A Golden Star A Golden Cross: To Kiss, To Dream, To Die (Q/R)
A Golden Star A Golden Cross: To Kiss, To Dream, To Die
(Rachel/Quinn)
a/n this is not a happy story
You watch her sometimes; golden hair, pregnant swell, so unlike the cruel tormentor you know her to be. She’s softer these days, more gentle. Ever since she started counseling, stopped antagonizing the other club members, began to accept Glee as something more than a vehicle for revenge and ill-intentioned missions.
The others look at her more kindly now, take her into their arms and smile in her presence. The way they never have for you.
It should infuriate you, confuse you, stun you. Instead it gives you hope. If they can forgive her indiscretions, perhaps there’s hope for you too.
…
It’s an innocuous day really; classes, lunch, glee. You’re excited about an upcoming performance at the mall, and eager to share your ingenious set list plan. But Quinn has other plans in mind, today the old Queen Bee is back and you’re the target.
She snarls at you, face totally devoid of the warmth that’s inhabited it of late, the choir room empties and it’s the two of you alone.
You don’t know how long you stay this way, sitting silently on opposite sides of the room, together even in your isolation. You move toward her without conscious thought of what you’re doing.
She’s on the piano bench, anger washed away from her eyes, replaced instead with sorrow, and you begin to feel guilty somehow, as though this is your fault.
It’s not fair.
She hurt you, did her best to make your life miserable, and even though it didn’t work (except for when it did) that’s not the point.
You’re the victim here; you don’t want to be the bigger person. You want to yell at her, tell her how obtuse and unfair this whole situation is. You want to hit her.
But you don’t.
“You look really pretty today Quinn.”
Inwardly you curse yourself as she looks up, watery-eyed,
“I’m tired, Rachel”
You move to sit by her, feel yourself deflate as you place a hand on hers,
“Me too.”
This is how it begins.
…
It is a rather uneasy partnership at first, your scar tissue, her self-hatred, both lying ignored as you try to forge a friendship, or at least something akin to trust.
At times you think it’s impossible, before remembering who you are and what you know. Nothing is impossible to Rachel Berry; everything comes down to determination and hard work.
She doesn’t beg for forgiveness, or even understanding. You want to confront her, make her realize just what she did to you all this time, the night’s you cried yourself to sleep because of her.
But she’s sad and enchanting and you find yourself letting it go little by little.
You don’t realize that what you’re actually letting go is a little bit of yourself.
…
The spell she has cast over you becomes apparent the first time you ever cut school. It’s just one class but you feel like a heathen, even the way her face lights up when you hand her the ill-gotten cheeseburger (extra pickles) doesn’t make you feel better.
When she kisses you for the first time it’s simultaneously chaste and messy, and tastes like pickles.
And yeah, ok, that makes you feel a bit better.
…
She comes into the world with surprisingly little drama, especially given her pedigree.
You don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone more.
Until her mother takes your hand, still ravishingly beautiful after 17 hours of labour, and whispers your daughter’s name.
…
Quinn’s angry. The arched brow and the all-to familiar glare is sign enough that you should be running, far, far away right now.
“Are you in this?” She asks, hands on a stack of papers. Papers that had been stuffed under your pillow until toddler hands had pulled them from their hiding spot and brought them out into the open, where they were never meant to be.
Absolutely.
“Of course I am, don’t be ridiculous!”
“Then what the heck is all this, Rachel?”
It’s me. You know this.
“They’re just prospective courses, fanciful ideas, Quinn; I haven’t signed anything yet,”
“So we’re just a detour on the way to your inevitable stardom?!”
No, you’re what’s going to make the journey easier. I need you.
“Yes, that’s exactly what you are, God, Quinn! I love you, both of you, you are my priority. I love you”
“You love you more.”
Liar.
…
New York City is a very long way from Lima, Ohio.
It’s also everything you ever thought it would be.
You study theatre and sing, and learn to cook on a tiny stove next to your bed, and feel truly, wonderfully happy
.
You ignore the creeping loneliness, the sense of regret.
--
They’re on your doorstep, bags at their feet by the 26th day.
…
New York City is everything you thought it would be.
New York City is even better than you thought it would be.
…
You marry in the Spring. Friends and family and the cutest flower girl in the world.
That night, in an unfamiliar bed tucked away from the rest of the world, you talk about your future home, about expanding your little family.
You fall asleep holding hands with your wife.
Your wife.
--
“I thought she wanted a Barbie party?”
“She did Daddy, but then we took her to a museum and she, uh, she likes dinosaurs now.”
“You’re not spoiling her, are you?”
“No Daddy, we’re raising a very well-rounded child.”
“Dinosaurs?”
“Yes. She particularly likes the ones with horns.”
…
Her 4th birthday is celebrated in central park, amongst chocolate covered dino-children and a very out of place clown that Quinn insisted upon.
You’ve been on stage for a few weeks now, and you miss a matinee performance, your first missed show, but you’re surprisingly quite ok with that.
Especially when Quinn drags you behind a tree and kisses you deeply.
Less chaste, even messier, still amazing.
No pickles this time, either.
…
On her Fifth birthday, your girl unwraps her presents, hugs her friends and grins with bright eyes that mirror her mother’s.
She never gets to celebrate her Sixth.
…
Lima, Ohio is (mercifully) a long way from New York City.
…
Your rising star, the name you were gradually building up, disappears from New York without a trace.
Your life, your dream, the cusp of stardom within reach, all of it destroyed. Nothing though, is quite as shattered as your heart.
…
Your new home is bigger, prettier, emptier.
Your dreams are filled with green eyes and golden hair, your ears plagued by her tinkling laugh.
Your house smells like tuna casserole. All the time.
…
Quinn’s angry.
It’s either anger or complete depression these days. Anger’s almost a blessing.
“It’s my fault”
Sometimes you go hours, days, without talking.
“Don’t do this”
She’s beaten down. Broken.
“If we’d only stayed…”
We were making a life.
“Please stop.”
You’re begging now, pleading.
“She’d be…”
Her hand meets your face with a sharp slap that seems to echo through the cold and empty house.
She retreats back to her room, you retreat to the cold tile floor, let the laughter of a little girl lost lull you to sleep.
…
You feel detached. Watch from a distance as your glorious wife in all her beauty, falls apart, piece by piece. It might be the distance that stops you from seeing it, she blames herself too.
…
You sort of stop going outside. When money gets tight you tutor some kids in theory from your sunroom, let chords and notes and broken melodies wash over you like old friends.
Quinn doesn’t look you in the eye anymore.
…
There’s a dream you have, a recurring one. It’s her graduation. Everyone is there, your fathers, Q’s sister, even the glee kids, grown tall and old, from a time far away.
She walks across the stage, enchanting, like her mother, as you hide tears behind a video camera.
You wake up too soon, and wish to God you were dead.
…
“You’re pathetic!”
Ahh, memories.
“So I’ve heard.”
From you, mostly.
“Why do you always bring it back to that? I know I was horrible, I know I still am, but do I need to be reminded every freaking day?!” She’s been crying again, face red and tear-streaked, bags beneath her eyes.
Yes. No. You never said sorry. I love you.
“Oh, please. If I didn’t mention it, which I rarely do, nobody would even remember what a heathen you were. After your little redemption tour you went back to being Saint Quinny, belle of the chastity ball!”
Please just look at me again.
“God remembers.”
“I’m sorry?”
“God. God remembers how awful I was. How I cheated on Finn, how I had sex out of drunkenness and vanity, with a guy I didn’t love and no wedding ring in sight. How I lied and hurt the people I loved most. How I turned my back on him and loved you, despite knowing-“
“It was wrong?”
“No, but the rules…Sins are punished…“
“I was a mistake, Quinn? Part of your sinful history? You think God killed our daughter because of US.”
Say no. Turn back. Come back to me.
“Yes.”
…
There is no cure for grief, or loneliness, or sadness. Or a sudden hatred of everything you’ve become. Realizing how much you gave away. For nothing. Only, you didn’t think it was for nothing before.
You make love. It’s strange and harsh and feels wrong; you lie beside each other in her cramped bed. Strangers.
…
Try not to count the number of times a day she leaves you. How often she merely entertains the thought.
Try to ignore the phone calls, the houses circled in the newspaper, the far-away look in her eyes.
Try to ignore the ache in your heart as you open the box stuffed with pictures and playbills and our baby’s hair ribbons.
Try, just try, not to give up.
…
She’s not happy. That’s your cross to bear. You did this. A lovely young girl, who lit up rooms with her smile and her charm, has had her own light snuffed out. You broke the best thing in your life. Bitch.
…
You try to keep calm, quash the nagging voices in your mind; she’s only 23 minutes late. She loves you. She has always come back before.
She strides in, hair soaked, new shoes ruined, coat and stockings muddy, face flushed.
You want to shout, to scream, to tell her just how unfair and obtuse this is. You want to hit her.
“You look beautiful”
She looks up at you, teary-eyed as you curse your traitorous tongue.
“I’m tired, Rachel.”
Me too.
This is how it ends.