Fic: I Can't Do It Alone [13/?]
Title: I Can't Do It Alone
Author: rainbombz
Rating: R, NC-17, something of that nature.
Warnings: Character death (before and after the start of the story), drugs use, language, sex, perversion of justice - a bit angsty, if you couldn't tell.
Length: ~2000, this part; ~17400, total.
Spoilers: It may have spoilers in future chapters, to whatever the current episode may be at the time of posting. You can work that out. (:
Summary: All she knows is that she can't let Quinn go - not when she's certain that she's the only thing the Cheerio has to cling to.
A/N: So, I promised a double-update today. An extra long chapter is just as good, y/y?
Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8|Part 9| Part 10| Part 11| Part 12
In the end, they don’t go anywhere. Instead, they find themselves again in the same comfortable position they had been earlier on Rachel’s bed and again, big surprise, Rachel was talking. This time, however, Quinn was actually listening to what the other girl had to say and even offering her own insightful comments on the odd occasion that she could actually get a word in edgeways. In these hours, she learns a lot about Rachel Berry - what she likes and dislikes, her favourite foods, her role model (a tie between Chenoweth, Menzel and Streisand - a second big surprise there) and all the other seemingly unimportant facts that make Rachel Berry Rachel Berry. If Quinn were anyone else, she would probably be offended that in the four hours they’ve been lying here Rachel has never once asked her about herself - but she’s Quinn. She’s happy not to talk about herself. She doesn’t want to talk about herself, and she gets the feeling that Rachel knows this.
It’s only when the sunlight streaming through the trees flanking Berry’s bedroom window slowly dwindles to twilight that the cheerleader finally whispers, so as not to break the magic they seem to have fallen into, “I should go.” It breaks their ten minute silence, and brings both girls crashing back down to earth. Their day together has been nothing short of perfect, for both of them - but even it can’t overcome the fact that they need to get back to their own, real worlds. Even so, Rachel rolls over to face the blonde, bottom lip jutting out expertly, and places a hand delicately on the other girl’s hip through her jeans.
“Do you have to?”
Quinn wants to say no. Instead, she says, “It’s a Saturday night.” That answer is enough for both of them. It’s a Saturday night: Discovery will be crawling, and scores of junkies will need their fix. Quinn can give them that.
Rachel sighs, arguing for what she knows is a lost cause, “You could stay here.” She tightens her fingers’ hold by threading them through the belt loop of Quinn’s jeans in a way that she hopes shows her desperate need for the other girl to stay.
“I can’t,” Quinn replies, but instead of conviction her voice is laced with regret. “I really can’t.”
The star nods. “I know.” And she does know that - it just doesn’t stop her from feeling a painful combination of hurt and disappointment. Quinn isn’t going to change overnight, if ever; Rachel needs to get used to these emotions, because she doubts they’ll leave any time soon. “When will I see you again?”
Quinn shrugs. She should say never, and stop this mess before it starts - but she doesn’t want to and, for the first time in years, she’s going to do what she wants. Not what her parents want, not what Ms Sylvester wants, not what Puck or Finn or Santana want. What Quinn fucking Fabray wants. Starting right now. “What are you doing after school on Monday?”
“I’ve booked the auditorium for practice.” She now wishes she hadn’t. “We could do something after?”
“Actually…” Quinn trails off embarrassedly, only continuing when Rachel nods for her to do so, “Well, maybe I could come listen to you sing? Or play for you?”
Rachel’s mouth stretches into a fully-fledged grin. “I’d like that.” She looks pensive for a moment, and the blonde rolls her eyes.
“Say it.”
“How did you know I was going to say something?” Rachel asks, bemused.
Quinn just laughs. “When do you not say something?”
“I just wondered why you don’t make more of musical skills. I mean, before Tuesday I didn’t even know you could play the piano - which you do magnificently, by the way. Had you really never seen those scores before? Anyway, that’s besides the point.” Quinn wonders dryly if the brunette ever stops for breath. It doesn’t seem like it. “I just think you could really, truly make something of yourself. You’re easily a grade 8 piano player, if not an even higher standard, and that, coupled with your voice, which is slightly sharp on notes above a high C but still rather impressive, could instigate a musical career upon leaving school.” The ‘instead of drugs’ is left unspoken.
Quinn is silent, silently stewing over what has been said. She used to think about things like that - she used to dream. Having a baby at sixteen tended to strip that from you, the cheerleader found. Finally she says, “Berry, you and I both know that the only thing that’s going to get me somewhere is sixty bucks a gram of Charlie.”
“Get you where besides a grave before you turn twenty?” Rachel snaps defiantly, but her expression melts when she watches the cheerleader recoil away from her. “I’m sorry that was…”
“Out of line? Yeah, just a fucking bit,” Quinn growls from wearing she’s tugging her jacket back on over by Rachel’s desk on the other side of the room. “You know what, Berry? Fuck you.”
Rachel flinches. Never, even in all their years of animosity, has she seen Quinn Fabray this furious. Not even when she enlightened Finn as to the father of his girlfriend’s baby. Not even when she was throwing ice cold slushies in her face, or convincing others to do so had she seemed so angry. Not even when she drew offensive cartoons, or called her “Manhands” or “Treasure Trail” or “RuPaul”. Never. The star knows she’s crossed a line, and she’s not certain that she’s ever going to be able to fix it. There’s no taking back what she said, even if it tripped off her tongue due to frustration rather than spite.
Regardless, it’s not like Quinn even gives her a chance to redeem herself. The second her zip-up’s on, the cheerleader’s out the door and thundering down the stairs, muttering a quick, “Thank you,” to the two Berrys in the living room, reminiscent of when her mother used to ingrain her with manners. When her mother used to care.
When the singer’s shock subsides enough for her to force her leaden legs to move and follow, all she hears upon reaching the front door is the sound of a car door slamming and tires screeching as Quinn and her sports car tear off down the street. Turning, Rachel slumps against the door. “Damnit.”
She doesn’t know how she could possibly have thought it was a good thing to say. Rachel Berry wasn’t a lot of things: she wasn’t modest, she wasn’t humble or unassuming or shy or any of those things that good girls are supposed to be. She hadn’t thought that she wasn’t tactful. Clearly, however, that was entirely the case.
The day had been going so well. The innocent touches, the in-depth discussions, the light flirting - everything was pointing to things going right for them. Damn it, things were even pointing towards Quinn also feeling whatever this strange niggling in her gut was when they touched, or spoke, or even just looked at each other. And she totally fucking blew it.
Rachel has to bite her lip and clench her fists in an effort not to cry. It doesn’t work.
When she’s been standing there for ten minutes, barely containing the small, choked sobs that want to come, her daddy comes out to investigate. “You okay, Rach?” She only nods, knowing that it’s entirely unbelievable. He raises a sceptical brow, but gives her a nod in return. The brunette loves that her dads don’t pry. She loves everything about them. Now, the guilt of how badly she’s been treating them lately piles on top of the guilt she feels for putting her foot in it with Quinn and her bottom lip trembles uncontrollably. Before she can register, she’s sobbing into the polyester of her daddy’s striped jumper and his arms are wrapping themselves lovingly around her slender waist. He shushes her gently, and rocks her back and forth until finally the tears dry up. It only took longer once she had come to the realisation that he wasn’t Quinn. His arms are too chunky and muscled, his head shaved, his chocolate skin a sharp contrast to the creamy flesh she’d been hoping for. “Want to talk about?”
“No,” Rachel assures him, sniffling slightly. “No, I think I’ll just go to bed.”
She does so, and Samuel can do nothing but watch as the broken form of his daughter slouches up the stairs in such an introverted fashion that he almost doesn’t believe that it is his Rachel.
Lying face down on her bed with her face buried into the pillow, Rachel had had every intention of bawling until a restless sleep managed to consume her. It happened in all those angst filled romance movies. She’s surprised when she finds that no more tears will come - she just doesn’t have it in her to cry any more. So instead, she spends the next few hours before she finally drifts off plotting ways to make it up to Quinn. No matter how elaborate her schemes become, she doesn’t seem able to think of anything that could possibly atone for her slip-up.
When her dreams come, she can’t find Quinn anywhere - but it’s not for lack of trying. She searches the entire school building, ending with the choir room. She then turns to go into Mr Schue’s office, and when she throws open the door it’s to find herself in Discovery.
There’s crowds everywhere, and the place smells of sweat and beer and solvents and all sorts of other things that she doesn’t even want to think about. Everyone’s leering at her, grabbing at her ass and trying to pull her to them. The man who had previously been intent on chatting her up only to be thwarted by her blonde knight managed to grab her arm, and Rachel cast her eyes everywhere for a sign of Quinn. There was none whatsoever. He drags her to the cloakroom, and he soon has his hands everywhere - rough and fumbling and gritty and unpleasant. There’s a light tap at the door of the closet. He doesn’t stop. Another tap. His hands get lower. Another. They’re almost there. Another.
Suddenly, she jolts up in bed and her eyes quickly find the LED clock on her bedside cabinet. One-thirty-five. She groans, running a hand through hair that is damp with sweat. Her heart thunders in her chest and she has to remind herself to breathe. He’s not here, she tells herself. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s not- there’s another knock and she almost flies out of the bed in her panic.
It takes a moment to register that it’s the sound of someone knocking on the front door. The star swallows, the action clawing her throat painfully, and then forces herself to leave the safety of her bed and answer the door. At this hour, it must be important.
Swinging open the door, the sight that greets her isn’t one she expects. Quinn, huddled on her front porch, nursing a slowly blossoming bruise beneath her left eye along with a split lip, and a few minor scratches on her face. When the blonde sees that she’s answered the door, she stands up quickly and looks the brunette in the eye. “Is your offer still open?”
“Huh?”
“Can I stay here?” Quinn says it slowly, like she’s speaking to a small child. “I can’t go home,“ she gestures to her face, “Not like this.”
Rachel nods, and moves back to let Quinn enter her house. Relief floods her body at the knowledge that the cheerleader has come back to her. It was the magnetism that came with love at work, she was sure of it. Or, she hoped it anyway.
Once they’re in her bedroom, Rachel breaks the awkward silence that has fallen between them: “You can take the bed. I’ll go get the spare duvet.” She turns to do so, but before she’s even taken a step Quinn’s hand closes around her wrist. Without speaking, she pulls the star to the bed with her and Rachel understands. She doesn’t understand the why - Quinn Fabray is never very open. What she does understand, however, is the what. This is why she, knowingly, slips beneath the covers where the cheerleader quickly joins her. Just before she drifts back asleep, she feels slim arms curl around her waist and she lets out a small, contented sigh.
For now, she doesn’t need to know the why.
Author: rainbombz
Rating: R, NC-17, something of that nature.
Warnings: Character death (before and after the start of the story), drugs use, language, sex, perversion of justice - a bit angsty, if you couldn't tell.
Length: ~2000, this part; ~17400, total.
Spoilers: It may have spoilers in future chapters, to whatever the current episode may be at the time of posting. You can work that out. (:
Summary: All she knows is that she can't let Quinn go - not when she's certain that she's the only thing the Cheerio has to cling to.
A/N: So, I promised a double-update today. An extra long chapter is just as good, y/y?
Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8|Part 9| Part 10| Part 11| Part 12
In the end, they don’t go anywhere. Instead, they find themselves again in the same comfortable position they had been earlier on Rachel’s bed and again, big surprise, Rachel was talking. This time, however, Quinn was actually listening to what the other girl had to say and even offering her own insightful comments on the odd occasion that she could actually get a word in edgeways. In these hours, she learns a lot about Rachel Berry - what she likes and dislikes, her favourite foods, her role model (a tie between Chenoweth, Menzel and Streisand - a second big surprise there) and all the other seemingly unimportant facts that make Rachel Berry Rachel Berry. If Quinn were anyone else, she would probably be offended that in the four hours they’ve been lying here Rachel has never once asked her about herself - but she’s Quinn. She’s happy not to talk about herself. She doesn’t want to talk about herself, and she gets the feeling that Rachel knows this.
It’s only when the sunlight streaming through the trees flanking Berry’s bedroom window slowly dwindles to twilight that the cheerleader finally whispers, so as not to break the magic they seem to have fallen into, “I should go.” It breaks their ten minute silence, and brings both girls crashing back down to earth. Their day together has been nothing short of perfect, for both of them - but even it can’t overcome the fact that they need to get back to their own, real worlds. Even so, Rachel rolls over to face the blonde, bottom lip jutting out expertly, and places a hand delicately on the other girl’s hip through her jeans.
“Do you have to?”
Quinn wants to say no. Instead, she says, “It’s a Saturday night.” That answer is enough for both of them. It’s a Saturday night: Discovery will be crawling, and scores of junkies will need their fix. Quinn can give them that.
Rachel sighs, arguing for what she knows is a lost cause, “You could stay here.” She tightens her fingers’ hold by threading them through the belt loop of Quinn’s jeans in a way that she hopes shows her desperate need for the other girl to stay.
“I can’t,” Quinn replies, but instead of conviction her voice is laced with regret. “I really can’t.”
The star nods. “I know.” And she does know that - it just doesn’t stop her from feeling a painful combination of hurt and disappointment. Quinn isn’t going to change overnight, if ever; Rachel needs to get used to these emotions, because she doubts they’ll leave any time soon. “When will I see you again?”
Quinn shrugs. She should say never, and stop this mess before it starts - but she doesn’t want to and, for the first time in years, she’s going to do what she wants. Not what her parents want, not what Ms Sylvester wants, not what Puck or Finn or Santana want. What Quinn fucking Fabray wants. Starting right now. “What are you doing after school on Monday?”
“I’ve booked the auditorium for practice.” She now wishes she hadn’t. “We could do something after?”
“Actually…” Quinn trails off embarrassedly, only continuing when Rachel nods for her to do so, “Well, maybe I could come listen to you sing? Or play for you?”
Rachel’s mouth stretches into a fully-fledged grin. “I’d like that.” She looks pensive for a moment, and the blonde rolls her eyes.
“Say it.”
“How did you know I was going to say something?” Rachel asks, bemused.
Quinn just laughs. “When do you not say something?”
“I just wondered why you don’t make more of musical skills. I mean, before Tuesday I didn’t even know you could play the piano - which you do magnificently, by the way. Had you really never seen those scores before? Anyway, that’s besides the point.” Quinn wonders dryly if the brunette ever stops for breath. It doesn’t seem like it. “I just think you could really, truly make something of yourself. You’re easily a grade 8 piano player, if not an even higher standard, and that, coupled with your voice, which is slightly sharp on notes above a high C but still rather impressive, could instigate a musical career upon leaving school.” The ‘instead of drugs’ is left unspoken.
Quinn is silent, silently stewing over what has been said. She used to think about things like that - she used to dream. Having a baby at sixteen tended to strip that from you, the cheerleader found. Finally she says, “Berry, you and I both know that the only thing that’s going to get me somewhere is sixty bucks a gram of Charlie.”
“Get you where besides a grave before you turn twenty?” Rachel snaps defiantly, but her expression melts when she watches the cheerleader recoil away from her. “I’m sorry that was…”
“Out of line? Yeah, just a fucking bit,” Quinn growls from wearing she’s tugging her jacket back on over by Rachel’s desk on the other side of the room. “You know what, Berry? Fuck you.”
Rachel flinches. Never, even in all their years of animosity, has she seen Quinn Fabray this furious. Not even when she enlightened Finn as to the father of his girlfriend’s baby. Not even when she was throwing ice cold slushies in her face, or convincing others to do so had she seemed so angry. Not even when she drew offensive cartoons, or called her “Manhands” or “Treasure Trail” or “RuPaul”. Never. The star knows she’s crossed a line, and she’s not certain that she’s ever going to be able to fix it. There’s no taking back what she said, even if it tripped off her tongue due to frustration rather than spite.
Regardless, it’s not like Quinn even gives her a chance to redeem herself. The second her zip-up’s on, the cheerleader’s out the door and thundering down the stairs, muttering a quick, “Thank you,” to the two Berrys in the living room, reminiscent of when her mother used to ingrain her with manners. When her mother used to care.
When the singer’s shock subsides enough for her to force her leaden legs to move and follow, all she hears upon reaching the front door is the sound of a car door slamming and tires screeching as Quinn and her sports car tear off down the street. Turning, Rachel slumps against the door. “Damnit.”
She doesn’t know how she could possibly have thought it was a good thing to say. Rachel Berry wasn’t a lot of things: she wasn’t modest, she wasn’t humble or unassuming or shy or any of those things that good girls are supposed to be. She hadn’t thought that she wasn’t tactful. Clearly, however, that was entirely the case.
The day had been going so well. The innocent touches, the in-depth discussions, the light flirting - everything was pointing to things going right for them. Damn it, things were even pointing towards Quinn also feeling whatever this strange niggling in her gut was when they touched, or spoke, or even just looked at each other. And she totally fucking blew it.
Rachel has to bite her lip and clench her fists in an effort not to cry. It doesn’t work.
When she’s been standing there for ten minutes, barely containing the small, choked sobs that want to come, her daddy comes out to investigate. “You okay, Rach?” She only nods, knowing that it’s entirely unbelievable. He raises a sceptical brow, but gives her a nod in return. The brunette loves that her dads don’t pry. She loves everything about them. Now, the guilt of how badly she’s been treating them lately piles on top of the guilt she feels for putting her foot in it with Quinn and her bottom lip trembles uncontrollably. Before she can register, she’s sobbing into the polyester of her daddy’s striped jumper and his arms are wrapping themselves lovingly around her slender waist. He shushes her gently, and rocks her back and forth until finally the tears dry up. It only took longer once she had come to the realisation that he wasn’t Quinn. His arms are too chunky and muscled, his head shaved, his chocolate skin a sharp contrast to the creamy flesh she’d been hoping for. “Want to talk about?”
“No,” Rachel assures him, sniffling slightly. “No, I think I’ll just go to bed.”
She does so, and Samuel can do nothing but watch as the broken form of his daughter slouches up the stairs in such an introverted fashion that he almost doesn’t believe that it is his Rachel.
Lying face down on her bed with her face buried into the pillow, Rachel had had every intention of bawling until a restless sleep managed to consume her. It happened in all those angst filled romance movies. She’s surprised when she finds that no more tears will come - she just doesn’t have it in her to cry any more. So instead, she spends the next few hours before she finally drifts off plotting ways to make it up to Quinn. No matter how elaborate her schemes become, she doesn’t seem able to think of anything that could possibly atone for her slip-up.
When her dreams come, she can’t find Quinn anywhere - but it’s not for lack of trying. She searches the entire school building, ending with the choir room. She then turns to go into Mr Schue’s office, and when she throws open the door it’s to find herself in Discovery.
There’s crowds everywhere, and the place smells of sweat and beer and solvents and all sorts of other things that she doesn’t even want to think about. Everyone’s leering at her, grabbing at her ass and trying to pull her to them. The man who had previously been intent on chatting her up only to be thwarted by her blonde knight managed to grab her arm, and Rachel cast her eyes everywhere for a sign of Quinn. There was none whatsoever. He drags her to the cloakroom, and he soon has his hands everywhere - rough and fumbling and gritty and unpleasant. There’s a light tap at the door of the closet. He doesn’t stop. Another tap. His hands get lower. Another. They’re almost there. Another.
Suddenly, she jolts up in bed and her eyes quickly find the LED clock on her bedside cabinet. One-thirty-five. She groans, running a hand through hair that is damp with sweat. Her heart thunders in her chest and she has to remind herself to breathe. He’s not here, she tells herself. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s not- there’s another knock and she almost flies out of the bed in her panic.
It takes a moment to register that it’s the sound of someone knocking on the front door. The star swallows, the action clawing her throat painfully, and then forces herself to leave the safety of her bed and answer the door. At this hour, it must be important.
Swinging open the door, the sight that greets her isn’t one she expects. Quinn, huddled on her front porch, nursing a slowly blossoming bruise beneath her left eye along with a split lip, and a few minor scratches on her face. When the blonde sees that she’s answered the door, she stands up quickly and looks the brunette in the eye. “Is your offer still open?”
“Huh?”
“Can I stay here?” Quinn says it slowly, like she’s speaking to a small child. “I can’t go home,“ she gestures to her face, “Not like this.”
Rachel nods, and moves back to let Quinn enter her house. Relief floods her body at the knowledge that the cheerleader has come back to her. It was the magnetism that came with love at work, she was sure of it. Or, she hoped it anyway.
Once they’re in her bedroom, Rachel breaks the awkward silence that has fallen between them: “You can take the bed. I’ll go get the spare duvet.” She turns to do so, but before she’s even taken a step Quinn’s hand closes around her wrist. Without speaking, she pulls the star to the bed with her and Rachel understands. She doesn’t understand the why - Quinn Fabray is never very open. What she does understand, however, is the what. This is why she, knowingly, slips beneath the covers where the cheerleader quickly joins her. Just before she drifts back asleep, she feels slim arms curl around her waist and she lets out a small, contented sigh.
For now, she doesn’t need to know the why.