WHAT: Santana pays Quinn a visit while waiting for Rachel, Brittany, Kurt, and Blaine to come by for dinner.
Quinn is busy washing dishes when she hears the rat-a-tat-tat against her door. Knowing full well who's behind it, she quickly dries her hands before scurrying through the foyer to greet her guest.
"Hi, Santana," she offers, opening the door and letting her oldest friend into her home. Although, these days, Quinn's still unsure if Santana sees her as a friend.
As is her right, considering all Quinn's done.
"Tubbers," Santana replies coolly, never letting go of her upper hand, always hitting Quinn where it hurts most.
"You can go home, if you want," Quinn bites back. "I don't need your shit right now."
"Oh, come on," she placates, "don't be such a baby. I'm just messing with you. Let me in."
"Fine," Quinn grumbles, stepping back to let Santana into the apartment.
She walks in breezily, dropping her purse onto a chair in the kitchen before pulling open the refrigerator door and taking out a can of lemon seltzer. Quinn watches her warily, waiting for the next snarky comment.
But it doesn't come. Instead, Santana looks at her in concern.
She's not sure which is worse - Santana's care or scorn.
"Wanna talk about what's eating you?" Santana asks then.
"No," is the simple reply. Quinn doesn't want to confide in Santana. "I'm not in the mood."
A belligerent sigh follows. "Quinn, look," she starts, "I'm not going to pretend I understand what it is you go through, but despite what you think, I do care about you. And I really care about Rachel, okay?"
Hazel eyes widen in surprise in reaction to the latter, but to the former, "I have no doubt you care about Rachel," Quinn says. "Me? I doubt it."
"You're such a stubborn bitch," she says with a roll of her eyes. "What is it gonna take for you to just take the olive branch?"
Quinn stares at Santana for a moment before relenting. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
"How can I help?"
Quinn's face scrunches up in confusion. "Help?"
"For fuck's sake, Quinn, just talk to me, okay? What the hell is the matter with you?"
"What's the matter with me?" she asks incredulously. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know."
Santana surprisingly says nothing as she gazes at Quinn with something akin to sympathy.
"Look, I know I've been kind of bitch about you and Rachel, but I do care. And I do want whatever it is you have with her to work out, okay?"
Quinn relents then, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"I know," she relents, "And I appreciate that. You wanna know the truth?"
Santana nods.
"I'm doing my best, but I'm still not okay. My doctor switched up my meds because what I was on isn't helping, but I'm not sure the new ones are helping either", Quinn admits. "But Rachel helps. Kaitlyn helps. Blaine and even Kurt help. And you. And Brittany."
"Damn right, we do," she says. "But how can we help more?"
Quinn pauses then, taken aback by Santana's sincerity.
"I know I haven't always understood. I'm still not sure I do, but I want you to know that I'm here for you, okay? Just talk to me, Quinn."
Quinn extends her right arm towards Santana then, and tentatively takes hold of her left hand, entwining their fingers together. Santana squeezes lightly then, gazing intently into hazel eyes.
"Thank you, Santana. I... I don't know how to explain the things that go on inside my head, but I'll try. Okay?"
"Okay."
"When I'm sick, it's a mess of emotions. It makes no sense. Like I can take on the world but also feel like the entire world is out to get me. Kind of like being head Cheerio," she explains ruefully, hoping Santana can at least understand that. "I know I'm lucky. I do. But part of me still wants to crawl out of my skin and scream."
Santana looks at Quinn empathically, but part of Quinn is on guard for a snippy comment. To her surprise, it doesn't come.
"Quinn, and I mean this with all my soul," Santana finally says, "you're a good egg. Okay? Stop beating yourself up. For some insane reason beyond my comprehension, you make Rachel indescribably happy, so just get your shit together so you can keep doing that, alright?"
"What do you think I've been trying to do, Santana?" she huffs.
"I know, Quinn, but you lose focus too easily. It's good you're talking to your doctor and all that, but don't lose sight of why."
Hazel eyes drift toward their still clasped hands. "I won't."
WHAT: After making several major changes, Quinn finds herself slipping into a manic episode, and Rachel does her best to help.
QUINN: Quinn rustles through the cabinets of her and Rachel's apartment. She can't remember what she's looking for anymore, and that makes her all the more frustrated.
Breathe, she reminds herself.
But it's hard.
Slender fingers run through dyed brunette locks as Quinn scrunches her face.
Rachel. She could help. But she's not home right now. And Quinn can't call her. Her show is happening.
A sharp inhale. I don't need help. I just need a walk.
And with that, Quinn grabs her purse and walks out into the warm summer night.
RACHEL: The thunder of applause after the final note of a heart wrenching ballad never fails to give Rachel a thrill—even with scene-appropriate tears streaming down her cheeks. It’s a strange juxtaposition of emotions, to feel the high of a great performance mudge out the low of her character’s heartbreak.
She’s a consummate professional, however, so when the spotlight dims and the curtain closes on Act I, she hurries off the stage with tears already drying. She jerks down her suspenders as she walks, beginning to work loose the buttons of her shirt before she even makes it to her dressing room. She both loves and hates Idgie’s wardrobe for this show. There’s no denying the pants and button-downs are the comfiest costumes she’s ever worn, but they somehow take longer to get in and out of than the dresses. Luckily, she only has a few major changes to deal with.
She comes to a stop in front of her makeup table, shirt gaping open, and automatically checks her phone for any important messages.
There are none.
Rachel bites into her lip, wondering if she should text Quinn. They’ve been living together for four months now, and her new show has been open for one. She doesn’t feel the obsessive need to check in with her girlfriend every single day she’s at the theater—she doesn’t!—but Quinn had seemed a little stressed this morning before she’d left for work.
Giving into her basic impulse, she picks up her phone.
Hey, baby. Thinking of you. I’ll be home to collect my goodnight kiss in a few hours.
QUINN: A vibration against Quinn's thigh makes her pause in her steps. She fishes her phone out of her pocket then, seeing a text from Rachel.
A few hours is all Quinn sees before blinking and shoving her phone back into her pocket irritably.
Her thoughts are racing to nowhere, and she just wants them to shut up right now. Rachel usually helps quiet them, but waiting feels like torture and she can't seem to focus on anything.
Letting her feet carry her, Quinn's eyes eventually catch on the lights of a small pub.
Maybe a drink will help sort things out, she thinks, before heading inside.
RACHEL: Rachel doesn’t get an immediate response to her text.
It’s not completely unusual.
She doesn’t expect Quinn to check her own phone every minute, but it’s one of the agreed upon points in their Wellness and Emergency Plan that they do check messages often and make an effort to respond to one another as soon as they can.
Rachel can’t exactly spend the entire length of the intermission staring at her phone. She does need to change into Idgie’s Act II costume and touch up her stage makeup. But when ten of the fifteen allotted minutes have passed and Quinn still hasn’t responded, Rachel feels a nervous flutter take flight in her belly.
She thinks back to that morning again. Quinn had been obsessing over some little design flaw on a book jacket, pacing around the kitchen rather than sitting down to have breakfast with Rachel. Rachel had mostly attributed it to stress over hitting her deadline, but she wonders if it might be more.
It’s probably nothing.
She hopes it’s nothing.
Still—
With less than five minutes to hit her mark, she fires off an SOS text to both Kaitlyn and Blaine, asking them to check in with Quinn.
Just in case.
QUINN: Quinn downs a double whiskey, neat, hoping it will calm her nerves and the swirling thoughts in her head.
It doesn't, so she orders another.
As she takes a sip, she feels another vibration in her pocket, but can't seem to bring herself to pull out her phone.
Quinn quickly finishes her drink and promptly orders another.
RACHEL: Rachel drums her fingers nervously against her thigh on the way to the stage. She knows she needs to focus on her performance, but she can’t seem to shake the feeling that something isn’t right.
Stagehands and backup dancers shuffle around in her periphery, but she pays them little attention. Her gaze seeks out Stephanie, perfectly costumed in 1920’s attire. She’s never been more grateful that the showrunners had finally agreed to audition her. It had only taken one scene opposite Rachel for them to realize they’d found their Ruth.
When Stephanie notices Rachel making a beeline for her, her typical grin—the one that says ‘we’re killing it tonight’—instantly fades. Her friend knows her too well.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, no trace of her usual carefree banter.
Rachel only shakes her head. “Maybe nothing,” she attempts, mostly hoping to convince herself. “Just a weird feeling. Quinn didn’t answer my text at intermission,” she admits quietly.
A look of understanding passes over Stephanie’s face, and she takes Rachel’s hand with a reassuring squeeze. “That’s not an automatic bad omen. Did you call in backup?”
Rachel gives a single, curt nod, forcing a wan smile. She has to trust that Kaitlyn and/or Blaine will follow up with Quinn, but, “I may need you to cover if I miss a cue.”
“I got your back, Lima,” Stephanie promises, tugging her into a quick side hug before the overture fades and they both need to hit their marks.
QUINN: The din of the pub is doing nothing to take off the edge Quinn is on, and the buzz she feels from the alcohol isn't helping either.
"Can I get you something to eat?"
Quinn realizes the bartender—a pretty redhead with an Irish brogue—is talking to her. Food is the last thing she wants right now.
"No thanks," she replies, tone clipped. "Another whiskey."
"Coming right up, love," the bartender answers, taking the now empty glass and pouring a fresh one, along with a glass of water.
Another vibration goes off in Quinn's pocket just as she takes a long sip of whiskey.
Shaking her head, Quinn reluctantly puts down her drink and pulls out her phone. There are two texts awaiting her—one from Kaitlyn and one from Blaine. Both are similar in nature, wanting to know if everything is okay.
It's not okay, but Quinn doesn't know why or how to make everything just stop.
"Oh damn, girl, hey," sounds a flirtatious voice. Quinn grits her teeth as her eyes cut to an unwelcome intrusion sitting in the previously vacant seat beside her. "What's a pretty thing like you doing here alone?"
It's a loaded question.
RACHEL: Fried Green Tomatoes is, as Santana had pointed out so many months ago, something of a downer. It’s touching and emotional and a beautiful love story between two women amidst adversity, but it certainly doesn’t have a happy ending. It’s bittersweet at best, so the extra bit of angst that bleeds through Rachel’s performance tonight plays well for her character.
She wishes she could say the same for her nerves.
It’s all she can do to ignore them and get through the rest of the show.
A mental checklist takes form in her mind, and she ticks off every scene and song and step until the curtains finally close and she can get home to Quinn.
QUINN: The unwanted stranger next to Quinn smiles in a way that makes her want to put her fist through perfect, white teeth.
She blinks then, almost frightened by how quickly that feeling surged through her.
She needs to leave.
Abruptly standing, Quinn goes to reach for her purse, still aware she has to pay something. She doesn't know how much. It doesn't matter.
I need to go home, suddenly takes root in her mind.
And then an unwelcomed hand clasps down on her right shoulder.
"Where do you think you're going, sweetheart? You didn't even tell me your name."
Heart rate spikes and hackles rise.
RACHEL: Rachel has never been happier to take her final bow.
It’s a miracle that she didn’t make any major mistakes—just a few stuttered lines and a mild stumble during one of the musical numbers.
When the curtain finally closes for the last time, Rachel hurries off the stage. Stephanie keeps step at her shoulder.
“Hey, I’ll wow ‘em at the stage door tonight so you can skip out and check in with your lady. I’m sure it’ll all be fine, but keep me in the loop, huh?”
Rachel manages a weak smile, grasping at Stephanie’s hand in gratitude. “I will. Thanks for covering my flubbs out there.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Please. Like you didn’t still upstage the rest of us, little flubbs included.”
The compliment manages to warm Rachel’s heart even through the lingering unease, and she’s more than grateful that her friend is willing to make excuses for her to her potentially disappointed fans. The show might be leaving audiences in tears, but it hasn’t dulled any of the excitement in the crowds that still gather, hoping for a peek of their favorite performer and an autographed program.
When they part ways, Rachel speeds to her dressing room and lunges for her phone, praying to see a text from Quinn.
QUINN: Quinn chuckles lowly. "My name?"
"Russell," she says then, shoving his hand off her shoulder and moving back. "Russell Fabray."
He blinks in confusion.
"What, not a pretty enough name for such a pretty thing?" she sneers, adrenaline pumping through her veins, fingers clenching around her phone.
RACHEL: There’s no message from Quinn.
The competing texts from Kaitlyn and Blaine both say the same worrisome thing. Quinn hasn’t responded to either one of them either. And even more alarming—Blaine had stopped by their apartment, but Quinn hadn’t been home.
Rachel’s stomach bottoms out.
She’s never changed so quickly in her life.
Her fingers fumble with the family tracking app on her phone as she races from the theater.
QUINN: "Damn, okay, you a little freaky. I can get down with that," he replies with a wicked smile that makes Quinn snap.
"Get fucked," she practically spits, her rage rising at an alarming rate.
Blue eyes narrow then. "What's your problem, bitch?"
Oh, now he's done it.
"You have no idea," she sneers, baring her teeth and tightening her hold on her phone.
She feels the last vestiges of self control start to slip.
RACHEL: Rachel glares at her phone screen as she slams out the side door of the theater—the one most theater-goers don’t know exists. She can’t be bothered to multitask between multiple phone apps to call an Uber while she also tries to call Quinn. It’s bad enough that the fucking app that’s supposed to tell her where Quinn is right now can’t seem to make up its mind what nondescript location to show her. The little icon that symbolizes her girlfriend keeps glitching back and forth between intersections on the map and it honestly looks like she’s close enough to their god-damned apartment to be there.
Maybe she is.
Maybe she’d just gone out to get dinner or something and left her phone on silent or forgot it at home all together.
Maybe Rachel is spiraling into panic for nothing.
Temporarily giving up on the app, she hits Quinn’s contact on her phone, hoping an actual phone call from Rachel will get her attention.
QUINN: Quinn's aware of the pulsation against her palm then, but not enough to stop her seeing red.
"Is there a problem here?" the bartender cuts in then.
Yes, Quinn thinks. This, him, her, this pub, and everything else.
Her phone continues to vibrate, and it takes everything in her not to throw it at this stupid prick's head.
Taking a shaky breath, Quinn breaks her gaze from stormy blue and looks toward the bartender, green eyes filled with concern.
The vibration in her hand momentarily stops.
"I was just leaving," she manages to get out before throwing $200 on the bar.
RACHEL: When her call goes to voicemail, Rachel jerks the phone back to stare at it incredulously before bringing the speaker close to her mouth with a growl.
“Lucy Quinn Fabray, you had better call me back this instant.”
The panic spiral begins anew.
She checks her tracker again, noticing that the little icon that represents Blaine appears to be only a block or so away from Quinn on the map. His last message had indicated that he planned to check a few of the local markets and restaurants around their apartment, since he’s included in their family group along with Kaitlyn and Kurt.
Unfortunately, the GPS on their phones always seems to have a margin of error in pinpointing an exact location.
The timestamp on Blaine’s message is only about thirty minutes ago.
She fires off a text to him to tell him she’s on her way to the nearest intersection and determinedly flags down the nearest yellow taxi.
QUINN: Quinn storms out of the bar then, not looking back, her body shaking with anger and adrenaline, and breaths uneven.
She blinks as the cooling night air hits her face, and her phone vibrates again. Shit, she thinks, seeing missed calls and voicemail, specifically the one from Rachel.
Needing to keep moving, Quinn's feet pound the pavement away from the pub as she manages to call her girlfriend and presses her phone against her ear.
RACHEL: Rachel is in the back of a taxi, reading Blaine’s latest text stating that he still hasn’t had any luck, when her phone vibrates and Quinn’s name finally appears. Practically sighing in relief, she answers immediately.
She attempts to keep her voice as calm as possible, but she can still hear the mild desperation in it.
“Quinn, baby. Where are you?”
QUINN: Quinn can hear the worry in Rachel's voice, and guilt starts to swirl along with her already heady mix of emotions.
"Walking," she says after a beat. "I shouldn't have," she continues, unease swirling. "I thought it would help. But nothing's helping," she finishes, tears stinging hazel eyes then.
RACHEL: It’s a bitter confirmation that Quinn has slipped into an episode, and Rachel had failed to recognize the signs in time to get ahead of it.
“Baby. Listen to me. I’m on my way to you right now. We can get you something that will help. But I need you to stop walking and tell me exactly where you are. Can you do that for me?”
QUINN: Rachel's voice is like an anchor, and Quinn halts her steps. "Okay, yeah, yes," she agrees uneasily, eyes darting around, trying to determine exactly where she is.
"I'm on 82nd near 2nd Ave," she confirms, the past hour playing on a loop in her mind along with everything she felt. Then, after a beat, she grits out, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I don't know what's wrong with me."
RACHEL: “Hey, hey. There’s nothing to apologize for,” Rachel promises, putting a pin in any discussion about Quinn circumventing their emergency plan until a later date. Right now, all that matters is making sure she’s in a safe place until they can get her the help she needs. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”
She juggles her phone as she talks, determined to get her girlfriend through this and not fuck it all up even more than she already has. She manages to text Blaine the intersection that Quinn had given her, hoping that her friend is still close enough to get to her quickly and keep her grounded until Rachel can get to them.
“I’ll be there before you know it, but in the meantime, I think Blaine is pretty close by. Maybe he can keep you company while you wait for me?”
QUINN: Unconsciously, Quinn starts looking for Blaine. He's no Rachel, but he has become a good friend who understands her illness, and maybe he can help. The thought calms her just a little, but she's still ready to crawl out of her skin.
"Okay," Quinn replies before lamenting, "I shouldn't have left. If I had just stayed..."
She realizes then she's not just talking about leaving the apartment tonight, drinking too many whiskeys, and nearly getting into a fight. It's leaving her old job and the Flight Crew, even if the commute to Jersey was too much. Everything feels out of control.
RACHEL: “Stay now,” Rachel responds, cringing mildly at how much it sounds like a command she’d give a dog. “Blaine will find you soon.”
She hopes.
Rachel presses her palm over the speaker of the phone as she calls up to the driver. “Excuse me, can you change my drop off to 82nd and 2nd?” It’s only a few blocks off of where she’d already instructed him to take her.
His eyes briefly meet hers in the rearview mirror and he grunts out a gruff, “Yeah,” and Rachel manages a tight smile of gratitude before fully returning her attention to Quinn.
QUINN: It's then that sees a familiar figure in a tan jacket walking toward her. "Blaine," Quinn breathes out shakily.
"Quinn," he greets warmly, but the relief and worry in his eyes are obvious. "I'm glad I found you. I've been looking for you."
Quinn grimaces, her guilt growing, before offering Blaine a weak smile.
"Rachel, Blaine's with me now," she says into her phone.
RACHEL: A wave of relief crashes over Rachel.
“That’s good, baby.” At least Quinn has someone with her that she can trust.
Rachel glances out the window of the taxi, searching the backlit storefronts that pass by to get a sense of the car’s progress.. “I’m still about ten minutes away,” she guesses, and she mentally curses the distance and the late night traffic between Midtown and Yorkville.
“Do you want to stay on the phone with me until I get there? Or do you think you want to talk to Blaine for a bit?”
QUINN: Blaine watches Quinn thoughtfully as she tells Rachel, "I'll talk to Blaine. Please get here soon. I need you."
Rachel tells her that she loves her and will be there soon. It's a small measure of relief. Reluctantly, Quinn hangs up the phone and tucks it away before turning her attention—well as much as she can, with all the afflictions in her mind—to Blaine.
"I'm sorry," she offers, wondering how long he's been out looking for her. "I didn't mean to ignore your texts."
"It's okay," he assures her with a friendly smile. "I'm just happy I'm with you now. I take it you're having a rough night."
Rough night, rough day, and too many weeks of ignoring the festering mania bubbling up until it started to rear its ugly head.
"You could say that," she admits somewhat shamefully.
Blaine nods in understanding. He gets it—more than most of the people in her life, save Rachel and Kaitlyn. "You wanna talk about it?"
"Not really," she replies tightly, remembering the pub and how close she was to decking that insufferable dick. Then things really would have spiraled.
"Okay," he says agreeably. "I think Rachel should be here soon, and then we'll get you home, okay?"
Quinn's fingers tighten their hold on the straps of her purse as she nods.
RACHEL: After the call disconnects, Rachel remembers to text Kaitlyn to let her know that Quinn is found and safe—physically anyway.
She doesn’t know exactly what’s going on with her girlfriend, but she suspects it has something to do with her new job. She’s basically starting over from scratch with a new boss and new coworkers, and Rachel knows how stressful that can be. But Quinn had been so certain the daily commute back to New Jersey would be moreso.
Rubbing at her forehead, Rachel attempts to stave off the tears that are threatening to fall. If Quinn is struggling more than she’s let on, then Rachel can’t help feeling responsible for missing it.
Maybe Santana had been right. Maybe Rachel with her erratic schedule isn't what Quinn needs to keep her healthy.
QUINN: The sidewalk thankfully isn't busy, and for a few moments, Quinn and Blaine stand together quietly, Quinn trying to quiet her mind.
"Everything feels all mixed up," she admits then. "I wish..."
Blaine gazes at her sympathetically. "I know, Quinn. But whatever is going on in your head isn't your fault."
"I know, I just hate this feeling," she explains, unable to keep the emotion out of her voice. "Why does this keep happening? I'm taking my medicine."
"I wish I knew, but I'm here for you. And Rachel too."
Just then, a yellow taxi pulls up alongside them.
RACHEL: Rachel’s well developed sixth sense allows her to recognize Quinn and Blaine bathed in neon and streetlights well before they reach the exact intersection that she’d directed the driver to, and she hastily demands that he, “Stop right here.”
The man grunts in annoyance but does as instructed, stopping in the middle of the block and allowing Rachel to fling the door open and practically tumble out of the car. She barely remembers to thank him or close the door behind him before her feet carry her directly to Quinn.
Her girlfriend looks haggard and on the verge of tears, and Rachel reaches for her instinctively, needing to physically touch her before she can permit herself to feel any measure of relief.
QUINN: Seeing Rachel exiting the cab and coming toward her creates a mixture of relief and feeling like a dam inside her is about to break.
"Rachel," Quinn's voice cracks as she's enveloped in warm, loving arms. She breathes in her girlfriend's scent and fights back the tears threatening to fall. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
RACHEL: Rachel tightens her arms around her girlfriend and squeezes her eyes closed.
“I know, baby. I forgive you.”
It’s a better approach than insisting that there’s nothing to forgive. She can smell the faint scent of whiskey clinging to Quinn’s breath and instantly knows how much worse this night could have ended if Quinn hadn’t finally called her.
Opening her eyes again, she meets Blaine’s sympathetic gaze over Quinn’s shoulder and mouths a silent ‘thank you’ before she pulls back far enough to cup Quinn’s face, forcing her beautiful girl to meet her eyes.
“It’s okay. We’re going to make it okay again.”
QUINN: Rachel's touch soothes Quinn ever so slightly as she gazes into loving, brown eyes. She's still abuzz from alcohol and mania, but her girlfriend's presence is a light in the dark.
"Take me home, please," Quinn practically whispers in desperation. Home isn't just their apartment, but a chasing of a feeling for things that never lasted. Baseball games with her family as a little girl, sitting on her father's lap. Holding Beth after giving birth to the most precious thing in this world. Cheerleading. Getting into Yale.
RACHEL: Rachel gently strokes her thumb across Quinn’s cheek, catching the slight moisture, and she nods.
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”
Rachel runs her palm down Quinn’s arm until she can entwine their fingers, and Quinn takes her hand in a near desperate grip.
Rachel looks to Blaine with a sad smile. “Walk with us?”
“Of course,” he agrees easily, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Rachel knows that all three of them will feel better once they’re someplace safe and warm. Once they’re there, they can begin to address the rest.
QUINN: The trio walks together along 82nd street, and Quinn holds on to Rachel's hand like a lifeline. She feels like running through a wall, but the warm palm against hers keeps her grounded enough to rein it in.
But that doesn't stop the tears that have been threatening from falling.
"Shit," Quinn mutters before wiping her eyes with her free hand.
RACHEL: The expletive has Rachel looking at Quinn in concern. Tears glisten on her cheek, and Rachel squeezes her hand—heart breaking for her girlfriend.
“We’ll be home soon, baby. I can make you some tea, and…we can talk.” She drifts closer to Quinn as they walk, hoping the closer proximity will help. She lowers her voice. “But right now, you can cry if you need to. Lord, know it helps me sometimes.”
QUINN: She needs to cry, but she doesn't want to. It's not a matter of pride—that's long gone—but a matter of self preservation. Losing it on the streets of New York isn't something she's going to do.
Grinding her teeth and trying to steel herself, Quinn does her best to hone in on Rachel's words.
Home. Tea. Talking.
Talking is the last thing she wants though.
It's too hard right now. For now she settles on Rachel's hand in hers and Blaine on her left.
RACHEL: Rachel should have expected that Quinn would be too stubborn to let herself break down completely in public. Even back in high school, she’d always tried so hard to seem unaffected even at her lowest.
Rachel pulls her gaze from Quinn for a moment, trying to catch Blaine’s attention. She doesn’t know how much, if anything, Quinn had shared with him before she’d arrived, and as much as she wants to ask outright, she knows better than to talk around Quinn. Instead, she lifts her eyebrows in silent question, trying to convey through her expression alone what she wants from him.
He cocks his head to the side, looking like a confused puppy. Years of friendship, and he’s still not quite as quick as catching her mental waves as Kurt. After a moment, he seems to get it, and he shakes his head.
It’s not unexpected, and Rachel sighs, managing another tight smile. “Thank you for this, Blaine.”
“You don't need to thank me,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “You know I’m always happy to be here for you both. Kurt too, when he isn’t traveling for work.”
Rachel nods distractedly, her eyes already back on Quinn. They’re nearly at their apartment building, and she can feel the evening’s anxiety catching up with her in the form of a bone deep exhaustion. She wishes they could just go home and collapse into bed in each others arms, but that won’t solve anything.
QUINN: Before Quinn knows it, they're home. It should be a relief, but it's not. The torrent of emotions are still too strong.
Gripping tighter to Rachel's hand, the tears start to flow—Quinn unable to hold them back any longer.
Strong, loving arms quickly gather her up, and Quinn finally lets go.
RACHEL: The moment they reach their building is when Quinn finally begins to break. She grips Rachel’s hand so tightly that she actually might be cutting off the circulation, but Rachel ignores the slight discomfort.
Blaine sees them inside with a silent wave, and Rachel focuses on getting Quinn into the elevator and upstairs. The moment they’re safely inside their apartment, a choked sob slips out of Quinn, and Rachel immediately wraps her up in her embrace.
“It’s okay, baby,” she murmurs, tears springing to her own eyes. “You’re safe now. Let it out.”
QUINN: Quinn's not sure how long they stand there wrapped up in one another as the tears and emotions flow. Rachel makes her feel safe, but not enough to push away the feelings clawing at her.
Rachel continues to murmur soft words of love as she holds Quinn, and after long moments, Quinn's tears finally subside.
After taking a few, shaky breaths, Quinn pulls back and lifts her head to look at her girlfriend—her worry and own tears clear as day.
"I..." Quinn starts, unsure of what to say exactly. "Thank you for getting me home. Thank you for putting up with me. I don't know why I can't just be okay."
RACHEL: Cupping Quinn’s cheek, Rachel smiles at her sadly. “Being okay is very subjective, Quinn. And I’ll never blame you for the days when you’re not.”
She gently slips Quinn’s purse from her shoulder, letting it drop where they stand along with her own. “Come sit down with me,” she urges, intent on guiding her girlfriend to their sofa.
They need to talk, and Rachel needs to sit down before her legs give out from under her.
QUINN: Quinn lets Rachel lead her by the hand to the living room and watches as her girlfriend plops down on the couch in exhaustion. She follows suit, settling alongside Rachel, never letting go of her hold on her.
Rachel's presence and touch is enough to keep the torrent of thoughts swirling in her mind from completely taking over. Brown eyes gaze at her expectedly, imploring Quinn to talk.
"I shouldn't have gone out; I almost hit someone tonight," she confesses then, not able to look Rachel in the eye, because part of her wishes she had. "I went to a pub."
RACHEL: Rachel releases a slow breath from between her teeth. The pub part doesn’t surprise her since she’d already smelled the alcohol, but the other part certainly does, and her stomach clenches unpleasantly.
“You were drinking.”
It’s not a question.
She tries valiantly to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Alcohol doesn’t play nice with Quinn’s medication, so she usually won’t indulge in more than a single glass of wine with a meal on the rare occasion.
QUINN: Quinn nods shamefully, confirming Rachel's statement. "Four or five double whiskeys," she admits. "Stupid. I thought it would help shut everything up. But it didn't. And then this guy started hitting on me. If the bartender hadn't interrupted, I probably would have broken his jaw."
Rachel sucks in a breath then but says nothing, giving Quinn room to continue.
"I'm not okay, and I even started taking ziprasidone the other day. It didn't help."
RACHEL: Rachel bites into her lower lip as she digests Quinn’s words. She hates everything about what Quinn is telling her, but mostly, she hates that she wasn’t here when Quinn needed her and didn’t realize that things had gotten so bad.
But her own self-recrimination isn’t going to help the situation.
“What do you need? Should we call Dr. Herrara?”
QUINN: She glances at the time on the cable box. "It's too late to call her, but I will tomorrow. I promise. I should have done that sooner," she laments. "Maybe some tea?"
RACHEL: Rachel gives Quinn’s hand a comforting squeeze, nodding. She’s right. It’s too late to call tonight.
“We’ll call her tomorrow.”
Rachel will make sure of that. And maybe she’ll call her own therapist to see if she can squeeze in an extra session because she’s feeling wholly inadequate right now.
“But tea I can do right now. What do you think? Peppermint? Chamomile? Or good old fashioned Earl Grey?”
QUINN: "Chamomile sounds good," she says then, hoping that at least psychosomaticly it will calm her nerves. If the ziprasidone isn't helping, tea sure as hell won't.
Rachel nods and reluctantly lets go of Quinn's hand as she stands to go into the kitchen where she puts on a kettle to boil water.
Unable to sit still without Rachel anchoring her, Quinn gets up and follows her girlfriend into the kitchen.
RACHEL: She can feel Quinn in her personal space as soon as she puts the kettle on. The nervous energy radiating off of her is nearly palpable, and Rachel frowns mildly as she reaches into the cupboard for the package of tea. She places it on the counter before bringing down the cups.
“Quinn,” she begins quietly, momentarily bracing herself against the counter top before she turns to see her girlfriend fidgeting behind her. “Do you…do you want to tell me what was on your mind before you went for that walk tonight? What thoughts were you trying to quiet?”
QUINN: Her brow furrows as she contemplates Rachel's question. "The same ones I'm trying to quiet now. I just..." she trails off, trying to make sense of her thoughts enough to explain. "I feel like I can't do this new job. It's so corporate and the pressure is getting to me."
Quinn presses her lips together then as she looks into understanding brown eyes.
"It's not just that though. I don't know how to explain it," she continues. "I feel angry, scared, sad, but it doesn't make sense. It's like a war inside me."
RACHEL: If Quinn can’t explain it, then Rachel has no hope of helping her. Not that she can ever really help beyond listening and offering a safe harbor for Quinn in uncertain waters.
Reaching out, she takes hold of Quinn’s hands in hers.
“Well…maybe we can talk about your job first.” She ignores Quinn’s nervous expression for the moment, needing to say her piece. “I have every faith that you’ll excel in it once you’ve had a chance to settle in. You are a brillant and capable woman, Quinn. But I know we’ve made a lot of changes in a short span of time. It’s normal to feel overwhelmed by all of this.”
Rachel certainly does, especially right now.
“But if you really don’t feel you can be happy working there, you know I’ll support any decision you make.”
QUINN: "Thank you," she says, squeezing her girlfriend's hand gratefully. "It's just so different from my last job; faster pace and I'm afraid of making a mistake. Like that mistake on the book jacket—I should have caught it earlier, and my boss was pissed about it."
Quinn sighs before swallowing. "You're probably right about so much change so quickly. I want this to work, but my brain isn't cooperating right now," she says, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. "I hate this."
RACHEL: “I know, baby but we don’t need to have all the answers right now,” Rachel murmurs, moving closer to Quinn.
“Talking to Doctor Herrera tomorrow will help.” She hopes. “And you know you can talk to me whenever you start to feel this way. Even if you can’t find the right words, I need you to tell me when you’re struggling. We can figure it out together.”
She’s not naive enough to think that they’ll never have another night like this, but the fewer the better for her peace of mind.
QUINN: The kettle whistles then, and Quinn reluctantly lets go of Rachel's hand so her girlfriend can turn off the stove. She watches as Rachel places two bags of chamomile into the mugs.
"I thought I could handle it, and I didn't want to worry you, what with your new show and all," Quinn says as Rachel pours hot water. "I'm sorry it got ahead of me. But thank you for being here for me," she finishes gratefully, despite the unease that's still present. Talking helps, but not enough to wipe away the afflictions in her mind.
RACHEL: Rachel sighs as she turns, handing one of the steaming mugs to Quinn.
“I’ll always be here for you, Quinn. You don’t need to handle these things on your own anymore. That’s what it means to be in a relationship.”
She reaches out with her free hand to run a palm over Quinn’s shoulder.
GET TO KNOW ME ♡ Favorite Ships ↳ Rachel Berry & Quinn Fabray
"Look, you have nothing to be scared of. You're a very pretty girl, Quinn. You're the prettiest girl I've met, Quinn but… you're a lot more than that."
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