A Backwards Love Story
Title: A Backwards Love Story.
Author: slip_into you
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1000+
Spoilers: All of Season 1
Disclaimer: I own a lot of things, however, I do not own glee. If I did Faberry would've happened since the very first episode.
Summary: A story about Rachel and Quinn told backwards.
A/N#1: There is character death.
To startlemesilly : I am editing this section because of your story that turned out to be so popular and apparently I am the only one who thinks that no one has read it, and also because you won't stop yelling at me for not crediting you. I guess you can call it payback for not using my ideas when you began that story =P So here I am crediting you, and promoting for you. You can read all of startlemesilly 's work here at Estallidos. Seriously, it's awesome. Read it. Now.
Nine.
The room smells like grief and sterilized materials.
I clutch onto my heart at the sight of her on the bed, her pale complexion was just that: Pale. No rosy cheeks. No pink lips. No gleaming eyes. I reach out to touch her hand, its cold, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I wipe the strands of blonde hair away from her eyes as she smiles up at me, a weak smile, and I try my best to not let the tears fall.
I climb onto the bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. She closes her eyes and holds me tightly, because she says when she can’t see me, it’s easier to pretend I never happened to her. Leaving me will be easier.
“Rachel, you made me happy,” she says softly.
“I love you,” I whisper. “Always,”
Eight.
She pushes the cart down the aisle pretending to mow over old ladies doing their Sunday shopping, all the while placing items on the shopping list I have written into the cart.
“Stop,” I say, giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at her, expecting her to catch it.
For a moment I simply think she didn’t see me throw the can, although she was staring at me. It bounces off her chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. I don’t notice her eyes rolling back in her head or the graceful way her body collapses to the floor. The only thing I notice is the distinct thudding sound as her head hits the metal shelf and the screaming that may or may not be mine. In an instant, I am beside her, panicking, shouting for help.
Later in the hospital she calls for me and says she wants to apologize for keeping secrets. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I thought it would be easier for you. Please, please forgive me.” Her tears fall and I hold her in my arms, stroking her back, confused.
The doctors launch into a medical explanation of her cancer. Their eyes are sad.
Seven.
There are new shadows under her eyes that I know should not be there, but she pulls me in her arms and for a moment we’re silent. I can hear the beating of her heart, feel the sweetness of her breath.
She kisses me tenderly, unlike most kisses we have shared, as if to say goodbye. I dismiss the perturbed feeling in the pit of my stomach when she puts her hand underneath my shirt, biting my neck lightly, tugging at my pants. Her uneven breaths on my neck, her soft moans against my ear. Her perfect, toned body writhing with mine.
“I’m worried about you,” I tell her. “I want to help you,” I stroke her hair away from the sweat on her face.
She smiles at me. “You already have. You made me feel alive, I think I was dead before.” she paused. “I love you so, so much. Will you remember that?”
“What, are you planning on going somewhere?” I tease lightly.
“Yes,”
“Where?”
She doesn’t answer me and I begin to think she has fallen asleep, her knuckles pressed against the dry wall, until I notice her eyes: big, open, wet.
“Talk to me,” I beg.
“There’s nothing to say,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes.
Six.
After several months of trying, I find it impossible to describe the time we spent together. Her cheery laughter, the way her white teeth shines with every smile, the quivers I get every time we touch. She protects me everyday from anything, anybody who dares to raise their voice or question me, she cares for me when I’m sick, she puts a smile on my face when I’m down, she holds me when I’m crying, she laughs at me when I’m being juvenile.
I watch her when she’s doing her homework and the way the crease on her forward increases when she’s confused, I watch as she hums and prances around when she’s cooking dinner, I watch her sleep and a smile form on her face when she’s dreaming, or when she shakes in horror during a nightmare and I try my best to comfort her. I watch whenever she’s getting dressed, she throws her clothes in frustration deciding what to wear, and I help her clean up afterwards.
I see the pain in her eyes whenever the name Beth is mentioned and she brushes my hand with her fingers to let me know she’s okay, I see her grin foolishly when I bring her bacon. I see the tranquility flash through her eyes each time she's upset me and I forgive her, I see the silliness that shows when I pout and want something, to which she eventually gives in.
Most of all, I see the love in her eyes whenever she looks at me, even when we're fighting and she yells at me, it never vanishes.
I know these details are inconsequential, and I should just give up trying to remember them all.
But I never will. Never could. Never want to.
Five.
I almost don’t realize it when she holds my hand for the first time; her grip is soft and questioning. We continue like that silently, looking into the distance, the water rippling, warm sand on our feet. The only thought going through my mind is that I hope I don’t ruin this moment by saying something ridiculous as I always do. But she doesn’t seem to mind, I’ve noticed, she just smiles and listens.
I tighten my fingers around hers, shifting closer, resting my head on her shoulder. I feel her smile into my hair and she releases my hand to wrap her arm around me and pulling me in closer.
“I wanna stay like this forever,” I tell her.
I don’t see her expression, but I know she is grinning. “We have all the time in the world,”
Four.
It is one week, three days later before I learn my new friend’s favorite color, favorite food and what she wants to be after high school: Red. Bacon. Happy.
I find myself astonished at the immense amount of things we have in common as we discuss movies, books, interests. She laughs at my jokes and the way I never stop talking. I pout when she teases me and I playfully hit her.
I can’t help but wonder that there is something more to our friendship. The way my heart beats when her hand brushes against mine and I want to hold it for a moment longer, or how I notice she blushes when I beam brightly at her and in return, that only makes me blush and look away.
Three.
I don’t know why I agreed to go on a ride with the girl who has tortured me for years, maybe a part of me thinks she really has changed and wants to make amends. She ceremoniously opens the car door for me and drove to a tree-ringed clearing.
“Where are we?” I ask her, knowing that somewhere in the car ride we have slipped into a friendship without conscious realization.
“Where we should be, I suppose,”
Two.
It’s no coincidence that she sits down next to me at the cafeteria during lunch two days later. She whistles an almost familiar tune and glances at me out of the corner of her eye as I eat my sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” she begins. “For everything I’ve done,” she pauses for my reaction, but I only sigh. “Can we start over?”
“Okay,” I say, handing her a cookie.
I think my insides melted when she smiled at me.
One.
I sit next to a tired looking Kurt on the couch at Puck’s house, feeling alone and glancing around at the drunken kids. Everyone is chatting happily with each other and I feel dejected. Some of these people were my friends after all, but they didn’t have any intention in talking to me. I suppose no one really likes me.
She sits next to me then, closer than I wanted her to. And she was smiling, which was rare after the adoption, but I figured it was because she was drunk. She puts her arm on the back of the couch, leaning closer towards me.
“You should smile,” she said. “I think you’re cute when you smile,”
I swallow hard. She has never said anything like that to me ever since I’ve known her. “You’re drunk,”
“I’m happy,”
“Happiness shouldn’t be forced. It should come naturally,”
"Will you help me with that?" her voice was low and throaty. Before I could ask what that meant, she hands me a drink. “Have some. It’s nice,” I stand up and she grabs onto my wrist. “Where are you going?”
I tell her quietly with a sad tone. “You don’t have to talk to me, Quinn, or pretend that you like me. Nobody here does.”
Author: slip_into you
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1000+
Spoilers: All of Season 1
Disclaimer: I own a lot of things, however, I do not own glee. If I did Faberry would've happened since the very first episode.
Summary: A story about Rachel and Quinn told backwards.
A/N#1: There is character death.
To startlemesilly : I am editing this section because of your story that turned out to be so popular and apparently I am the only one who thinks that no one has read it, and also because you won't stop yelling at me for not crediting you. I guess you can call it payback for not using my ideas when you began that story =P So here I am crediting you, and promoting for you. You can read all of startlemesilly 's work here at Estallidos. Seriously, it's awesome. Read it. Now.
Nine.
The room smells like grief and sterilized materials.
I clutch onto my heart at the sight of her on the bed, her pale complexion was just that: Pale. No rosy cheeks. No pink lips. No gleaming eyes. I reach out to touch her hand, its cold, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I wipe the strands of blonde hair away from her eyes as she smiles up at me, a weak smile, and I try my best to not let the tears fall.
I climb onto the bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. She closes her eyes and holds me tightly, because she says when she can’t see me, it’s easier to pretend I never happened to her. Leaving me will be easier.
“Rachel, you made me happy,” she says softly.
“I love you,” I whisper. “Always,”
Eight.
She pushes the cart down the aisle pretending to mow over old ladies doing their Sunday shopping, all the while placing items on the shopping list I have written into the cart.
“Stop,” I say, giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at her, expecting her to catch it.
For a moment I simply think she didn’t see me throw the can, although she was staring at me. It bounces off her chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. I don’t notice her eyes rolling back in her head or the graceful way her body collapses to the floor. The only thing I notice is the distinct thudding sound as her head hits the metal shelf and the screaming that may or may not be mine. In an instant, I am beside her, panicking, shouting for help.
Later in the hospital she calls for me and says she wants to apologize for keeping secrets. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I thought it would be easier for you. Please, please forgive me.” Her tears fall and I hold her in my arms, stroking her back, confused.
The doctors launch into a medical explanation of her cancer. Their eyes are sad.
Seven.
There are new shadows under her eyes that I know should not be there, but she pulls me in her arms and for a moment we’re silent. I can hear the beating of her heart, feel the sweetness of her breath.
She kisses me tenderly, unlike most kisses we have shared, as if to say goodbye. I dismiss the perturbed feeling in the pit of my stomach when she puts her hand underneath my shirt, biting my neck lightly, tugging at my pants. Her uneven breaths on my neck, her soft moans against my ear. Her perfect, toned body writhing with mine.
“I’m worried about you,” I tell her. “I want to help you,” I stroke her hair away from the sweat on her face.
She smiles at me. “You already have. You made me feel alive, I think I was dead before.” she paused. “I love you so, so much. Will you remember that?”
“What, are you planning on going somewhere?” I tease lightly.
“Yes,”
“Where?”
She doesn’t answer me and I begin to think she has fallen asleep, her knuckles pressed against the dry wall, until I notice her eyes: big, open, wet.
“Talk to me,” I beg.
“There’s nothing to say,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes.
Six.
After several months of trying, I find it impossible to describe the time we spent together. Her cheery laughter, the way her white teeth shines with every smile, the quivers I get every time we touch. She protects me everyday from anything, anybody who dares to raise their voice or question me, she cares for me when I’m sick, she puts a smile on my face when I’m down, she holds me when I’m crying, she laughs at me when I’m being juvenile.
I watch her when she’s doing her homework and the way the crease on her forward increases when she’s confused, I watch as she hums and prances around when she’s cooking dinner, I watch her sleep and a smile form on her face when she’s dreaming, or when she shakes in horror during a nightmare and I try my best to comfort her. I watch whenever she’s getting dressed, she throws her clothes in frustration deciding what to wear, and I help her clean up afterwards.
I see the pain in her eyes whenever the name Beth is mentioned and she brushes my hand with her fingers to let me know she’s okay, I see her grin foolishly when I bring her bacon. I see the tranquility flash through her eyes each time she's upset me and I forgive her, I see the silliness that shows when I pout and want something, to which she eventually gives in.
Most of all, I see the love in her eyes whenever she looks at me, even when we're fighting and she yells at me, it never vanishes.
I know these details are inconsequential, and I should just give up trying to remember them all.
But I never will. Never could. Never want to.
Five.
I almost don’t realize it when she holds my hand for the first time; her grip is soft and questioning. We continue like that silently, looking into the distance, the water rippling, warm sand on our feet. The only thought going through my mind is that I hope I don’t ruin this moment by saying something ridiculous as I always do. But she doesn’t seem to mind, I’ve noticed, she just smiles and listens.
I tighten my fingers around hers, shifting closer, resting my head on her shoulder. I feel her smile into my hair and she releases my hand to wrap her arm around me and pulling me in closer.
“I wanna stay like this forever,” I tell her.
I don’t see her expression, but I know she is grinning. “We have all the time in the world,”
Four.
It is one week, three days later before I learn my new friend’s favorite color, favorite food and what she wants to be after high school: Red. Bacon. Happy.
I find myself astonished at the immense amount of things we have in common as we discuss movies, books, interests. She laughs at my jokes and the way I never stop talking. I pout when she teases me and I playfully hit her.
I can’t help but wonder that there is something more to our friendship. The way my heart beats when her hand brushes against mine and I want to hold it for a moment longer, or how I notice she blushes when I beam brightly at her and in return, that only makes me blush and look away.
Three.
I don’t know why I agreed to go on a ride with the girl who has tortured me for years, maybe a part of me thinks she really has changed and wants to make amends. She ceremoniously opens the car door for me and drove to a tree-ringed clearing.
“Where are we?” I ask her, knowing that somewhere in the car ride we have slipped into a friendship without conscious realization.
“Where we should be, I suppose,”
Two.
It’s no coincidence that she sits down next to me at the cafeteria during lunch two days later. She whistles an almost familiar tune and glances at me out of the corner of her eye as I eat my sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” she begins. “For everything I’ve done,” she pauses for my reaction, but I only sigh. “Can we start over?”
“Okay,” I say, handing her a cookie.
I think my insides melted when she smiled at me.
One.
I sit next to a tired looking Kurt on the couch at Puck’s house, feeling alone and glancing around at the drunken kids. Everyone is chatting happily with each other and I feel dejected. Some of these people were my friends after all, but they didn’t have any intention in talking to me. I suppose no one really likes me.
She sits next to me then, closer than I wanted her to. And she was smiling, which was rare after the adoption, but I figured it was because she was drunk. She puts her arm on the back of the couch, leaning closer towards me.
“You should smile,” she said. “I think you’re cute when you smile,”
I swallow hard. She has never said anything like that to me ever since I’ve known her. “You’re drunk,”
“I’m happy,”
“Happiness shouldn’t be forced. It should come naturally,”
"Will you help me with that?" her voice was low and throaty. Before I could ask what that meant, she hands me a drink. “Have some. It’s nice,” I stand up and she grabs onto my wrist. “Where are you going?”
I tell her quietly with a sad tone. “You don’t have to talk to me, Quinn, or pretend that you like me. Nobody here does.”