Chapter Text
mess me up yeah but no one does it better
there's nothing better
that's just the way you make me feel
Rachel practices essential honesty.
Practices, practices, practices. Hasn't quite got it down yet. The shoe doesn't fit. Ignore the pain away. Ignore the worries, she tells herself when she sees Quinn stumble.
And then later, when Quinn is ecstatic.
Quinn is drunk.
Quinn slurs pride and ownership and something that sounds a lot like teetering on a cliff's edge down her walkie.
Her voice buzzes, "Goldberg, to my office!"
The woman all but pirouettes in approval at Rachel when she steps in, Rachel's thumbs pushing at the pockets of her worn down jeans. Ignore how strange seeing her like this is. Mania met with well practiced detachment. Ignore. Somehow, their roles have reversed, Quinn suddenly out of control and giddy with this latest blast of success, searching for something, for common ground maybe, for a partner in crazy. But Rachel has walls higher than ever, no tears near her big eyes. Essential honesty, self preservation. Celibacy. No bathing in this glory when there's no true glory in it.
So Rachel doesn't look at Quinn directly, knowing that if she did, she'd falter and grin sheepishly at her, she'd want to swim in this overflow of tipsy compliments. She keeps her expression blank, tries very hard to stay angry, distanced. Dismisses every word of praise she'd normally drink in like someone parched; she practices essential honesty, and if she's honest, this feels too much like drowning.
But then, drunk, drunk Quinn chimes, "I am your muse," followed by another little curtsy, and drunk Quinn with her drunken version of honesty has Rachel going off on a rant. The only thing to keep her from surrendering is attack, that's how hard those words hit her.
And she really is angry, angry at Quinn for being so close to falling apart, angry at how right she is. Timing has them colliding and bursting apart perpetually and if Rachel is honest, really essentially honest, that's why she's angry. She can feel Quinn slipping, is why she's angry. She is her muse but so much more, so much more they both refuse to acknowledge. And Rachel loves it, but can't be essentially honest about it, so she deflects.
"You're pumping toxic sludge into the minds of young women. You're telling them that they have to dummy themselves down to land some dude," she reasons, clinging desperately to the pretence of morality.
"Well, maybe it's the truth," Quinn slurs, and Rachel wants to scream but raises her eyebrows instead. "I mean, look at us," she hears, and tries to ignore the rushing of blood in her ears because yes, she's looking, but Quinn isn't seeing.
"So what, you're just giving up?" she manages to ask without shaking, and she wants to shake Quinn, wants to slap the drink out of her hand and sense into her person. She feels like she's losing her, and she can't bear it. Seeing Quinn like this has her going number than all the pills in the world.
"No," Quinn all but cheers, "I don't want what she wants, Rachel." And Rachel gets mean, then. Goes off about Quinn's ex boyfriends, men that had bothered her from the start, and this is her way of saying of course you don't, you deserve so much better , but it comes out like gloating, like you're afraid you're never gonna get it without the but you can you will I'm right here , and Rachel almost starts crying when she sees the look of complete and utter defeat on Quinn's face.
But she can't do it. Rachel can't promise anything, can't offer her what she knows Quinn desires so deeply. She wishes and she hurts, but she can't. They're drifting apart again, and when Quinn storms out the door slams shut behind her. And the pattern continues.
The next time Rachel finds herself in Quinn's office after producing yet another burst of drama, it's her turn to be giddy. It's been a long night, and it's been a long time since Rachel allowed herself to be weak and selfish. It's been so long since she'd allowed herself to enjoy how good she is at this.
She knows it's a bad idea when she sees the half empty vodka bottle.
She knows they've both been too close to losing their minds lately. But she can't find it in herself to be angry at any of it, not at a Quinn who needs ratings to come up for air. She needs Rachel, and this isn’t news, but it gives her a whole new rush of something every time it becomes more apparent.
So Rachel storms in her boss's office, restless, and doesn't know what to say. Quinn smiles at her triumphantly and something shifts deep in Rachel's chest as she approaches her desk and she allows herself to feel it, smiles back, basks in the feeling.
"What do you want, Goldberg, a pat on the back?" Quinn grins and gets out of her chair, moves to do just that. Squeezes Rachel's shoulder.
Rachel can taste the alcohol on Quinn's breath from an arm's length away. She feels as dizzy as Quinn must be.
"Quinn, I'm so-" she starts, blinks. What? High on producing right now? Yes, but not just. Excited, sure. Something else entirely, she thinks, letting herself really look at Quinn. "I need to-" Rachel can't finish the thought, won't resort to begging, not yet, not fully. Says, "I want," like it's a full sentence. Her eyes rake over Quinn's sleeveless arms, muscles twitching with the tension between them, a stray strand of hair stuck to the side of her face, out of place, and Rachel wants to reach, but-
Quinn tips her head to one side, expression somewhere between confusion and amusement. "Rachel..."
They're close now, Quinn with her back unnaturally straight even for her standards, Rachel with big, gleaming, pleading eyes. Quinn grabs her other shoulder too, steadies herself with arms on either side of the other woman.
"Rachel, you've got crazy eyes, what is going on," she mumbles, crooked smile on her face, and if Rachel focuses closely on the green eyes staring back at her (and she does, she always does) she can see the haze, can see the room spinning in Quinn's gaze. Can see that Quinn finally sees , that the question was a placeholder for a confession. That she could have her, right in this moment, could let herself go, let herself push the other woman on her desk and make her gasp -
She doesn't want it like this, Rachel realises.
She doesn't want to produce a drunk Quinn into indulging Rachel's every whim, into being her post-producing relief. Because this isn't a whim, this isn't anything Rachel could write off as being a manipulative bitch who gets whatever she wants. She can see in the worried crease between Quinn's eyebrows that this is too messy, even for them.
"You know what," Rachel whispers, then clears her throat, "forget it." With that, she turns and heads for the door, leaving a stunned Quinn stumbling backwards into her desk, arms still outstretched where Rachel's shoulders had been, now a gap that seemingly knocked all air from the woman's lungs. Quinn flinches like it burns. She shakes her head at the thoughts that had started bubbling up, huffs out an exasperated breath at herself, and pours another drink. "Forget what?" she mutters. "Weirdo." And chugs.
When Rachel's tired, heavy head finds Quinn's lap on Quinn's couch in Quinn's office, there is no more push and pull.
It is rare for them, but they have these moments. Silent, unquestioned, raw.
Like in London, when they'd shared a bed. And now this.
Rachel can feel the blood thumping in her ears, feels beaten down and devoid of anything but exhaustion. She can feel Quinn tense for the first two seconds of physical contact, then a hand comes to rest on her waist. Rachel lifts her own hand from where it's gripping at Quinn's knee, feels it caught mid air, Quinn's slender fingers wrapping around money dick power in a way so tender she can barely believe this is the same woman who yells at people for a living.
Rachel turns so she can look up, sees Quinn through the bottom of a glass. How symbolic, she thinks. Quinn drinks, hand wrapped softly around Rachel's wrist, looking straight ahead. Rachel can feel her pulse racing where their hands lie on her chest, can feel her heart bumping against a heaving ribcage. They're not gonna talk about it, that's for sure.
When Quinn finally speaks it's unnaturally casual. "Why is it that we're never okay at the same time?"
It's as close to talking about anything real as they're gonna get tonight. It has Rachel giving her a teary-eyed smile.
"’Cause otherwise we'd be too strong."
Quinn chuckles. "We'd be unstoppable," she muses, her hand coming up to wipe at Rachel's cheek. Rachel can see the moment panic rises in Quinn as she realises what she's doing, but her hand still cradles the side of Rachel's face gently, something like inevitability lingering between them, and they're holding their collective breath.
Quinn's thumb brushes away big pearls of tears rolling from Rachel's eyes now, and the eye contact, the worry and confusion on Quinn's face at how they got to this point, it's all too much.
It has Rachel choking out a sob before she can be embarrassed, before she can twist all the way around to bury her face in Quinn's stomach and just cry. And Quinn's hand is in her hair, and then she's bending down to press kisses to her scalp, and Rachel can't stop unravelling. Her arms find their way around Quinn and she curls up, pushes herself impossibly closer and somehow her head is on Quinn's chest now, and then her face is pressed to the skin of Quinn's neck. Quinn is shaking too, with frustration maybe, or worry. But she holds Rachel, lets her cry until she's done.
When Rachel can breathe again, she untangles herself and sits back by Quinn's side.
"I'm sorry," she says without looking, but then looks, and finds an expression on Quinn's face she's only ever seen once before. (I love you. I love you, you're fired.)
"Don't ever apologise to me for how you're feeling," Quinn rasps, and brushes messy hair behind Rachel's ear, lets her palm linger. This is too much, something screams inside Rachel. This is the kind of love that can hold and crush her fully, it screams.
She stares at the rawest version of Quinn, real tears and real affection staring back at her. "What if I'm feeling too much," she gasps, meaning so much more than she can put into words, but Quinn shakes her head.
"Never." And they fall back into each other, holding and being held, and they stay like that for a long time.
And then there's Serena. Rachel still won't admit, not even to herself, why she wanted, why she needed her on the show. Because what she's trying to show makes less and less sense each day. Serena is tall and blonde, always composed, wants a husband. Serena isn't anything like Quinn.
So Rachel has never paid much attention to the way their suitress looked at her. Until one early morning after they've wrapped.
She's in Serena's room, annoyed at how much the woman continuously resists Rachel's attempts at producing and they're both tired and loopy, discussing the same things in endless circles with no progress, until suddenly Serena's all up in her face, eyes begging for reassurance. Rachel can give that, and she mutters things like, "Hey, you're beautiful, any of them would be lucky to be with you," and Serena mutters, "Sometimes I begin to think that maybe I'm not looking in the right places," and before Rachel knows what's happening Serena's mouth is on hers, desperate and frantic. It blows Rachel's mind. Yes, she'd been flirting, she flirts with everyone she produces. But she never thought a woman like Serena would respond to her that way, so she kisses back, her mind jumping from one place to another, from this isn't Adam to a much quieter, much more stinging this really isn't Quinn , and then-
With a gasp, she pulls back. Her eyes flick up to one of the cameras and her skin prickles, the hairs on her neck standing up. She knows, she just knows that Quinn is right there, in the control room, staring. Behind those monitors, like a wild animal stalking for pray, waiting for something juicy to happen. Just like she was that night when Rachel had found herself in that hammock. Serena starts apologising when she sees the look of terror on Rachel's face, but Rachel waves her off. "Don’t, it's okay, it's fine," she says, already on her way out and down the stairs to the pool. Serena hesitates on the balcony.
A door flies open. Rachel stops. She can tell Quinn's nostrils are flaring from where she's standing. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Quinn all but yells, storming towards her.
There are tears in Rachel's eyes, and she doesn't know, doesn't know why she feels like she's been caught doing the inexcusable when this shouldn't be that big a deal, they've both crossed those lines, neither of them know boundaries when it comes to the show's cast. But this one tugs at something low in her stomach, constricting the back of her throat. "Quinn, it's not-"
They collide by the pool, or it feels like collision, even with an arm's length of thick air between them. It knocks Rachel's breath away.
Tears are rolling down her cheeks. "It didn't mean anything," she promises, vaguely aware of the blonde figure in the corner of her eye, watching them. She really doesn’t want to get into why that’s the first thing she needs to get out of the way.
"Of course it didn't mean anything," Quinn scoffs, and the tendons in her throat are twitching and pulsing with the effort it takes not to let loose a scream, or a declaration.
"You know I'm not into her, she came on to me! Come on, Quinn, this isn't about Serena-"
"Then what the fuck is it about, Rachel?"
Rachel almost screams, and it tears through their carefully constructed pattern of omission like a blunt knife through flesh.
"You!"
She wants to sound sarcastic, adds a half-heartedly snappy, "It's all about you," but her stomach sinks and she's terrified because it feels like this might be the first time she's ever been honest. None of that essential honesty crap, but real honesty. Like a confession.
"Oh, you love me," Quinn hisses, voice full of malice but eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Get your shit together, Goldberg," she spits, and then she's gone.
They have this terrible habit of walking away from each other, of confessing and then acting like they didn't just inch much closer to a point of no return.
They've told each other that they love each a few times, now. Somehow, it never felt as substantial as the words themselves suggest.