Fic: Shooting Stars (1/?) - Part 1
Title: Shooting Stars
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: R for themes
Spoilers: Definitely not.
Summary: AU, Future!Fic. If Quinn Fabray is dead - and she is - then who is the girl on Rachel's doorstep?
A/N: Just a short experiment. May turn into something longer, may not...
Rachel Berry’s life is full of certainty. When she comes home at the end of the day, her house will be as meticulous as it was when she left in the morning. Her daughter will have put herself to bed, and will only briefly wake when Rachel kisses her on the cheek. And her wife will still be dead. The gold star will still hang in her window, the wall in the living room will still be decorated with a picture of the two of them, framed by the letter she received detailing her wife’s brave sacrifice and all of the lives she saved. Below that, encased in glass, will be the flag they presented her at the funeral.
She will sit in the dark, a glass of bourbon in her hand, and tell Quinn all about her day. About the daily excitement of living with their daughter, how much she enjoys her work, and the way that Judy still won’t look her in the eyes, not even a year after Quinn was laid in the cold ground. And then she will go to bed, and dream of the life that was ripped from her by a well-placed grenade.
But not tonight.
Tonight the doorbell rings, and Rachel stares at it with confusion in her eyes. No one ever visits her, barely anyone even knows where she lives. She opens it cautiously - it’s Lima, not New York, but one still has to worry a little about what sort of people might turn up. Nothing could have prepared her for what she sees, though. There, collapsed on her step and bleeding profusely, is Quinn Fabray. It’s impossible - completely, totally impossible, but there she is. She’s dressed in fatigues, her hair long and matted. She’s breathing raggedly, and the pain in her dark eyes is heartrending. Rachel helps her to her feet, but her hands stay clamped down over a wound in her stomach.
“Oh my god,” Rachel whispers. “Quinn, are you alright? Come inside, I’ll get you to a hospital - you’re going to be okay!” she’s switched off her disbelief as an inconvenience, moving straight into protector mode. Quinn shakes her head.
“No hospitals,” she rasps.
“But-” the look in Quinn’s eyes makes her stop short. “Okay, no hospitals. Come in - we’ll get you laying down, put a bandage on that, and I’ll call an acquaintance. She can help, okay?”
“Okay,” Quinn answers, letting Rachel lead her to the couch. She lets go of her wound long enough for Rachel to lift her shirt off.
“Oh god,” Rachel puts a hand to her mouth. “What happened?”
“Seven-inch knife,” Quinn, unbelievably, chuckles. “Lucky it wasn’t an eight-inch or I’d be dead now.”
“What can I do?” Rachel’s distracted, but somewhere her mind is screaming a protest. Quinn’s eyes never had those flecks of gold in them, and that birthmark on her left breast was never there before.
“Some bandages, if you’ve got some around.”
“I’ll be right back, Quinn, just stay there.”
“Not Quinn,” she shakes her head.
“What?” Rachel suspected as much of course, but it’s still a shock to hear it aloud.
“Not Quinn. My name’s Charlie. Charlie Fabray.”
Author: cranberry_pi
Rating: R for themes
Spoilers: Definitely not.
Summary: AU, Future!Fic. If Quinn Fabray is dead - and she is - then who is the girl on Rachel's doorstep?
A/N: Just a short experiment. May turn into something longer, may not...
Rachel Berry’s life is full of certainty. When she comes home at the end of the day, her house will be as meticulous as it was when she left in the morning. Her daughter will have put herself to bed, and will only briefly wake when Rachel kisses her on the cheek. And her wife will still be dead. The gold star will still hang in her window, the wall in the living room will still be decorated with a picture of the two of them, framed by the letter she received detailing her wife’s brave sacrifice and all of the lives she saved. Below that, encased in glass, will be the flag they presented her at the funeral.
She will sit in the dark, a glass of bourbon in her hand, and tell Quinn all about her day. About the daily excitement of living with their daughter, how much she enjoys her work, and the way that Judy still won’t look her in the eyes, not even a year after Quinn was laid in the cold ground. And then she will go to bed, and dream of the life that was ripped from her by a well-placed grenade.
But not tonight.
Tonight the doorbell rings, and Rachel stares at it with confusion in her eyes. No one ever visits her, barely anyone even knows where she lives. She opens it cautiously - it’s Lima, not New York, but one still has to worry a little about what sort of people might turn up. Nothing could have prepared her for what she sees, though. There, collapsed on her step and bleeding profusely, is Quinn Fabray. It’s impossible - completely, totally impossible, but there she is. She’s dressed in fatigues, her hair long and matted. She’s breathing raggedly, and the pain in her dark eyes is heartrending. Rachel helps her to her feet, but her hands stay clamped down over a wound in her stomach.
“Oh my god,” Rachel whispers. “Quinn, are you alright? Come inside, I’ll get you to a hospital - you’re going to be okay!” she’s switched off her disbelief as an inconvenience, moving straight into protector mode. Quinn shakes her head.
“No hospitals,” she rasps.
“But-” the look in Quinn’s eyes makes her stop short. “Okay, no hospitals. Come in - we’ll get you laying down, put a bandage on that, and I’ll call an acquaintance. She can help, okay?”
“Okay,” Quinn answers, letting Rachel lead her to the couch. She lets go of her wound long enough for Rachel to lift her shirt off.
“Oh god,” Rachel puts a hand to her mouth. “What happened?”
“Seven-inch knife,” Quinn, unbelievably, chuckles. “Lucky it wasn’t an eight-inch or I’d be dead now.”
“What can I do?” Rachel’s distracted, but somewhere her mind is screaming a protest. Quinn’s eyes never had those flecks of gold in them, and that birthmark on her left breast was never there before.
“Some bandages, if you’ve got some around.”
“I’ll be right back, Quinn, just stay there.”
“Not Quinn,” she shakes her head.
“What?” Rachel suspected as much of course, but it’s still a shock to hear it aloud.
“Not Quinn. My name’s Charlie. Charlie Fabray.”