“Quinn,” Rachel whispers, and her voice breaks a little around the words and Quinn clutches her hand. The floor beneath her knee is hard, cold; there is a woman beside her wearing a sweater of the most hideous green she has ever encountered; there is a boy calling for his mother in the distance, sharp and echoing and desperate. There is Quinn’s heart, thudthudthuding in her chest, so fast for a moment she thinks she might choke on it.
Quinn cannot look at Rachel and she cannot look away.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” Quinn murmurs as she looks finally at the ground, unable to bear the weight of uncertainty. If only her high school self could see her now.
“No,” Rachel agrees.
“I just want you,” Quinn finally confesses helplessly. “I just want you forever.”
For a heartbeat, there is nothing. There is a rushing in her ears and there is silence.
And then, quite suddenly, Rachel is pulling her up and throwing her arms around her and tugging her close. “Yes,” she whispers into her ear. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The weightlessness of the word leaves her breathless.
By the time Rachel pulls away, she’s a mess of tears and smiles. “I suppose this was just a clever way of avoiding the purchase of a present for my birthday this year,” she whispers, teasing, but her words falter in the middle, and there’s a smile so bright that Quinn’s heart stutters.
“You’ll get your present, Berry,” she says, except her smirk lasts only a nanosecond before it dissolves into a smile so wide it hurts.
But Rachel’s looking at her like maybe she already has enough. Like maybe Quinn is enough.
---
Quinn entwines their fingers when they step off the plane together.
It feels like waking up.
Author: intobrakelights
Pairing: Rachel/Quinn.
Rating: PG
Length: ~2300
Spoilers: All of season one, I suppose? There's really only vague references.
Summary: A proposal gone entirely wrong.
Author's Notes: Just something that happened. It also happens to be a super late birthday present for my favorite person ever. ♥ I know it wasn't worth the wait, but it's yours anyway, babe.
It’s the eighteenth of December.
It’s the eighteenth of December, which means two things. The first, and inevitably the most important, is that it’s Rachel Berry’s birthday. Rachel Berry her girlfriend, Rachel Berry the love of her life, Rachel Berry who takes up ninety-eight percent of her mind on the average day, which leaves school with a measly two percent, which has very nearly accorded her a vast amount of trouble on numerous occasions and inevitably means last-minute cramming for exams. Which is really not a good thing, if she ever plans on graduating.
(She’s told Rachel this, too, on multiple occasions, but it doesn’t exactly feel like the worst nightmare ever when Rachel’s curled up against her in their shared apartment, her nose softly pressed against Quinn’s neck, her breath warm against Quinn’s collarbone. Which makes it entirely Rachel’s fault, because even if she’s always insisting Quinn study because studying is important because graduating is important because it’s important for them to be successful together, no sane person could be expected to separate from Rachel Berry at eight-thirty in the morning in order to study. Or for any other reason.
It’s totally Rachel’s fault. Really, Quinn has every right to be furious.)
The eighteenth of December also means the beginning of their shared vacation from their respective universities-Julliard and NYU-which means returning to Lima, along with everyone else. Along with everyone else who was lucky enough to escape. And it’s not that Quinn wouldn’t taken a certain measure of interest in reconnecting with those with whom she’s lost touch, it’s just that it always meant pretending she and Rachel don’t have this. And having to hide someone who also happens to be the best thing that’s ever happened to her, ever-well, it sucks.
But it’s December 18, 2015, and Quinn Fabray is determined to change everything. To be fair, she feels altogether less determined and entirely more terrified when it occurs to her exactly what it is she’s planning to do (and even reminding herself she’s Quinn Fabray doesn’t solve her problems and she kind of can’t talk to Rachel about this, which is the whole point), which explains the lack of sleep that occurs until about five-thirty in the morning. And it isn’t until ten-thirty that she realizes she’s slept past her alarm and, oh God oh no oh dammit to hell she’s already screwing everything up.
There was a plan. Quinn Fabray had a plan that involved breakfast in bed and roses and maybe a little bit of singing. With a wave of panic, she sits up sharply. Rachel’s gone. It’s Rachel’s birthday and she’s gone and oh my God, she’s screwed.
“Rachel Barbra Berry,” she threatens, having raced toward the kitchen and witnessed Rachel pulling pots and pans onto their stove, “if you do not step away from the pan immediately, there will be disastrous consequences.”
And Rachel turns, unable hide her smile but rolling her eyes nevertheless. “You do realize this isn’t high school anymore? You can no longer order the football team to slushie me, Quinn.”
Three years ago, the same comment would have sent a wave of guilt crashing over her, drowning her. Three years ago, there would have been uncertainty trembling at the corners of Rachel’s lips, and even though her voice would never shake, the hurt in her eyes would be unmistakable. Even two years after they had begun dating-the summer following their Junior year, when Rachel Berry had picked up all the pieces of Quinn Fabray and put them back together again-and Rachel swore it was all behind them, that they both understood what it meant to suffer, the memories would choke her.
(She doesn’t think there will ever be a time when she will not feel the weight of it, but maybe that’s okay-because it ties her to the ground, because it keeps her steady, because it reminds her that every day she will try to be better for Rachel.)
But now Rachel’s smile is unmistakable and unfaltering and her eyes are bright with joy. (And Quinn will make up for it every day if it means seeing this, a girl who smiles like she means it and loves like Quinn is exactly who she’s always wanted.)
So Quinn raises her eyebrow like she did when she was the head cheerleader and everyone fell to their knees in her honor. “I don’t know, Berry-do you really want to test your luck?”
Rachel, for her part, looks entirely unimpressed, but Quinn is already stepping into her personal space and pressing her against the edge of the kitchen counter and kissing her like she’s never meant anything more. By the time Quinn pulls away, the pan is firmly in her grasp.
“Good morning,” she whispers with a smirk, and for an instant it’s just like high school all over again-the head cheerleader coming out on top by manipulating the loser, the freak, Man Hands into submission. Except that Quinn is chewing absently on her bottom lip and looking at Rachel like she’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Like if Rachel asked, it would be enough.
Quinn would step in front of Rachel. Quinn would take the slushie. (And after all these self-defense classes, Quinn would kick someone’s ass.)
---
Quinn’s expectations for today had not amounted to being trapped in the airport for hours because of a storm. Her plans had been marvelous and grand, had included a show the likes of which may have even half-deserved the attention of Rachel Berry, rising Broadway star. This is none of that. This is a line at the airport and this is Rachel Berry who looks to be mentally preparing herself for a confrontation which will no doubt include mention of her ties to the ACLU if she can manage to fit that in (or even if she can’t). This is not romantic.
But in that moment-as Rachel rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest and breathes an entirely overdramatic sigh-the words tumble out before Quinn has a chance to consider the implications. They’ve been there all day, on the tip of her tongue, lodged in her throat; they’ve been making it difficult to swallow and sometimes to breathe. She’s been thinking them so much that first the insanity and stupidity of the question-worse, even: statement-does not occur to her.
“Rachel Berry,” she murmurs, unable to hide the amused and infatuated smile tugging at the corners of her lips, “marry me.”
By the time she has finished, Rachel has gone from frustrated to bewildered to flabbergasted to this, her face frozen and her eyes wide, a cross between shock and something else Quinn cannot read. It is not until that movement that the weight of her words hits her, twists around inside of her stomach, and she imagines her expression must be a mix of panic and sheer horror.
Rachel opens and closes her mouth repeatedly as if searching for the appropriate words, as if searching for any words, and perhaps that terrifies Quinn most of all, to bear witness to a speechless Rachel Berry. And Quinn would say something if she could, but there are people pressing in around her and she’s suffocating and she did not just say that. She did not just ask it like that, in the middle of an airport like it doesn’t matter.
“Quinn Fabray,” she whispers, eyes still wide, “if-if that was meant to be a joke, it was done in very poor taste. And if you…actually intended it to be genuine, I…” She’s looking at Quinn with mouth agape, incredulous. “The setting is not exactly…conducive to that particular question. You…”
Quinn knows that Rachel needs an explanation; her look is searching, horrified, desperate. And Quinn wants to give her one that will make sense of everything, that will provide her with some peace of mind, that will make it okay. Except that it’s not okay and none of it makes sense.
“Rachel, no, I didn’t-” she finally begins, because Rachel won’t stop looking at her and Quinn knows that she deserves a reason, but all she has is the tightening in her chest and her absolute insanity.
Rachel expects an answer and Quinn should give it to her. She should apologize and make it right and craft some brilliant excuse, but it is eleven-thirty at night and they are certainly not going to make it to Lima in the midst of this weather and Rachel is her girlfriend and all Quinn wants is this, forever. (Well, maybe not this-maybe not airport delays and endless frustration-but Quinn thinks she’d rather have all of that with Rachel than anything else without.)
“I want you to marry me,” she repeats, because she’s Quinn Fabray, the girl who managed to attend school for nine months with her head held high and her tears hidden when it counted, the girl who returned to her spot at the top of the food chain a matter of months later, the girl for whom the students would part in the hallways. (But with her heart lodged in her throat and absolute terror her only momentum, Quinn has become strikingly aware that none of it compares to confessing to Rachel in the middle of a crowded airport that she wants nothing more than to have this for the rest of her life.) “Rachel, marry me.”
“Quinn Fabray, what on earth,” she begins, her confusion having dissolved enough that she has found her voice-and Quinn is familiar with this introduction, with the intake of breath and the wide, determined eyes. If Quinn lets her, this speech will surely be endless and Quinn will lose what little nerve she has. She cannot afford it.
“Rachel,” she whispers, “I know this isn’t-ideal.” Rachel folds her arms across her chest and raises her eyebrows but closes her mouth-reluctantly-and Quinn is entirely willing to count this as a victory. “I know this is an airport.” And then she feels the weight of her frustration, crushing, and suddenly words fall uninhibited and all attempts at sanity vanish. “I know that you deserve better than this-it was going to be better than this. In Lima, there was supposed to be a plan. You deserve a grand performance in your honor and heart-wrenching romantic gestures and something meaningful and important that you can’t ever forget. You deserve all of the romantic clichés-all of the roses and beautiful words in the world and all the while the acknowledgement that none if it could ever match up to you. Because you also deserve more than the clichés.” Quinn glances away, only distantly aware that they have begun attracting attention. “We both know that you deserve more than me.
“I’m Quinn Fabray--and that mattered in high school. Everyone knew my name. I did everything to get to the top. I was ruthless. But you-you’re Rachel Berry, and that will matter in the world. Everyone in the world will know your name. You will get to the top because you care the most and you try the hardest and because you are the most talented person the world has ever seen.
“I want to be there with you. I want to always be there with you. I want to be there with you when you become the most famous Broadway star ever to have lived. I want to tell people that you’re my wife. I want you to be my wife.”
Quinn falls to the ground on one knee on the tile of the airport, grasping Rachel’s hand as she does so, past the point of no return. This is it, she thinks, because this is all she has, because all she has is staring down at her with wide eyes and tears falling freely down her cheeks and a hand trembling in her own.
It’s not until Rachel raises her free hand to brush the tears from Quinn’s cheeks that she realizes she’s been crying, too. “I want you, Rachel. I want you the same way that you want Broadway. It took me seventeen years to realize you were it for me-and I guess that means I should never criticize Finn for his obliviousness because even he knew. But I want the rest of my life to never forget.”
“Quinn,” Rachel whispers, and her voice breaks a little around the words and Quinn clutches her hand. The floor beneath her knee is hard, cold; there is a woman beside her wearing a sweater of the most hideous green she has ever encountered; there is a boy calling for his mother in the distance, sharp and echoing and desperate. There is Quinn’s heart, thudthudthuding in her chest, so fast for a moment she thinks she might choke on it.
Quinn cannot look at Rachel and she cannot look away.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” Quinn murmurs as she looks finally at the ground, unable to bear the weight of uncertainty. If only her high school self could see her now.
“No,” Rachel agrees.
“I just want you,” Quinn finally confesses helplessly. “I just want you forever.”
For a heartbeat, there is nothing. There is a rushing in her ears and there is silence.
And then, quite suddenly, Rachel is pulling her up and throwing her arms around her and tugging her close. “Yes,” she whispers into her ear. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The weightlessness of the word leaves her breathless.
By the time Rachel pulls away, she’s a mess of tears and smiles. “I suppose this was just a clever way of avoiding the purchase of a present for my birthday this year,” she whispers, teasing, but her words falter in the middle, and there’s a smile so bright that Quinn’s heart stutters.
“You’ll get your present, Berry,” she says, except her smirk lasts only a nanosecond before it dissolves into a smile so wide it hurts.
But Rachel’s looking at her like maybe she already has enough. Like maybe Quinn is enough.
---
Quinn entwines their fingers when they step off the plane together.
It feels like waking up.