Who starts putting up decorations in October? Rachel attempts to, but her valiant efforts are thwarted by Quinn until after Thanksgiving.
Who buys the advent calendars? Judy. She actually designed and constructed little wood structures with tiny doors and drawers for Fran and Quinn when they were younger. Depending on where she and Russell spend Thanksgiving, Judy either loads the ‘houses’ or sends treats in little numbered packages.
Who places mistletoe all around the house? Rachel. And Quinn doesn’t put it past her wife to carry a sprig on her person for sneak attacks.
Who wraps the presents for other people? Quinn. It’s her yoga.
Who puts the final star/angel on the top of the Christmas tree? It had been Rachel, but now Quinn balances Eli on her shoulders and Rachel hands up the star for their son to stop the tree. He also picks out the candles for the menorah each year.
Who’s the one that hates eggnog? Rachel rarely partakes because most recipes aren’t veg friendly, but Quinn actually dislikes the drink. It’s usually a consistency she finds off-putting, and often too rich in a way that upsets her stomach.
Who’s the one that bakes holiday cookies for guests? Quinn. Rachel is only allowed to observe and assist with decorating.
Who sends out the holiday cards? Rachel’s PA.
Who knows all the words to twelve days of Christmas? LeRoy Berry. Starting with the 25th, there’s a voicemail (or performance if they’re together) every morning until he’s worked his way through the entirety of the tune.
Who’s the better snowman builder? Quinn. But that’s mostly because she doesn’t waste her time with non-packing snow.
Who starts snowball fights? Fran. At the lake house.
Who’s the one that wakes the other on Christmas morning by playing Christmas songs really loudly? Rachel, which only causes Quinn to further burrow underneath the comfort of warm covers until Rachel coaxes her awake. It’s tradition.
Who has the ugliest Christmas sweater? Judes. Though Rachel makes it her mission to try and regain the crown every year.
Who still writes from Santa on the gifts? Russel. He even initially rents (and then eventually purchases) a suit, boots, and authentic beard for his only grandchild.
for @doctorbosswaldrps. the best kind of bug there is.
because it’s the twenty-second, and because you are my favourite, I have written some words especially for you to celebrate the occasion. a response to the four times minibabs broke medhead’s heart, and the one time she didn’t.
i.
“But don’t you miss home?”
Quinn knows that over the past week she slept. The rumpled covers and indented pillows on her bed prove as much, but her body refuses to recognize those hours. She’s running on less than empty, barely there fumes that somehow power the autopilot that’s been in place since she stepped foot off the plane and into the hospital. Still, she’s managed to make time every evening for Rachel’s call, but tonight her patience is as thin as the press of her lips. She pinches the bridge of her nose and counts to five to try her best to ensure that her voice doesn’t relay her growing annoyance.
“Well yeah. Of course I do. But that’s got nothing to do with New York.”
The ache right now, one that sits heavy in the center of Quinn’s chest has nothing to do with the city’s famous, imposing skyline or pie slices or Central Park or traffic or an endless sea of faceless people. She casts her gaze about the one-bedroom apartment, cardboard boxes still packed and stacked against the outer wall of the living room even though she’s been in the space for a week. But one week – one month – one year won’t matter. Time travelled won’t turn this space into a home while she completes her residency, because over the past two years Quinn stopped associating the idea of home with a physical space.
“New York isn’t my home, Rach...” Quinn pauses to turn towards the balcony of the apartment, to blink back tears burning the backs of her eyes and chase away the wetness creeping up her throat and threatening to lace with her voice. She needs to be strong for Rachel. For them both. But before she can finish her thought, tell her wife that no place can ever be home without her in it, Rachel cuts in first.
“Yeah? Well it’s mine.”
And then the tears do fall. They silently track down Quinn’s cheeks as Rachel attempts to save face. To offer apology after apology, but Quinn simply grunts in return. She says ‘it’s fine’ even though they both know it’s not. But that’s all that Quinn has to go on right now. To believe in. That the distance is fine. The time apart will be fine. They’ll make it through just fine.
They’ll be fine.
ii.
Quinn never hears it directly from Rachel.
Instead it travels like news so often does: by word of mouth. Or text in this case. One that rolls in mid-afternoon when Quinn’s in the middle of an at least 24-hour shift, so she actually doesn’t read the intel until her eyes are already half closed when she collapses on a bed in the on-call room to try and catch a quick nap. But suddenly she’s not so sleepy as she opens the text and reads the entirety of what Mike’s sent. What he overheard Tina and Rachel discussing that morning over breakfast.
Her jaw clenches, muscles flexing as she thinks about Jesse St. James even remotely being a part of Rachel’s life again, and Quinn tries quite hard not to think of what it means that Rachel hasn’t mentioned this fact.
Or that over the course of the next month, Rachel still hasn’t said a word about her ex-fiancé’s sudden reappearance, and that she misses two scheduled Skype dates because she was simply ‘out and lost track of the time.’ Quinn ignores the instagram posts from shows where Rachel says she met ‘a friend’ and morning coffee shots with two mugs or dinner tablescapes with two glasses of wine.
And then she receives the texts one night after she’s already passed out, face first into the pillows of her bed. They’re needy in a way Quinn hasn’t seen in weeks and it’s her heart that clenches this time as she drags her tired body out of bed to go and sit in front of her computer.
Because they’re still fine. And they’ll continue to be just fine. Because Quinn chooses to ignore that her wife’s instagram posts are solo shots once more, that their skype dates have doubled, and Rachel’s already taken time off work and booked a flight out for a long weekend.
iii.
They’ve been at this for almost a year now, but still haven’t fallen into one particular routine that works, though Rachel will argue that’s due to Quinn’s residency hours following absolutely no rhyme or reason. They can’t plan. They can’t schedule. They have to take the time, the blips of moments here and there, where they’re both free to just try and be.
So even though she’s been awake and on her feet for a day and half, even though she’s beyond exhausted and fighting every moment to keep her hands roaming and eyes focused on the way her wife moves, Quinn gives Rachel what she wants. She’ll always give Rachel what she wants.
However, her last cup of coffee was over five hours ago and even though Rachel’s words and body would be the perfect distraction under any other circumstance, they’re not enough to keep the pull of Morpheus at bay. The wave of tiredness crashes and pulls her under, and Quinn nods off. But the hold is only momentary, and soon enough Quinn hears the muffled voice of her siren willing her back to the surface, yet the words aren’t quite melodious once she wakes enough to process.
“What if... What if it’s just too much for too long? What if we’re not meant to live like this? Both of us walking opposite coastlines with only half a heart beating in our chests… It can’t be… healthy. And I’m scared. I’m sacred, Quinn.”
There’s a sniffle and Quinn – wide awake now – has to force herself to remain still, to not interrupt the truth her wife will only speak to her assumed sleeping form.
“Because I need you. I need you here with me, but I can’t – I would never ask you… Not because I think you’d say no, but because I know…”
Rachel whimpers, a pained and lost sound that has Quinn’s eyes screwing shut rather than reaching out to stroke her screen, to offer comfort in the only way she can at the moment.
“There isn’t a thing in this world you wouldn’t drop for me, and I… I wouldn’t even tweak my dream for you… God, I am— I am the worst wife. You deserve someone… Someone…less complicated. So I can’t – I won’t — I would never…”
The pause is long enough that Quinn thinks the call might have dropped, but before she can shift her gaze to check, Rachel speaks, voice strengthened, but in a way Quinn is all too familiar.
“We’re fine. We will be fine. I promise. Sleep well, my beautiful girl. I… I love you. So much.”
Eyes open and staring at the screen, Quinn waits for Rachel to say more, but she ends the call, leaving Quinn alone to sort through what their life together has become, what it’s been reduced to. Half-hearts and unmet needs. Aches and pains and distance that technological band-aids can’t patch.
A coworker finds her lost in thought the next day, eyes puffy and red as she twists and plays with the rings on the chain around her neck. He asks if she wants to talk, but is smart enough to only listen and then offer a neutral, “You’ll figure it out. One way or another.”
Two days later he slips a business card across the table in the cafeteria, a sympathetic, “Just in case,” leaving his lips as he walks away.
The moment she reads the card, Quinn knows she should toss it in the trash. But as she passes by the bins on her way back to the floor and pockets the divorce attorney’s information instead, she does her best to ignore the guilt that seizes her stomach.
iv.
Quinn forgets about the card. She forgets about a lot of things. She becomes a machine, a robot that runs on little sleep and sustenance, but still processes information and determines the best solution to save lives. Somehow she manages to keep her world spinning when her world is nearly 3000 miles away. But what she’s left with is often dim, and made grimmer by the cases that come through the hospital’s double doors daily. That is until one day at lunch a woman pulls up the chair beside Quinn and just starts chattering away. The constant conversation reminds Quinn so much of Rachel, and perhaps that’s why she tolerates her normal solitary, silent meal, her time to regroup and refresh before being ‘on’ once more being interrupted.
It’s not until the third day of having a cafeteria buddy that Christine reveals why she sought Quinn out after hearing through the gossip grapevine that she was without her spouse, too. Christine’s in Los Angeles because that’s where her husband – currently deployed – is stationed. Though their immediate circumstances do differ, over the course of the next few weeks Quinn learns just how much common ground she and Chris share, and the friendship they develop is one Quinn believes she would have with Fran if they lived closer. There’s camaraderie and understanding, and for the first time after too many lonely months Quinn has someone she can turn to when the distance seems too much and time shared too empty. Christine understands, and she encourages, and helps Quinn see the love and light when everything else is dark.
Until Rachel manages to extinguish it with just five words.
“And whose fault is that?”
Quinn remembers the card that night. After says a forced goodnight and closes the lid of her laptop and silences her phone – not that Rachel calls to apologize anyway – she digs through her top desk drawer until she holds the cardstock in her hand and stares.
v.
It must be a new moon, or something relatively normal for Quinn to have such a pedestrian shift filled with stitches and a few broken bones, but no gut-wrenching heartbreaks. But perhaps her day was so normal because when Quinn climbs the stairs to her fifth floor apartment, the sight that greets her is anything but. Feet rooted in place, Quinn squeezes her keys until their teeth bite against the flesh of her palm, assuring her that what she’s seeing isn’t simply a mirage of her heart’s desire.
“I quit my job. A girl can only do the same show eight times a week so many times before she needs to move forward.”
Quinn’s eyebrows arch of their own accord, sure that she’s misheard Rachel. She wouldn’t quit her job. She wouldn’t leave New York. That’s not the plan they’ve had in place. That’s not what they decided would be fine.
“And I got a new agent. His name is Ross, whom I have a really great feeling about. Not only do I feel like we’re kindred name spirits, but he comes highly recommended by… Well, he comes highly recommended.”
Rachel bites her lip, Quinn’s eyes following the action as her brain finally communicates with her legs. She does indeed know how to take a single step forward.
“I haven’t got anything lined up yet and I know television won’t be easy, but I’m confident with the right team, and your support… Well there really isn’t anything I can’t do.”
Another step, then two more that accompany a processing nod of Quinn’s head before she cautiously asks, “Won’t you miss home, Rachel? I’m sure your dads– ”
“Quinn…” Rachel reaches forward, lacing pale fingers with tan. “I am home.”
Quinn nods, squeezing Rachel’s fingers as she tugs her wife towards her, sighing against lips she’s missed once, and then twice, making up for lost time.
It isn’t perfect. It isn’t easy. But it’s so much better than fine, and at last, it’s home.
[MSG]:Did you have fun with you-know-who last night? (minimeds)
TEXTS TO RACHEL BERRY
[ after staring at her phone ]QUINN: I don’t know what amount of vodka you drank last night that’s given you this courage to ask about something you have zero right to know, so I’m going to assume you’re still drunk or very hung over.QUINN: And in that case, it’s best that I keep Leo this weekend. A puppy’s antics and need for attention aren’t going help you recover from everything you need to.
“Someone asked me what home was, and all I could
think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting
from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers,
the ocean echoing inside of your rib cage.” -- e. e. cummings
