Chapter Text
There had to have been at least a dozen ways to describe the color pink in that moment. The texture, the cut, the style; hell, Rachel could have even told you the taste of the color. The taste of pink was some cheap alcohol and the smell of pink was cigarette smoke, apparently. It lingered in the air as Quinn walked by, head held high and tattoo exposed. While everyone gaped at the former head cheerleader's transformation, Rachel Berry gazed at Quinn. It was a simple enough act, and one she had admittedly done a hundred times before.
The rumors over summer had done nothing to squelch Rachel's undying curiosity about the girl. Was she okay? Was she really dating that older skater? Had that incident with her father actually happened? It really wasn't as if Rachel could pick up the phone and just call Quinn. The fact that Quinn's number was securely in her contacts made no difference in the matter. Rachel and Quinn never spoke for the sake of speaking. They were incapable of sharing an air of indifference between each other. For them it was all or nothing. And when they couldn't share a knowing glance during glee club, that's when words became necessary. They were always strong words full of meaning, and words they could never say to anyone but each other.
But they weren't friends. Rachel and Quinn were never friends. Which is exactly why Rachel couldn't pick up her cell phone over the summer between junior and senior year to call Quinn. They didn't work like that. Instead, Rachel gazed at Quinn while everyone gaped, and Quinn pretended to ignore Rachel. Like always. Rachel was okay with that, however, because the act of pretending took effort, and if Quinn was putting in effort to do something towards Rachel, well, that was something. Effort was better than nothing, and nothing was what Rachel had gotten all summer.
Tina, Mike, and Mercedes caught Rachel's eye across the hall and looked equally as confused. One unspoken question hung in the air: what in the hell happened to Quinn Fabray over the summer? Rachel held her head a little higher and shot the group her best-patented Rachel Berry Gold Star smile. If anyone in that club—well, school—were to find out what had happened to Quinn Fabray, it would most certainly be one Rachel Berry.
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I need a cigarette.
Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Quinn!" Ronnie said harshly, "Do you want a friggan light or not?"
Come on, Alice, give me a cigarette.
Quinn sighed and opened her eyes. The cigarette was sitting loosely on Quinn's bottom lip when she nodded. A lighter was held in front of her face and she closed her eyes against the burn of the first inhale. She pulled a second, longer drag. Her eyes closed and the smoke left her parted lips in a sigh of relief. "Thanks," Quinn said, nodding briskly at her friend. Well, not her friend. She didn't exactly have friends, but at least she was part of a group again. Even if they defined themselves as skanks, it was still better than being alone. Her combat boots crunched against the sand under the bleachers as she moved to lean against the chain link fence. "We're not lighting anything else on fire today, are we?" Quinn asked, her hand dropping to her side, cigarette between her first and middle fingers.
"Nah," Sheila said, her attention on stuffing an empty glass bottle full of sand for some reason. "I think we're bailing out of here at lunch today."
Quinn arched an eyebrow at that. It was one thing to throw ketchup-covered tampons off the roof at people and to keep up with the pink hair dye, but ditching class was another thing. Despite everything, Quinn couldn't shake her need to keep her GPA up. "Why not just leave now?"
"Hey, good plan, Pinky," Sheila said, dropping the bottle onto the ground with a loud crash of shattered glass. "We'll catch ya on the flip side, then."
Eyebrows briefly rose in acknowledgment as the three other Skanks left Quinn to herself and her thoughts. The cigarette was burning down to the filter quicker than usual and she had almost forgotten to flick the ash away. After one more drag, Quinn dropped the cigarette into the sand and crushed it under her boot. She turned and her eyebrows rose once more, giving away her surprise, but her lips parted calmly, allowing the smoke to escape. "What are you doing here?"
Rachel had appeared just as the three other girls had walked away. Her presence had remained unknown to Quinn as she watched her smoke on that cancer stick. Until Quinn had turned around, that is, catching Rachel's somber eyes. "This is your free period, is it not?" When Quinn merely shifted her weight, folded her arms, and stared blandly back at Rachel, she took that as a yes. "Well, since I obviously don't make it a habit of hanging out underneath the school bleachers during class, I'm sure it's rather obvious that I'm here because I was looking for you, Quinn."
"That took you thirty more words to say than it would have taken a normal person," Quinn commented.
"I could argue that a normal person wouldn't count the number of words one says in a sentence," Rachel responded.
"I never claimed to be normal," Quinn shot back, her lips staying parted in a silent scoff as she brushed past Rachel, making sure to bump shoulders with her as she passed.
"I heard about what happened to you over the summer," Rachel called after her, bluffing.
Quinn stopped dead in her tracks. Hazel eyes narrowed, piercing the air like a knife as she whipped around to glare daggers into Rachel's back. "Liar," she snarled out, running a hand through her neon pink hair. "Don't make a habit of sticking your nose into my business, Rachel. You might not like what you find."
Finders keepers, losers weepers.
"I just wanted to tell you that I'm here for you, Quinn," Rachel said, turning now to face Quinn instead of speaking over her shoulder. "For whenever you're ready to come back. Whenever you're ready to admit that this-" she cut off, gesturing to Quinn's appearance, "-isn't the answer to whatever problem you're trying to overcome. Just remember that you're not alone in this, Quinn." Rachel nodded her head once, biting her lip. She dropped her gaze and walked back towards the school building.
Quinn's mind was loud and she was developing another headache. Alone? No. "No," Quinn mumbled to herself with a bitter smile, "I'm never alone anymore."
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"I'm home," Quinn called out, dropping her backpack by the front door. Using her boot, she kicked the door closed and scanned the empty foyer of her house. There was no one home. Quinn rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen. "How was my day? Oh, not bad. I didn't shove any heads down any toilets and I even got an A on my math test," Quinn said to herself. Not that Quinn Fabray wasn't used to being home alone since her mother was out God-knows-where with her newfound singularity. Still, sometimes the whole "being alone" thing really just sort of sucked.
No one asked about your day. But please, do carry on; I haven't had a good nap in a while.
Quinn dropped the sandwich ingredients she had in her hand in favor of getting some Tylenol from the cabinet. "Shut up," she said aloud, craning her neck to the side in an attempt to loosen her stiff muscles. Her mind would not stop screaming at her and her head was pounding. "God, I need something to shut you up," Quinn mumbled, one hand fumbling with the pill bottle as the other raked roughly through her hair. Quinn tried to focus her sharp eyes on the bottle that she distinctly remembered having an easier time opening that morning. Right then, however, the childproof lock seemed about as daunting as a padlock that Quinn didn't know the combination for.
Push down, turn right.
"Push down, shut up," Quinn bit out. The pill bottle opened and she choked down three pills dry.
Bright spots in her peripherals made Quinn push her fingertips into her closed eyes. Too late. Her food and prior conversation with herself had been forgotten as Quinn stumbled into the living room and dropped face first into the Victorian styled couch her mom was so proud of. Her lipstick and mascara left marks in the pillow and her boots left streaks of mud on the couch arm. Quinn's eyes squeezed closed tightly as she tried to fight off the migraine, groaning out of frustration.
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The next day Quinn was lying on that same couch at that same time of day. Only, this time she was on her back and she had taken her muddy boots off. Her bare feet were crossed at the ankles, hanging off the edge of the couch, and Quinn's head was hanging off the other side. A cigarette hung loosely in her lips. Someone once convinced her that smoking was the best cure for the residual day-after pain of a migraine, but Quinn couldn't for the life of her remember who had said that. It didn't really matter, anyway.
She stared up at the smoke playing against the white of the ceiling as she exhaled. A smile played on her lips as she watched it swirl in front of her face. Little designs spurred from her imagination started taking shape in the excess smoke. A rabbit hopped in a circle, entertaining Quinn for a few seconds before the doorbell interrupted her.
"Go away," she mumbled under her breath. Her feet dropped to the floor with a thunk and she flicked some ashes into her soda can before walking to the door.
"Hello, Quinn."
"Aren't you supposed to be in glee?" Quinn asked, leaning against the doorway and blowing some smoke in Rachel's direction.
Rachel closed her eyes against the puff of smoke and sighed through her nose. The bland expression on her face did nothing to wipe away the seemingly perpetual amused look in Quinn's eyes. "Normally, yes, I would be in glee right now. However, Santana approached me before and quite unceremoniously handed me this package and told me to deliver it to you because she had…other priorities," Rachel said, clearing her throat. She thought back to how Santana had smirked at her before heading off with Brittany to Barbra-knows-where.
Quinn hadn't even noticed the small, wrapped up brown, paper bag clutched in Rachel's hands. With a roll of her eyes, she took the package from Rachel and scoffed out, "Yeah, by other priorities she means her girlfriend."
"I'm aware," Rachel said, looking uncomfortable. Rachel often feared she would never get used to Santana's blatant comments about her sex life. She was as bad as Noah Puckerman was, so it was no wonder they got along so well. "Although, I'm not sure why she made me do it, except that I was the only one within eyesight when Brittany came down the hall," Rachel added.
"Yeah, sure, that's it," Quinn mumbled, inspecting the contents of the bag. When she looked up, Quinn caught Rachel's curious gaze. Surprisingly, the girl hadn't opened the bag before bringing it to Quinn. "It's my medicine," Quinn explained, "We go through Santana to get it because her dad gets us a really good discount since he's a doctor and stuff. And he was the one who—" Quinn cut herself off, realizing she had started to say too much. "Anyway, thanks."
Rachel's eyes studied Quinn intently. Memories of the rumors over the summer plagued her thoughts. Apparently, something had happened to Quinn, but what did she need medicine for? "May I ask-?"
"No," Quinn interrupted, softly laughing. "No, you may not ask. Thank you for bringing this by, Rachel."
Rachel's eyebrows raised, perfectly unperturbed, before she said, "Your cigarette seems to have burned down."
Quinn immediately looked down to the cigarette between her fingers. The paper had almost completely burned down to the filter and Quinn sighed. Wasted cigarette. Of course it had been Rachel who had distracted her from finishing it. When Quinn looked up to get angry with said girl, Rachel was just getting into her car to leave.
Quinn pursed her lips, her gaze lingering on Rachel before she turned and kicked the door shut.
You know those pills put you to sleep. Why not just have another cigarette?
"Shut up," Quinn said absently, already working on twisting off the lid to her medicine.
Maybe you're already dreaming. Hallucinating. Rachel left a little too easy for this to be reality.
Quinn paused mid-swallow. The bitter pill was slowly melting on her tongue and the glass of water was chilling her fingers. Was she dreaming? Was she even really taking this pill?
"You're just trying to screw me up again," Quinn stated after a minute of thought. "Shut up." Her thoughts quieted down.
Quinn sighed in relief and ran a hand through her hair, messing up the already untidy pink strands. The paper bag crinkled loudly while pulling out three pill bottles and setting them on the wooden counter. In order of when to take them: antidepressant, migraine medicine, emergency anxiety medicine. The doctor had lectured her on not taking her antidepressant at the same time as the migraine medicine, and not to take them in the middle of the day because it would cause drowsiness. Quinn distinctly remembered telling him she didn't give a shit because she couldn't sleep anyway.
While her language had cleared up a little, Quinn still couldn't sleep well. She popped both pills in and swallowed them down. Despite her brain telling her she wouldn't be able to do it, Quinn fell asleep on the couch not long after.
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Rachel had no idea what a lug nut was or which way to rotate a wrench. Finn did, however, and that was undoubtedly why he was the mechanic. "Bigger wrench," Finn mumbled, the only visible part of him being boots knocking together from underneath the car. Rachel bent down, avoiding getting grease on her yellow dress, and handed him the bigger wrench.
They did this. At the beginning she had enjoyed it; Rachel perched on the toolbox and Finn in his dirty uniform under a car.
There had been something innately quintessential in Rachel—the fair maiden—assisting Finn—the dirty mechanic—in his job. However, somewhere between grease-smudged noses and Rachel almost losing a finger in a fan belt, the practice lost its charm. Rachel's mind tended to wander now, and she started dropping screws and frustrating Finn. They kept up the ritual, however, because it was one of the few things that they had left as a couple. More often than not, however, her mind was on glee rehearsals or NYA DA applications. That particular day her thoughts were on an absent member of glee and delivered medications.
"Finn," Rachel questioned, "Is it accurate to say that you rarely speak to Quinn nowadays?" Finn rolled out from underneath the car on the creeper and raised an eyebrow at Rachel. "Don't worry, Finn, I'm not accusing you of anything. I just—Don't you think her new look is a bit odd? A tad out of character?"
"Sure," Finn agreed, "I mean, it's really drastic but after all of the crap last year I think-"
"No," Rachel interrupted softly, shaking her head, "All that she did at the end of last semester was cut her hair, and Santana was the one who did that for her. But this just seems worrisome. Didn't something happen to her over the summer? Something involving her-?"
"Rachel, stop," Finn mumbled. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag and moved to stand in front of Rachel, gazing down at her. "I know how you love to help everyone in glee, and I really love that about you, you know that. I just don't think you should touch this one. Quinn will come around. She'll come back to glee once she realizes how lame those Skanks are. Just…don't pressure her."
Rachel sighed through her nose and allowed Finn to kiss her softly. So be it. Two out of two people had told her not to stick her nose in Quinn's business, so the third time just had to be a charm.
"I know that look," Finn said evenly, his eyes on Rachel. She had her eye-roll prepared, but Finn's cell phone ringing interrupted their impending argument.
"Hey," Finn mumbled, eyes on Rachel. Rachel watched his eyes widen before he mumbled a hasty, "Okay, on my way."
"Where are you going?" Rachel questioned, curiosity perked.
"Santana's tires were slashed. Gotta get Burt and head over to pick up her car. She's pissed."
Rachel bit her lip and watched Finn run off. Well, if she were a tad more aggressive and uninhibited in her actions, Rachel would have slashed Santana's tires as well if given the chance. But this could be her golden opportunity, and Rachel Berry was never one to pass those up.
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"Quinn!" Quinn jolted awake, sitting up ramrod straight in her bed. Her brow furrowed and she ran a hand through her knotted hair. Hadn't she fallen asleep on the couch?
"Quinn!"
"What, mom?" Quinn yelled back, wincing against the throbbing of her head. Perpetual headache. Her mother's unnerving silence as a response gave Quinn a brief moment to wake up. Assess. Boots caked in mud. Heavy jacket on. Throbbing headache.
Bedroom door being slammed open. "Oh," Quinn whispered, defeated. Judy Fabray, Quinn's fake-pearl wearing mother, stood in the doorway. Her ruined doormat hung from her hands and she gestured at the ruined carpet for Quinn to see.
"What have you done this time?" Judy asked, quietly, as if the cops were outside waiting to take Quinn away and could hear her every word.
"I don't know," Quinn claimed, her voice cracking with tears. The generic ringtone on Quinn's cell phone startled both women, and Quinn pulled it out of her jacket pocket.
Santana's name flashed across her screen. Her finger hovered over the answer button, mainly because the flash of a switchblade caught her eye from her night stand that Quinn hadn't known she'd had. What had she done?
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"Split personality disorder?" Rachel asked in confusion.
"Dissociative identity disorder." Santana leaned back in her chair.
Rachel's forearms leaned on the Lopez dining room table and her hands were clasped tightly. "Isn't that a form of Schizophrenia? I didn't think that disorder actually existed."
Santana rolled her eyes and dropped all four chair legs back onto the floor. "Haven't you ever seen Fight Club, Berry?" Rachel arched an eyebrow and Santana's look turned serious. "Listen, I'm only going to explain this once, and I want to get it done before Finnocence comes back. My dad was the one who treated her when she came in. There was a giant trauma. Like, we're talking shit that would put other people into an insane clinic. Quinn has a different type of brain, though. She started going to therapy when her mom started noticing the weird behavior."
"Like the pink hair?"
"Like, worse," Santana bit out. "I'm not going to get into details here, mainly because I don't know all of them. The therapist spent most of the summer with her and then they did some testing. You know, serious shit, like electroencephalogram tracings." Rachel didn't know what that was and she highly doubted Santana did, either. "It's the best diagnosis anyone can come up with, and it's the one that makes most sense. There's two people in Quinn's head now, Berry."
"That's what the medicine is for?" Rachel asked, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs underneath the table.
"No," Santana returned, as if it should have been obvious. "There's no medicine for this. Half of the professional medical field won't even acknowledge it as an actual disorder. Her medicine is for depression and migraines. The cure is supposed to be therapy, but she…." Rachel leaned in closer to Santana. This felt like a horror movie and at any moment the dramatic violin concerto would start up. "She's getting worse," Santana finally mumbled. Her eyes dropped and Rachel saw how uncomfortable this was making Santana. Or perhaps that was sadness she was portraying. Rachel could never tell the differences between Santana's emotions since she always looked so uncomfortable portraying them.
"Thank you for telling me," Rachel said softly.
"I'm only telling you because you promised me cigs and Quinn's being a bitch now, anyway. It's not like it's my job to keep her secrets. Whatever. Will you leave it alone now?" Santana snapped, raising her hardened eyes. "And don't tell anyone. Not that I care, but my dad would kill me. Quinn probably would, too. No one else knows this, and the only reason I do is because I read through my dad's work files."
"I won't tell anybody," Rachel promised. The front door opened and Finn's footsteps were heard coming in. They must have finished fixing her tires and brought the car back. Rachel leaned forward even more and Santana perked an eyebrow. "I'll bring you the cigars you demanded in exchange for the information, however I still highly discourage you from partaking in that hazardous habit."
"And I highly discourage you from partaking in being a Hobbit, but we don't see you listening to me, now do we?" Santana snapped back. Her eyes rolled and Finn walked into the room with a tired smile.
"Your tires are good as new, Santana. Rachel, come on, I'll take you home. It's awesome to see you guys didn't like, kill each other. I admit, I was a little surprised and sorta skeptical when you said you'd rather hang here then go home when Burt and I made the emergency run here, but you guys are sort of cool, huh?" Rachel and Santana simply avoided eye contact as Rachel got up to leave.
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One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One pattern repeated twelve times every minute, repeated seven-hundred and twenty times every hour. Seven-hundred and twenty times later, it was two a.m. Quinn was sitting on the edge of her bed. The punk hair was a stark contrast to the baby-blue tank top and blue flannel pajama set she had on. But this was Quinn, and Quinn liked light colors.
One, two, three, four, five. Another minute passed. Concentrated hazel eyes were trained on the white, analogue clock that hung on her bedroom wall. When her mother insisted she put it in her room, at eight and not yet able to even read it, Quinn had no idea what a godsend it would end up being. Her mind tended to wander, to put it lightly, and so one night Quinn developed this hobby. If she counted every second, every pattern of five, it was mind-numbing. There were no interruptions, nothing to distract her, and no sleepiness to throw her off. So, Quinn counted the time. She counted it as her time; her time to use her mind the way she desired. Counting the time was Quinn's sanctuary, and she could always return to it when she felt like she wasn't herself anymore. However, it was only a matter of time until drowsiness would wear her out. You couldn't use your brain so tirelessly without having some repercussions.
"Quinn." Quinn arched an eyebrow but kept counting her seconds.
"Quinn? Hello?" No. Quinn refused to leave her sanctuary.
"Quinn!"
"What?" Quinn snapped, tearing her eyes from the clock in her 6th period class. Quinn's expression darkened and her eyebrows knitted together, forming a deep crease in her forehead. When had she gotten here? Last she recalled she was sitting in her bedroom, and now school was over?
"Sorry," Tina said, sounding more uneasy than apologetic, "I didn't mean to scare you but you were sort of spacing and class ended five minutes ago."
Quinn looked up at Tina and managed a smile. To say she was used to time lapses, missing pieces of memory, would be an understatement. They still always managed to throw her for a loop, though. "Thanks, Tina. Haven't been sleeping much lately." Tina tried to say something about glee club, something to bring Quinn back, but Quinn was already five steps ahead and out of the classroom door.
We had fun today.
Quinn's right eye winced and she tried to ignore the whispering in her ear. Or, the whispering in her mind. She could never peg exactly where the voice was coming from. What it said made her uneasy, though. While her disorder was still somewhat new to her, Quinn knew it well enough to understand she would be having to face some repercussion soon enough for something she'd done. Well, not something Quinn had done, but Quinn would get blamed. Quinn was always blamed.
"I hope you're happy," snapped a voice from behind her.
Quinn closed her eyes and looked pained as she turned around. The softness in her eyes didn't match the black, ripped t- shirt that bore a picture of some punk logo. Quinn didn't even know what it stood for. "What do I have to be happy about, Kurt?"
Kurt turned his nose up at Quinn, practically baring his teeth. "You almost ruined her chances! Do you know how long it took her to find the perfect dress to audition for this play in? I thought you were passed the whole immature slushying days, but clearly you're just as bad as you used to be," Kurt hissed. It was only when he walked away did
Quinn notice the odd costume attire Kurt had on.
Two and two were suddenly put together as Quinn remembered hearing something the other day about auditions for the senior musical at McKinley. So, she slushied someone trying out for it. Someone who is close to Kurt. Someone who would actually put hours of time into finding something perfect to wear for an audition.
Quinn groaned inwardly and pulled her backpack higher onto her shoulders. Even when she wasn't herself, she still somehow managed to torment Rachel.
"Quinn!"
"What now?" Quinn mumbled, turning to face Santana. Her head felt like it was about to rip open from the searing headache she had, so it wasn't in Quinn's best interest to get into a fight with her best friend–ex-best friend – Santana. But when Quinn's head slammed into the nearest locker due to an exuberant push from Santana, red flashed in front of Quinn's eyes. Her mood shifted in a heartbeat and flashbacks of swinging fists and shattering glass filled her senses.
Hit her.
Quinn's eyes were closed as she took a moment to catch her breath. When her eyes snapped open again, she saw Santana's hand coming down onto her. Hit her! Quinn winced against the voice in her head, but obeyed. It was right, anyway. Her reaction needed to be to fight back, not take it. Not again. Quinn's right fist swung out and made contact with Santana's jaw.
"Shit!" Santana cried out, falling backwards after not having expected the attack. "You bitch," she seethed, getting up onto shaky feet. A small crowd had gathered, but no teachers had arrived. It was after school, anyway, so they didn't care.
"I'm the bitch?" Quinn snapped back. Her blood was rushing and she knew she was close to losing control. Quinn had mood swings before the summer incident, but now they were worse. It was like someone else entirely took control. Quinn almost laughed at that, but she gritted her teeth instead. "You're the one that just slammed me into a locker."
"You're the one who slashed my tires!" Santana bit, standing up and lunging at Quinn again.
"Stop!" Rachel ran into view in what looked like a period gown with Brittany hot on her trail. "Santana, don't!" She called out again, immediately running in between the two fuming girls. "That's Quinn!"
"Back off, Rachel," Santana snapped. Brittany laid a hand on Santana's shoulder and she reluctantly softened. "She's the one who slashed my tires! Do you not understand how much I loves my car?"
"I didn't touch your car," Quinn spat out. Now that the group of onlookers had dispersed and Brittany and Rachel were standing between them, Quinn could think clearly again. "You called me that night to ask, remember? I was home. I had just woken up -" Quinn blanched. She had woken up with muddy boots and a switchblade near her that night.
Realization dawned in Santana's eyes and she let out a Spanish expletive when she realized she couldn't get mad at Quinn for something Quinn hadn't technically done. Brittany kept her hands on Santana, just in case, but her blue eyes were curious as she looked to Quinn in confusion.
Rachel stood nearest Quinn. Quinn could still see some faint, light streaks of blue in her hair from the slushy that Quinn had undoubtedly had in her hand only hours before. While that bothered her, the thing that bothered Quinn the most was the way Rachel was looking up at her sympathetically. "What did you mean when you told Santana 'that's Quinn', Rachel?" Quinn asked, her voice dangerously low.
Rachel's eyes widened, blinking, and her mouth hung open slightly. Quinn drank in how noticeably taken aback Rachel was by the question. Then she became scared, because the only person who knew about what had happened to her was Santana. Just Santana. But, the way Santana stepped up behind Rachel protectively made Quinn question whether or not Santana was still the only person who knew. Out of anyone who would be able to weasel information about Quinn out of Santana, it would be Rachel. Rachel fucking Berry. "Back off, Q," Santana said quietly, shaking her head. "Rachel was just trying to help. Stop being so frickin' paranoid."
When Quinn's hazel eyes rolled from Santana down to Rachel, Rachel realized she didn't recognize the person behind them anymore.