Rachel had an accident and woke up from coma after a few weeks. She had a *sex* dream of Quinn before waking up and well, Quinn is the only person she remembers. Amnesia. When she sees Quinn at school, she is sure they are girlfriends and kisses her... but they are not ! And San convinces Quinn to act like it, as a prank to hurt Rachel and all.
At first I was skeptical, it is rather cruel. And ultimately, it is really a nice faberry story, an enemies to lovers one, kinda fakedating but Rachel thinks they are really dating so... """fake""""dating. They are horny af, Rachel is rather cute and Quinn falls for her really fast haha
I am kinda curious because, she wakes up loving Quinn but she is surprised learning she has two fathers ? She doesn't know anymore about valentine's day ? There are kinda odd elements, but really these 11 chapters are really good. It ends rather abruptly as the author says, but it does the job haha
snowtrova
Any chance you will continue this story? I came back to read it again, and that ending, damn.
Wow, I haven't thought about Amnesia!Rachel in a while.
This version of it is set in an alternate Don't Blink, and the actual DB timeline has moved past this point. I also once promised a few people I'd never make Amnesia!Rachel actually happen in DB. Although, it's been many years now and it's possible those people wouldn't hold me to that promise now.
There are multiple discussions about it scattered through my blog though, all tagged 'alternate db angst.'
If you missed it, there was also a short little look into post-hospital future of this universe found here.
Cause Amnesia!Rachel is my favorite what if scenario I'm curious if you'd ever knock out a short scene for when Quinn/Berry men tell Rachel who she's married to and that they have a kid or when she meets said kid?
Amnesia!Rachel Ficlet
It’s been five days.
Five days awake in this unfamiliar life with a broken body and a broken sense of self.
Her dads have been here every day to visit, and they’ve tried to answer some of her endless questions about the last fifteen years, but even with her current level of brain damage, Rachel can tell that they’re choosing each and every word they say to her with the utmost care. She supposes that she can’t really blame them. She’s already had two panic attacks after being told that she’s not only achieved her dream of becoming a successful Broadway star but has two Tony awards that she has no memory of winning.
Kurt has been to visit too, but he hasn’t been much more forthcoming than Rachel’s dads, limiting his answers to what’s been happening in his own life and the assurance that they are, in fact, still the best of friends.
And Santana Lopez of all people is somehow masquerading as a doctor, popping into Rachel’s room outside of visiting hours and claiming to also be her friend—but even she is being maddeningly circumspect with her words and acting so completely out of character that Rachel wonders if she’s not still trapped in a coma and dreaming up this ludicrous reality where Finn no longer seems to care about her at all while Santana and Quinn Fabray suddenly do.
Quinn.
She’s been here every day as well, and she looks a little more despondent each day after forcing Rachel to confirm that she still hasn’t remembered anything past high school. As if Quinn could possibly be more frustrated by that fact than Rachel!
They are currently sitting in a near suffocating silence after Rachel had answered Quinn’s familiar probing with a rather sharp, “Why do you keep pushing? My missing memories can’t possibly be so important to you that you keep showing up here every day to cross examine me.”
Wounded hazel eyes glisten with unshed tears—Rachel feels a sickening twist in her stomach at the sight—before Quinn’s finally manages a raspy, “They are. You…you have no idea…”
“No! I don’t,” Rachel snaps, interrupting whatever Quinn is attempting to say, “because no one will tell me anything that matters!”
Rachel unthinkingly slaps her hand on the bed precariously close to her broken ribs and promptly hisses in pain for her efforts. Quinn flinches in muted empathy as her hand moves toward Rachel in some misguided effort to sooth her, but Rachel recoils from her touch, and Quinn’s hand hovers there, trembling over her as fresh tears stream over pale cheeks.
“I…I’m s-sorry,” Quinn stammers, sniffling pathetically as she slowly draws her hand away. “We…we’re just…trying not to overwhelm you with…with too much information at once.”
Rachel bites into her lip to keep from screaming in frustration. She’s heard a variation of that excuse from every single person who’s been in here—her dads, her doctors, her nurses, Santana freaking Lopez. “I just want someone to give me some straight answers. I know my memory is Swiss cheese right now, but I do remember that I used to be able to count on you for that, Quinn.”
Quinn swallows heavily, visibly struggling to compose herself as she twists her hands together in her lap. Rachel’s gaze is drawn there, and she notices for the first time the rather impressive diamond rings sparkling on Quinn’s left hand—the ones she’s currently fidgeting with nervously.
“You still can,” Quinn finally says, lifting her hand—the one with the rings—to wipe her tears away.
“Where’s Finn?” Rachel hears herself asking, suddenly imagining that the ring to match Quinn’s might reside on his finger. She feels sick at the thought.
Quinn seems taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, and she laughs without humor, shaking her head. “In Lima, I imagine. I told you we haven’t seen him in a few years.”
Rachel frowns. She does remember Quinn saying that, but no one has really talked to her about Finn since then, and Quinn is obviously married to someone . Now that Rachel has noticed her rings, she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from them. She and Quinn had spent so much time trading Finn back and forth between them that she wouldn’t have been surprised if they were still doing it now.
“You’re not married to him?” Rachel checks.
Quinn looks startled by the suggestion. “Of course not. Why would you…?”
“You are married though,” Rachel cuts her off, gesturing to her hand.
The pained sadness is back in Quinn’s eyes as she reflexively touches her ring again. “I…yes,” she barely whispers.
“Do I know him?” Rachel asks before huffing out a frustrated breath at the foolishness of her question. “I mean, obviously, I would know him since you and I seem to be friends now, but is he someone I would remember from before?”
Quinn sits back in her chair, looking like she’s on the verge of breaking down in tears again. “I…I should get your dads,” she chokes out, standing shakily.
“Why? Why do you need them?” Rachel demands, coiling her hand into a fist. “It’s a simple question, Quinn. Something I should know about my friend. You just said I could still trust you to give me a straight answer!”
Rachel can feel the beginnings of another anxiety attack creeping in around the edges of her consciousness, and she has no idea why it’s happening. But Quinn has been coming to visit her for five days, looking so sad and devastated and pushing Rachel to remember things, and apparently she has a husband somewhere that she’s been neglecting in order to spend time in the hospital and—oh, God, was he somehow involved in Rachel’s accident too? Is that why Quinn is so concerned about her? Did her husband not wake up at all?
Quinn crosses her arms protectively over her stomach and levels her watery gaze on Rachel before taking a deep breath. “I…I don’t have a husband,” she finally says.
Rachel’s brows furrow in confusion. “But you just said…”
“I’m married,” Quinn confirms sadly. “To you.”
With those words, the world goes a little grey again, and Rachel blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Quinn is a bit blurry right now and there’s a buzzing in Rachel’s ears but it sounded like—
Something it absolutely couldn’t be.
Rachel gulps in a deep, gasping mouthful of air. “You’re lying.” Her ribs ache with every breath and her head is throbbing and it feels like she really must be caught in a coma she can’t wake up from because there’s simply no logical way that she could be married to Quinn Fabray. “You have to be,” Rachel stubbornly insists, shaking her head desperately as she clutches at the front of her hospital gown. She couldn’t have forgotten that! There are no matching rings on her finger—but—oh—oh no!—there’s a faint tan line where one might have been.
“Rachel, you need to calm down,” Quinn murmurs, suddenly at her side again—hand on her shoulder.
“No. You’re not even gay. I’m not gay!” Rachel practically screeches. “I’m supposed to marry Finn.”
Quinn recoils again—a shattered expression on her face. “But you didn’t.” She drags in a shaky breath, glancing away. “Let me get your dads. They can…they should be here for this.”
“No,” Rachel refuses, squeezing her eyes closed. She doesn’t know why she’s stopping Quinn. Her dads should be here—they certainly wouldn’t perpetuate this insane fabrication. “No, they…they know I’m…I’m not…I can’t… We can’t be married.” She simply can’t reconcile what she knows of herself and of the Quinn Fabray she remembers to this impossible reality.
“We are,” Quinn says again, more firmly, though her voice catches and scratches over the words. “We’ve been together for ten years, Rachel, and we’ve been married for six. We,” she stops, quickly cutting off whatever she meant to say next right before her face crumples. “We…we…were…happy,” she sobs, dropping her face into her hands. “And now it’s…it’s all gone.”
No. She doesn’t get to do this. Quinn Fabray does not get to make Rachel’s lost fifteen years about herself. God damn it! “Do you…do you even know how…how insane this sounds to me? You barely even tolerate me.”
Quinn cries harder. “I love you,” she whimpers. “I…I’ve loved you for so long.”
If Rachel’s entire sense of equilibrium wasn’t completely off kilter, she might be able to acknowledge the odd little flip her stomach seems to do at the confession, but frankly, she just wants to wake up from the nightmare that her life has become. “I’m sorry,” slips off her tongue out of habit more than any true sense of remorse. “I…I don’t…”
Quinn’s choked sob cuts her off. “Please,” she begs quietly, lifting desperate eyes to Rachel. “Please. I know…I know it’s a lot to process right now. But you…you’re still recovering. You’ll remember everything eventually. I know you will.”
Rachel isn’t so certain. “I can’t even begin to imagine remembering this,” she says regretfully, gesturing between them. “I don’t want to hurt you, Quinn, but I…I simply don’t feel like I could possibly be your wife.” And yes—she’s definitely hurting Quinn with that, but it’s best to be honest, isn’t it? She decides to refrain from confessing that she’s still in love with Finn.
Quinn closes her eyes against the tears that are still falling. Rachel doesn’t think she’s ever seen Quinn look quite so broken, even after she’d given up her baby to Shelby. “But you are my wife,” Quinn presses tearfully. “I…I know you won’t remember everything right away…”
“No,” Rachel denies. “You’re not hearing me, Quinn. I don’t accept this. It isn’t real to me. I don’t…I don’t want this.” She can’t bear to look into Quinn’s increasingly anguished eyes one second longer, so she drops her own eyes to the blanket covering her bruised body. “I think…I think you should just…you should go and get my dads now,” she finishes quietly, needing Quinn to go so she can be alone again and try to forget this is happening the way she’s forgotten everything else.
“This is real, Rachel,” Quinn vows desperately after a long pause. “Very real,” she repeats as a phone suddenly appears in Rachel’s line of sight—the screen displaying a photo of a smiling, happy Rachel with a little girl in her arms that looks exactly like her.
Gasping, Rachel presses a fist to her mouth to hold back the cry that bubbles up from her rapidly tightening throat while she continues to stare at the photo in confusion.
“Her name is Callie,” Quinn reveals softly. “She’ll be four in August, and…and she desperately misses her mama.” Rachel’s eyes fly up to meet Quinn’s, seeing a cloud of hazel despair swirling with indisputable truth. “So even if…if you don’t want this…want me,” she stutters out dejectedly, “it won’t change the fact that we have a daughter who needs you.”
Rachel’s gaze is drawn back to the photo—to that beautiful little girl who Rachel doesn’t remember giving birth to—and knows, deep in her soul, that this is all very, very real.
Rachel turned over in bed and stretched out her arm and didn't hit anyone with it. Of course. She was in her bed. There was no reason for anyone else to be in her bed. No reason for her to expect anyone to be.
She got up and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She felt drained; even more so than usual. Her conversation with Finn had been liberating, certainly, but it also seemed to make everything seem more immediate. It was like it made her more real, somehow, and that was both relieving and exhausting.
She was still thinking about the moment she'd woken up as she started going through her morning workout. For one disorienting, clear instant, she'd felt Quinn's absence like a tangible ache. Even now that it'd passed, the memory of it lingered, incomprehensible, niggling, and strangely comfortable. It made sense to some part of her, at least.
Having finished her workout and showered and dressed and sat on her bed and stared at the wall for several minutes, Rachel finally decided to do something she had pointedly avoided doing up until now: looking through the big cardboard box full of things from Rachel's old life. Things from Rachel's old life with Quinn.
There were countless useless knickknacks in the box; toys and pins and notebooks and old socks. There weren’t any startlingly happy pictures in frames, like there always are in movies, but Rachel had seen more than enough of those on her phone and on facebook already. But at the very bottom of the box, hiding underneath a big and very ugly star-shaped paperweight, there was a real, old fashioned, ink-on-paper letter.
'To: Ms. Rachel Barbra Berry, Professional Drama Queen,' was written on it in a familiar cursive.
Rachel hadn't so much as finished reading the address when she felt herself slip into memory.
~
They're lying together in Rachel's bed, not quite as tangled up in each other as they could be, but enough to be just slightly too warm. Quinn's heart beats a steady rhythm under Rachel's ear while her fingertips trace arbitrary patterns across the skin of her back.
"I want to write you a love letter," Quinn murmurs as she plays with Rachel's hair.
Rachel doesn't move at all. "A love letter?" she repeats.
"Yes."
"How very hipster of you."
Quinn laughs, softly, lazily. "Shut up," she says, and lightly tugs on Rachel's hair. "I know you'd like it. You're a drama queen, like, professionally."
Rachel does move now, just enough to allow Quinn to see her raised eyebrows. "I guess you'd better make it professionally dramatic, then," she says.
Predictably, Quinn's eyebrow quickly mirrors her own. "I've always liked a challenge."
~
Back in her own reality, in a different bed, devoid of Quinn and of memories, Rachel turned the letter over and opened it. It wasn't very long or very neat, but it was handwritten, and Rachel was surprised by how instantly familiar it felt. Then again, judging by the brittleness of its creases, she'd already read it many, many times.
'I know I promised to make this letter very dramatic,' it read, 'but I don't know if I can. I mean, the way I feel about you is kind of completely ridiculous to begin with.
'I could say you make me feel like even my flaws are actually beautiful, but it would simply be the truth. I could say that when I look at you, I see the most incredible, compassionate, admirable, shining human being in existence, but it would simply be the truth. I could say that you are everything I ever wanted and everything I'll ever need, but it would simply be the truth. I could say that nothing can make me as happy as feeling my heart beat against your lips and your chest rise and fall beneath my cheek, but it would simply be the truth. I could say I would go anywhere and do anything and make a complete fool of myself just to see you smile, but it would also be nothing but the truth.
'When it comes to my feelings for you, Rachel, I think hyperbole is just impossible.
'I love you.
'Quinn
'PS: I feel so accomplished right now. Let's make out.'
Rachel snorted inelegantly. What an amazingly awkward, sincere love letter. Did Quinn really write this? But then she suddenly wasn't so sure why that seemed so strange. The image that Rachel had of Quinn, perfectly composed, untouchable and cruel, hadn't seemed to fit the Quinn in front of her for a while now.
This Quinn was thoughtful and honest and hesitant and kind of a sap. This Quinn was definitely someone who could've written something as fucking adorable as that love letter, penned in inexplicably sparkly purple ink and formally addressed to a Ms. Rachel Barbra Berry, Professional Drama Queen.
This Quinn loved a Rachel who knew her. And, Rachel decided, this Quinn deserved to be known.
Plus, aside from all that, Rachel could no longer deny that she just kind of really missed her.
Rachel woke up with arms fastened securely around her, soft wisps of blonde hair beneath her cheek, and… something wet on her shoulder.
She turned around. The arms enfolding her didn't let go.
"Quinn?" she mumbled drowsily. "Why're you crying?"
Quinn sniffled and smiled. "Sorry. I'm just so… I can't believe this is real. You're real. You're here. With me. Again." She swallowed what sounded like a hybrid between a sob and a giggle. It was strangely endearing.
And then she gently kissed the bare curve of Rachel's shoulder, and Rachel remembered, and she started to realize what it meant. Exactly what it meant, that she was there, with Quinn, again. There, on Quinn's tiny couch, with a naked Quinn whose fingers smelled of her holding her tightly and looking like she wanted nothing more than for the whole of herself to melt and soak right into Rachel.
"Don't leave me again," Quinn pleaded and pressed her nose against the back of Rachel's neck. "I love you so much, Rachel."
Oh, no, no, no, no, Rachel thought frantically. This was too soon; this was too fast; this was too much. This was a mistake.
She remained unmoving for an indeterminable amount of time, feeling trapped and fighting the urge to run away. She couldn't do this. She couldn't do this to Quinn. She'd looked so happy. She'd looked so desperate.
How could Rachel have done this? To her, she realized, it may have just been one night, but to Quinn it was one night to revalidate a thousand. To Quinn, it wasn't an impulsive mistake; to Quinn, it was a reunion.
And that's wrong. That's all wrong. Rachel can't guarantee Quinn a future. She can't even guarantee Quinn a past.
She waited until she felt Quinn's breaths become steady and slow before disentangling herself gently and drawing away.
She should have remembered (how could she remember, when she didn't even know?) that Quinn was a very light sleeper. "Rach?" Her voice was scratchy and confused, but strangely serene. "What's wrong?"
"I'm – I'm sorry, Quinn. This, this is too much for me. I'm sorry." She looked around anxiously for her clothes. "This is too much."
Quinn raised herself onto her elbows on the couch. Rachel glimpsed small breasts and lightly freckled shoulders with a pang of guilty recognition. "Oh. Um. Sure, of course," Quinn said, smiling softly in infuriating understanding. "We'll take it slow."
Rachel found her dress and pulled it on. Her underwear was nowhere to be seen.
"Rachel?" The concern in her voice was acid.
"I can't," Rachel choked out. "I'm sorry."
Quinn followed her to the door, seemingly unconcerned with her own nudity. "Rachel, wait. How about a date? Friday evening?"
Rachel slipped her sandals on and grabbed her bag, which she spotted on the floor near the door. "I'm sorry," she said again.
"Saturday? Thursday? Monday after next? We can make it a lunch thing. Rachel?"
She said nothing as she stepped into the elevator, and she didn’t look back. She didn't want to see the expression on Quinn's face.
"I thought –" Quinn was saying as the elevator doors slid shut. Rachel tried very hard not to complete the sentence in her head.
She failed, of course.
[Happy Holidays!]
Ouch. Angst for Christmas.
Happy Holidays, NG. Even if you broke my heart into a million Quinn-shaped pieces.
"So your physical therapist tells me you've been making great progress, Rachel. According to him, soon you might be able to return to your previous workout routine."
Dr. Hasnawi's office was both spacious and cluttered, an odd combination of obvious order and an enormous accumulation of stuff. There were pillows and stress balls and puppets and games, crayons and framed certificates and a very snuggly-looking comforter. There were no papers or binders to be seen, except for the one in Dr. Hasnawi's hands, and the bright red armchair in which Rachel was sitting was nothing at all like the classic Freudian couch.
Rachel shifted in her armchair and nodded. "On the other hand," she said, "I don’t know what my previous workout routine even was. I only found out I had a personal trainer because he called to ask me if what they said in the papers was true."
"What did they say in the papers?"
"All sorts of things. Mainly that acclaimed Broadway performer Rachel Barbra Berry lost a chunk of her brain in a car accident, and possibly a chunk of her talent as well."
Dr. Hasnawi quickly wrote something in her notebook. "Have you tried to sing since our last session?" she asked.
"No," Rachel replied.
"Can you tell me why?"
Rachel shrugged. "I'm scared, probably."
"Probably?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure. I just haven't felt the need to." She paused. "I remember what it felt like, to need to sing. That's something that was always there for me, ever since I can remember. I don't know why I don't feel it anymore."
"It could be a result of your state of mind. It's been a turbulent few months."
"It could also be a result of the state of my brain, though, right?"
"A brain injury can have unexpected effects on personality, yes."
Rachel stared at a drawing hung on the wall of a tall brown person with bear ears. Or maybe it was just a bear. "I remember wanting to be big, to take up so much space in the world," she said. "Something fluent, something moving. I don't know. Maybe I should mourn the loss of that."
"Why?"
"I used to have a dream. I don't know if that's true anymore."
"Remember what I told you about depression. It isn't a permanent state. You might feel differently in a few weeks, once the medication takes effect."
Rachel nodded again and fell silent. Her armchair was frayed slightly in exactly the place where her fingertips rested. She wondered how many people with arms the same length as hers had sat there, unraveling.
"To be honest," she told Dr. Hasnawi finally, "this isn't why I called you."
Dr. Hasnawi smiled. "I didn't think so," she admitted. "What's the real reason you wanted to see me, then?"
Rachel took a deep breath.
"I remembered something," she said.
"What kind of something?"
"The first time I told Quinn I loved her."
Dr. Hasnawi scribbled in her notebook again. "I see."
"I loved her," Rachel continued. "So much. I felt it. This feeling of wonder, and giddiness, and just… pure contentment. Like I could spend my entire life just holding her." She realized she was smiling. "It was amazing."
A glance at her psychiatrist jotting down notes in a file reminded Rachel of the other aspects of her reality, and the smile quickly dropped.
"But I don't know if it was even real," she said, sobered. "Fake memories can happen, right? Especially in cases like mine? And even if it was a real memory, it was still just one memory in a lot of nothing. I know what it feels like to love her, now, but I don't even know her. How can you really love someone for reasons you can't recall?" She rubbed her temples. "I don’t know what to do."
Dr. Hasnawi finished writing and looked up at Rachel.
"Have you talked to Quinn about this?" she asked.
Rachel shook her head. "I've been ignoring her messages a little bit, actually."
"Uh huh." Dr. Hasnawi put down her notebook and crossed her legs. "Would you like to know what I think?"
"Yes?" Rachel replied, a little hesitantly.
"I think you should talk to Quinn."
"Oh. I –" (I'm scared I'm confused I don't want to) "– I guess I should."
"Please, Rachel. Just one kiss. Just one last kiss."
Quinn was drunk. No, she wasn't just drunk; Quinn was absolutely up-her-ass plastered. And that should probably be a good enough reason to cease all activity and stay away from all persons, but Rachel was here and she was here and her judgment was compromised and so there you have it.
"Quinn, please stop," Rachel told her. "You're being unfair."
"Unfair? Unfair, huh," she half sobbed, half laughed. "I'm being unfair. Unfairrr. That must suck."
"Quinn."
"Rach, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Rachel. Sorry. I am being unfair, you're right, and selfish, it's a flaw. But I love you so much, please, Rachel, one kiss you won't even feel it, it'll be quick, you might like it maybe, please."
This was terrible, what she was doing. This was sad. She knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. She missed Rachel so badly – the smell of her unwashed hair, the salty smoothness of her skin, the texture of her smile against her lips, firm and warm and familiar; hugging her from behind while she sings in the shower and feeling the vibrations of her voice in her hands and forearms and chest; getting kicked in the shins in the middle of the night because a sleeping Rachel is like a puppy dreaming of running; catching the rare wrong notes no one else will ever have the privilege to hear – irreplaceable, impossibly precious things that Quinn was terrified she might one day forget.
This wouldn't even help with any of that at all. One sloppy drunken kiss would be worth even less than an accidental brush of the fingers. This was a bad idea. And yet,
"I miss your breath, Rachel. I dream about it sometimes. God, I'm pathetic."
And Rachel, lips pursed and with more stern disapproval than a thoroughly schnockered Quinn could even perceive, placed a hand on Quinn's shoulder, pushed her down onto the tall seat, looked at her with curious intention, and kissed her.
Quinn hadn’t meant to close her eyes; she didn't want to miss a single detail. But the moment she felt those full, soft, perfect lips press against her own, she knew she had to, or she would simply start blubbering and ruin everything. Even with her eyes squeezed shut so tight she was seeing spots, the tears still leaked out. She couldn't open them; the moment she did, she knew with perfect drunken certainty, it would all be over.
They lingered in this absurdly ill-advised, impossibly tender moment, Rachel wearing some expression Quinn couldn’t see and didn’t want to imagine, Quinn wavering under the weight of a thousand other remembered kisses that to Rachel didn't even exist.
When Rachel pulled away, she exhaled briefly against Quinn's cheek and followed the warm breath with a warm thumb to wipe away the mascara-infused tears.
And when Quinn finally summoned the courage to open her eyes again Rachel was gone, and Quinn was left with only a slightly circular smudge of mascara on her left cheek as evidence that she'd ever been there in the first place.
[okay, okay, last one for today, promise. It's just that it's yom kippur and so there's nothing to do here but ride bikes and write fanfiction and I'm all done riding my bike. Also, easy fasting to anyone who's doing that and yet for some reason is also using a computer!]
This one hurts. :(
And while I'm not Jewish, Easy Fasting to you and anyone else celebrating Yom Kippur. L’Shanah Tovah.
