Unspoken Words (2/?)
Title: Unspoken Words
Rating: PG (this one)/NC-17 (whole fic)
Length: 1000+
Spoilers: AU after Journey
Summary: Futurefic! Rachel knew it wasn't wise to take a shortcut through dark New York alleys late at night, but it was late, and she was drunk, and really, really had to get home.
Pairing: Eventually Faberry
Warning: Angst! ANGST!!!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The Berrys sat across from Quinn in the hospital cafe, watching as she stared at her coffee, eyes listless and empty.
Abraham reached across the table to gently take hold of her hand. “It’s not your fault. Really.”
Quinn sat quietly, thinking. The men just looked at each other, waiting for her to break the silence.
“My sister was hearing impaired,” the blonde blurted out. “I can help Rachel... adjust, maybe. I’m fluent in ASL, so...” The men stared at her, perplexed. “I... I have a lot of money saved up, and I can take time off from my job, since I’m pretty sure they were going to offer me the option of working from home anyway. My stocks are doing really well...” Peter raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head, confused. “I... I just want to help her.”
“She won’t think it’s your fault; you know that, right?”
She looked away. “I’d blame me, if I were in her shoes...” Her eyes were broken, haunted. After having seen Rachel in the bed, Quinn was absolutely stunned. She had given up the opportunity to save someone who, when they had been younger, was so full of talent that it leaked out of her pores. Rachel was nominated for a Tony, and now she’d never sing again.
Abraham squeezed her hand comfortingly. “But Rachel’s not you.” He gave her a little broken smile, which she found herself unable to return.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rachel’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked around at the bland and empty hospital room. Her brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth to speak, to see if anyone was around. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, only an odd wheezing breathless thing. Rachel’s eyes widened, and she tried again, hands moving to her throat. There were... bandages there. Bandages that covered wounds caused by... she wracked her brain, and suddenly a previously foggy memory surfaced in remarkable clarity.
Tony nominations, drinking with cast mates, getting tipsy; walking through an alley as a shortcut (to where?); hands grabbing her mouth, her arm; rough demands for quiet, for money; cold steel on her throat; soft cries to just please let her go, you can have everything, just please not the throat, please let her go, please help; watching crowds pass by, uncaring and ignorant; a single person stopping, blonde hair shining in the streetlight; louder pleas for aid, hope fluttering in her chest; pain, blossoming pain, across her throat, body falling, heart bleeding, and the person with the golden hair flips open her phone and simply walks away. All that remains is pain, ever increasing, ever constant pain, as she gasps for air on the alleyway floor.
Street noises.
Darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quinn lagged behind Rachel’s fathers as they went back to Rachel’s room. So when they began running towards it, where several orderlies were entering, she ended up chasing after them in her heels. She was pushed into the doorknob, and stood, winded, in the crowded doorway, as two separate orderlies held down the thrashing woman in the bed, and a third advanced on her with a gas mask. The bandages around Rachel’s neck were wrecked; the wounds had reopened and were bleeding profusely. Quinn stared as the mask was lowered over Rachel’s face, watched as she stilled in the bed, and, just as brown eyes were closing, they connected unflinchingly with hazel. The blonde shivered at the desperate, crazed and panicked look in Rachel’s eyes, the devastation too much for her to bear.
There had been absolutely no spark of humanity from the woman in the bed. Rachel hadn’t even been present with them.
Doctors streamed past her in slow motion, scrubs on and ready to save the diva, who was still bleeding from her neck wounds, bleeding red red red. The orderly that had handled the gas mask went to find restraints in case the diva woke up again and another episode occurred, while the two that had held her down stripped off bloody latex gloves, depositing them in the yellow medical waste bin. Still Quinn stood in the doorway, staring at the prone form of a girl from her memories through a veil of doctors that worked furiously to staunch the flow of blood. The blood that had seeped into the sheets and bandages and everywhere was a garish red that just burned into Quinn’s mind until she couldn’t see any other color.
One of the orderlies put a hand on her shoulder, moved into her vision, mouth opening and closing, up and down, but she couldn’t hear a sound. “What?!” she wanted to yell, “What could possibly be more important than making sure Rachel is okay?” but her mouth wouldn’t work, so she stood dumbly in the doorway until the orderly led her out of the room, closing the door behind them, and to a chair.
Slowly, color and sound returned to her. She turned to the stranger next to her, and saw a streak of red on their face. Rachel’s blood, she realized. Rachel’s blood, that Quinn had caused to come out of her, because she hadn’t done the right thing. She hadn’t done anything to save Rachel and now everything was going to fall apart for the diva. Everything.
And it was all Quinn’s fault.
The orderly asked if she’d be okay, then, after the smallest of nods from Quinn, left to see what they could help with back in the room. Quinn’s eyes moved lifelessly to the floor, staring at the pale linoleum tiles, counting the speckles on each tile, if only to take her mind off what was happening back inside. She heard a soft sob, mangled and broken, and by the time she realized it came from her own throat, she was falling apart in the chair, tears streaming down her face.
By the time she could breathe again, she noticed that she wasn’t the only broken one in the hallway, that Rachel’s dads were there too. She made her way over to them as they clutched tearfully at each other, and when they noticed she was there, they opened their arms for her, and she fell in, desperate for human contact. She whimpered apology after apology for hurting their darling little girl, their little gold star, and they only pulled her tighter into themselves, whispering through their own tears that it was okay, that they forgave her and thank you for helping us keep our little girl. She’s alive, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault, we forgive you.
We forgive you.
Quinn cried herself to sleep in their arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Rachel’s drug-induced sleep, she kept reliving that moment. That moment when who she had been sure would be her savior turned and walked away. She could hear herself calling, screaming, “Please, please turn around, please help me, please just... save me!” but the blonde woman never heard her, and just pulled out her cellphone, again and again.
“Please...”
She could smell the acrid scent of blood, which she knew was her own. She could taste it, even, as it mixed with the flavor of fear and dirt. The pain was all encompassing, and she knew, just knew that there would be no way she would be able to be fully herself again, after this. She just watched the blonde, hand outstretched imploringly.
Turn around, please, just turn around, notice me, save me, help me.
But the blonde never turned, never showed her face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Quinn regained consciousness, she found herself in a cot in Rachel’s room. The woman’s bandages had been changed, as had her sheets. They were a pristine white. There was absolutely no sign that anything had happened there at all earlier, except for the new restraints that held her to the bed. Her fathers sat around it, eyes hollow, but they looked up when Quinn moved. Abraham tried to smile, eyes still shining with tears, and Quinn felt broken again.
She slid her legs off the cot and walked carefully to Rachel’s bed, sitting next to her in the quiet of the room, the silence only broken by the beeping of the heart monitor. Quinn fingered the straps of leather holding Rachel’s arms and body, and shivered. She knew those, she’d seen them before. They were for suicide prevention, amongst other things.
“The doctor said...” Quinn looked up at the Berry men, and Peter swiped a hand at his eyes. “He said there’s nothing they can do after what just happened... her voice box is too damaged at this point, and the chance that she’ll be able to talk again is incredibly slim. There will be absolutely no singing. Ever.” He clenched his jaw, and Abraham reached out and pulled his husband into a tight embrace.
Quinn’s eyes watered, heartbroken at the idea of the world losing such talent. She stroked the brunette’s limp hand, then held onto it, touching it to her forehead as she let out a stream of apologies, back bowed. “I’ll do anything to make this better. Anything. I’m sorry.”
TBC
A/N: AHHH!!!!!!! THIS FICCCCC *dies* It's getting too emotional for me, but I'll still write it, because I want them to be happy. I just couldn't continue writing this chapter... <3
Rating: PG (this one)/NC-17 (whole fic)
Length: 1000+
Spoilers: AU after Journey
Summary: Futurefic! Rachel knew it wasn't wise to take a shortcut through dark New York alleys late at night, but it was late, and she was drunk, and really, really had to get home.
Pairing: Eventually Faberry
Warning: Angst! ANGST!!!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
The Berrys sat across from Quinn in the hospital cafe, watching as she stared at her coffee, eyes listless and empty.
Abraham reached across the table to gently take hold of her hand. “It’s not your fault. Really.”
Quinn sat quietly, thinking. The men just looked at each other, waiting for her to break the silence.
“My sister was hearing impaired,” the blonde blurted out. “I can help Rachel... adjust, maybe. I’m fluent in ASL, so...” The men stared at her, perplexed. “I... I have a lot of money saved up, and I can take time off from my job, since I’m pretty sure they were going to offer me the option of working from home anyway. My stocks are doing really well...” Peter raised an eyebrow, and cocked his head, confused. “I... I just want to help her.”
“She won’t think it’s your fault; you know that, right?”
She looked away. “I’d blame me, if I were in her shoes...” Her eyes were broken, haunted. After having seen Rachel in the bed, Quinn was absolutely stunned. She had given up the opportunity to save someone who, when they had been younger, was so full of talent that it leaked out of her pores. Rachel was nominated for a Tony, and now she’d never sing again.
Abraham squeezed her hand comfortingly. “But Rachel’s not you.” He gave her a little broken smile, which she found herself unable to return.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rachel’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked around at the bland and empty hospital room. Her brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth to speak, to see if anyone was around. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, only an odd wheezing breathless thing. Rachel’s eyes widened, and she tried again, hands moving to her throat. There were... bandages there. Bandages that covered wounds caused by... she wracked her brain, and suddenly a previously foggy memory surfaced in remarkable clarity.
Tony nominations, drinking with cast mates, getting tipsy; walking through an alley as a shortcut (to where?); hands grabbing her mouth, her arm; rough demands for quiet, for money; cold steel on her throat; soft cries to just please let her go, you can have everything, just please not the throat, please let her go, please help; watching crowds pass by, uncaring and ignorant; a single person stopping, blonde hair shining in the streetlight; louder pleas for aid, hope fluttering in her chest; pain, blossoming pain, across her throat, body falling, heart bleeding, and the person with the golden hair flips open her phone and simply walks away. All that remains is pain, ever increasing, ever constant pain, as she gasps for air on the alleyway floor.
Street noises.
Darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quinn lagged behind Rachel’s fathers as they went back to Rachel’s room. So when they began running towards it, where several orderlies were entering, she ended up chasing after them in her heels. She was pushed into the doorknob, and stood, winded, in the crowded doorway, as two separate orderlies held down the thrashing woman in the bed, and a third advanced on her with a gas mask. The bandages around Rachel’s neck were wrecked; the wounds had reopened and were bleeding profusely. Quinn stared as the mask was lowered over Rachel’s face, watched as she stilled in the bed, and, just as brown eyes were closing, they connected unflinchingly with hazel. The blonde shivered at the desperate, crazed and panicked look in Rachel’s eyes, the devastation too much for her to bear.
There had been absolutely no spark of humanity from the woman in the bed. Rachel hadn’t even been present with them.
Doctors streamed past her in slow motion, scrubs on and ready to save the diva, who was still bleeding from her neck wounds, bleeding red red red. The orderly that had handled the gas mask went to find restraints in case the diva woke up again and another episode occurred, while the two that had held her down stripped off bloody latex gloves, depositing them in the yellow medical waste bin. Still Quinn stood in the doorway, staring at the prone form of a girl from her memories through a veil of doctors that worked furiously to staunch the flow of blood. The blood that had seeped into the sheets and bandages and everywhere was a garish red that just burned into Quinn’s mind until she couldn’t see any other color.
One of the orderlies put a hand on her shoulder, moved into her vision, mouth opening and closing, up and down, but she couldn’t hear a sound. “What?!” she wanted to yell, “What could possibly be more important than making sure Rachel is okay?” but her mouth wouldn’t work, so she stood dumbly in the doorway until the orderly led her out of the room, closing the door behind them, and to a chair.
Slowly, color and sound returned to her. She turned to the stranger next to her, and saw a streak of red on their face. Rachel’s blood, she realized. Rachel’s blood, that Quinn had caused to come out of her, because she hadn’t done the right thing. She hadn’t done anything to save Rachel and now everything was going to fall apart for the diva. Everything.
And it was all Quinn’s fault.
The orderly asked if she’d be okay, then, after the smallest of nods from Quinn, left to see what they could help with back in the room. Quinn’s eyes moved lifelessly to the floor, staring at the pale linoleum tiles, counting the speckles on each tile, if only to take her mind off what was happening back inside. She heard a soft sob, mangled and broken, and by the time she realized it came from her own throat, she was falling apart in the chair, tears streaming down her face.
By the time she could breathe again, she noticed that she wasn’t the only broken one in the hallway, that Rachel’s dads were there too. She made her way over to them as they clutched tearfully at each other, and when they noticed she was there, they opened their arms for her, and she fell in, desperate for human contact. She whimpered apology after apology for hurting their darling little girl, their little gold star, and they only pulled her tighter into themselves, whispering through their own tears that it was okay, that they forgave her and thank you for helping us keep our little girl. She’s alive, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault, we forgive you.
We forgive you.
Quinn cried herself to sleep in their arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Rachel’s drug-induced sleep, she kept reliving that moment. That moment when who she had been sure would be her savior turned and walked away. She could hear herself calling, screaming, “Please, please turn around, please help me, please just... save me!” but the blonde woman never heard her, and just pulled out her cellphone, again and again.
“Please...”
She could smell the acrid scent of blood, which she knew was her own. She could taste it, even, as it mixed with the flavor of fear and dirt. The pain was all encompassing, and she knew, just knew that there would be no way she would be able to be fully herself again, after this. She just watched the blonde, hand outstretched imploringly.
Turn around, please, just turn around, notice me, save me, help me.
But the blonde never turned, never showed her face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Quinn regained consciousness, she found herself in a cot in Rachel’s room. The woman’s bandages had been changed, as had her sheets. They were a pristine white. There was absolutely no sign that anything had happened there at all earlier, except for the new restraints that held her to the bed. Her fathers sat around it, eyes hollow, but they looked up when Quinn moved. Abraham tried to smile, eyes still shining with tears, and Quinn felt broken again.
She slid her legs off the cot and walked carefully to Rachel’s bed, sitting next to her in the quiet of the room, the silence only broken by the beeping of the heart monitor. Quinn fingered the straps of leather holding Rachel’s arms and body, and shivered. She knew those, she’d seen them before. They were for suicide prevention, amongst other things.
“The doctor said...” Quinn looked up at the Berry men, and Peter swiped a hand at his eyes. “He said there’s nothing they can do after what just happened... her voice box is too damaged at this point, and the chance that she’ll be able to talk again is incredibly slim. There will be absolutely no singing. Ever.” He clenched his jaw, and Abraham reached out and pulled his husband into a tight embrace.
Quinn’s eyes watered, heartbroken at the idea of the world losing such talent. She stroked the brunette’s limp hand, then held onto it, touching it to her forehead as she let out a stream of apologies, back bowed. “I’ll do anything to make this better. Anything. I’m sorry.”
TBC
A/N: AHHH!!!!!!! THIS FICCCCC *dies* It's getting too emotional for me, but I'll still write it, because I want them to be happy. I just couldn't continue writing this chapter... <3