[or, five times doesn't ask to be held but rachel does anyway. 'So you squish yourself between her thin body and the back of the couch, drape an arm so carefully over her still-healing ribs, splay your fingers across her stomach, and breathe in the smell of her shampoo, the softness of her hair along the back of her neck. Her breath rattles around, but she's alive, very alive, and for this very brief moment, it almost feels like she's yours.' faberry fluff & angst]

never let me go (the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me)

.

when i first showed him my scar, he said it was it was interesting. he used the word 'textured.' he said 'smooth' was boring but 'textured' was interesting, & the scar meant that i was stronger than whatever tried to hurt me.
—jeannette walls, the glass castle

…

1

You know perfectly well that Quinn hates hugs, but you don't really care right now. She usually looks baffled in a cute way when she gets back to school and everyone from Glee keeps giving her gentle, careful ones—except for Brittany, who generally makes Quinn just smile.

You don't really know if you're friends or not, or if Quinn ever really cares so much about that right now, because you've seen her struggle for breath a number of times and you've noticed constant lists on the top of her left hand—reminders of names and dates, assignments and appointments—and you catch her grimacing in pain on numerous occasions when she thinks no one is really paying attention.

You have nightmares of the accident: flashes of metal and Quinn's head hitting the side of her crumpling car too hard, her body breaking in on itself, paramedics trying to get her to keep talking to them, her pretty pink lips stained red by her own blood. They're vivid and horrifying, and you can't begin to imagine what happens in Quinn's brain when she tries to sleep, so when she gets sleepy every afternoon in sixth period AP Biology, you make sure to tap her fingers gently when she starts to nod off.

Usually she looks embarrassed by it, her entire body blushing slightly, gives you a small smile of thanks and turns back to her notes. When you see her hair today—straight and neat and shining—the word flaxen ridiculously pops into your head, and you doodle in your textbook instead of paying attention to Mr. Howe's lecture about RNA. When you glance over at Quinn again—it sort of makes you angry, because you're always glancing at Quinn and other than the fact that she's still hurt, you can't justify it at all—she's pillowed her head in the crook of her elbow and her eyes are closed. You're, of course, in the first row, and you rub along the back of her neck to wake her up. She stirs sleepily but doesn't really sit up, and Mr. Howe looks at the two of you but then continues with his explanation of mRNA and synthesizing amino acid sequences within proteins without skipping a beat.

The bell jolts Quinn awake, straight up in her chair, and she winces with the tiniest gasp before composing herself. In your head there's always this echo of your fault, it's all your fault, but for now you ignore it to gather her notebook and put it in her backpack so she doesn't have to twist around. You know she must be in pain and more exhausted than normal, because when you quietly ask, "Do you want me to push your chair?" she just nods.

"I don't think I'm going to go to Glee today," she says as you're putting her textbook up in her locker for her. "Sorry."

"Hey," you say, "it's really okay, Quinn."

She takes a deep breath and her shoulders droop, and she asks you to get her AP Calc BC binder and textbook and her worn copy of Invisible Man and put them in her backpack, which you do, and then she turns her chair around slowly and says, "Thanks," before she wheels away.

You're distracted during Glee by flaxen and just how vulnerable Lucy Quinn Fabray is apparently capable of being, and you think maybe she'd have a better explanation of how her body is home to her harsh jaw at the same time it is her soft hips, and lately you don't even want to think of why you are especially fond of both of those things whenever you look at her.

You're sharp for the entirety of a Regina Spektor song Tina picked because it reminds you of Quinn, and you hold Finn's hand when you sit down and it's rough and clumsy and sticky.

Afterward you ask Joe, "Do you know if Quinn has therapy today?"

He nods. "Everyday, man."

"Oh," you say. "Thanks," and when you tell Finn that you have to go home early tonight to work on your AP Bio, he doesn't even blink before giving you a still-slightly-sloppy kiss.

You open your phone to text Quinn but then think better of it, because—well. Instead you call her, and she answers on the second ring.

"Hi," you say.

She sounds marginally more awake. "What's up?"

"Did you do Howe's worksheet yet?"

"Yeah," she says. "Why?"

You hesitate for a few seconds, but this is reasonable, wanting help on a subject Quinn is great at—Quinn is great at everything in school, but whatever—and it has nothing to do, obviously, with wanting to check on her. "I'm having a bit of trouble with R-groups."

"Mmmm," she hums, "tricky little assholes."

You laugh unexpectedly, and then, "Can I come over?" comes out suddenly.

She waits two beats before she says, "Yeah, sure. Why not."

You drive slowly and carefully—always, now—to her big austere house, and she opens the door with a smile, in a pair of sweatpants and a Stanford t-shirt, barefoot, in her chair.

You want to ask about physical therapy and how she's feeling, but instead you say, "Thanks for letting me come steal some of your brain power."

She laughs freely, and she says, "Honestly I'm probably a little high right now because I took vicodin after therapy and it makes me kinda loopy, but I know the homework is right anyway."

You learned that Quinn on pain meds is a very much freer version of herself, and it makes you smile when she leads you to her kitchen table, humming a little. Her hair is curling loosely from a shower, and she has just mascara on, perfect skin and all.

"We have food," she says, then adds, "obviously. If you want a snack or whatever."

"I'm good, but thank you," you say, and then sit down next to the space cleared for her chair where her papers are spread.

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to diagram structures, and she helps you patiently and a bit distractedly, but—it's not cute, you decide, because it can't be.

"I'm going to fall asleep," she tells you when she starts to droop in her chair. "I usually take naps after therapy but you were coming over so—"

"Quinn," you say. "You should've told me."

She shrugs, "Nah," she says, and you hid a smile behind straightening your papers at her casual vocabulary. "S'okay. But, can you, um—I need help getting onto the couch."

"Of course," you say simply, even though your chest suddenly feels far too tight.

You wheel into her living room and she does most of the work on her own; you mostly steady her.

"You can stay," she says, dropping to her side. "If you want."

This may be the only time, you realize, that Quinn Fabray is this in front of you, and so you nod, even though you have loads of homework and you need to practice for NYADA auditions—this is somehow more important.

You lay a blanket carefully over Quinn's still legs, and she falls asleep after five minutes to a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and she's just—you realize in that moment you love her. You have for a long time, and you knew it, but you're in love with a lot of parts of her, and it hits you then: she almost died.

So you squish yourself between her thin body and the back of the couch, drape an arm so carefully over her still-healing ribs, splay your fingers across her stomach, and breathe in the smell of her shampoo, the softness of her hair along the back of her neck.

Her breath rattles around, but she's alive, very alive, and for this very brief moment, it almost feels like she's yours.

.

2

The bed in her apartment is queen-sized, so you technically wouldn't have to touch at all. Currently it's October in New Haven, and you can see the leaves still colorfully vivid out her window.

She and Spencer had broken up in May, and Quinn is so different than the past few years, so healed and quiet and soft. But Spencer, in some ways, had been far more suited to Quinn than you'll ever be, from what you know of her—she's smarter and maybe more interesting, far more troubled.

But you think, hope, maybe, that Quinn needs someone like you. Someone smart enough to usually keep up with her brain, someone grounded, someone who dreams unabashedly. You'd said it a few weeks ago to your counselor, that you think you might fit with her now, after everything, and he'd smiled at you.

You'd taken the train that morning, then spent the day just walking around New Haven, shopping a bit—Quinn in J. Crew always makes you laugh because they know her by name—and she'd taken you to dinner and then dessert that evening. It's the most simple day you've shared in a long time, and she doesn't talk about the demons you know will always be behind her eyes, and her hands are steady, and she's beautiful.

You know she's awake because she's lying on her back, rigid, and there's no way Quinn could ever sleep like that. She sort of flings her hand out from under the duvet and runs it through her hair, and then she puts it on the top of the duvet. You don't know if this is an invitation but you know Quinn has never known how to ask for these things.

You want to kiss her and you want to stick your fingers inside of her and taste her and you really, really miss her boobs, but you know she needs a little time to heal more—from Spencer and from all of the explosions that had happened during university—and more than wanting to have sex with her, you think you might want to spend your whole life with her.

Which means, in this big bed, you have so much time.

So you take her hand silently, and you wait for half a minute before squeezing. She squeezes back, and her breath echoes around like always, and you wait twenty-one exhales before rolling over to face her. She doesn't ever turn to look at you, because you're pretty sure she wants to kiss you too, but you're also sure she doesn't want to mess things up again.

But after a while she shifts so that her back is to you, and she curves her spine and scoots back slightly, drags your hand over her chest, doesn't move to unlace your fingers.

You scoot closer, and her breath hitches just slightly for a second when you fit your stomach into the rough patch of her spine, tangle your soft legs together.

She relaxes, though, and you feel the tension drain from both of your bodies. You were amazed the first you held her how easily you molded together, and you had never held anyone before.

She squeezes your hand again, and you kiss the back of her neck once before resting your forehead between her shoulder blades and falling asleep.

She smells the same as always, like lavender bar soap and coconut shampoo, sandalwood and vanilla, something like moon-drenched leaves burning softly outside.

.

3

You get back to Frannie and Robert's from walking around freezing cold Boston for hours, because Quinn wanted to shop and have brunch and go to see Ralph Waldo Emerson's grave (again), and you really couldn't begin to resist a seriously bundled Quinn who tasted like hot chocolate with eyes that were especially green today.

But walking the final blocks back to their brownstone that evening, Quinn has a very, very noticeable limp, far more pronounced than usual. By now you know not to say anything, to ask if she's okay or not, because obviously not and Quinn in pain is usually bitchy.

So you stay quiet and help her up the steps without a word, and when you get into the warm of their apartment she collapses onto a chair, puts her head in her hands.

Frannie's home, and she walks out of the kitchen where she's making something for dinner, looks at Quinn, then looks at you, and you shrug.

"Hey, Lucy Q, what's got you down?" Frannie asks, walking closer to Quinn. She's in leggings and a cardigan and an apron, holding a wooden spoon, and she looks sort of ridiculous, and Quinn snorts a begrudging laugh before she eases herself painfully out of the chair with more pops than you want to acknowledge.

"Gravity," Quinn deadpans, and Frannie rolls her eyes before going back into the kitchen.

Quinn walks over to you and sort of pitifully holds out her hand, and so you take it and go to the spare bedroom with her, help her out of clothes and into boxers and your NYADA sweatshirt. She grits her teeth but refuses to let you put a pair of socks on for her, and you roll your eyes at her stubbornness while you change.

She lets you help her off the bed, and when you go back into the open living room, Frannie has turned the fireplace on and placed two large glasses of wine on the coffee table, along with three advil.

Quinn sort of laughs a little, and she cracks a legitimate smile, climbs gingerly onto the couch. "Thanks, Fran," she shouts, and you look over to see Frannie sort of wave a whisk around in the kitchen.

Quinn downs her wine quicker than you, and she takes the advil after eating a little bit of the quiche Frannie had made, and then she snuggles into your side. It's hot, the combination of her body and the fireplace, but it's absolutely lovely.

You turn on the television and find a re-run of Parks & Recreation, and Robert gets home a few minutes later, says hello happily and with a small frown at Quinn, which she doesn't notice, and then kisses Frannie hello in the kitchen.

You help Quinn lie down—she's too buzzed and tired to protest at this point, you figure—fully on the couch, and then you wrap her up in your arms.

She turns over once to kiss you, a little sloppily, a little sleepily, and she's pinot noir and snow and the remnants of rose-colored lipstick.

She turns back over and it's simple, and the fireplace cracks and Frannie and Robert sit comfortably on the loveseat next to the couch, and you feel Quinn's breaths get stuck until the don't, until she relaxes into your body and stills.

.

4

You'd been hesitant about allowing Quinn to move her gigantic punching bags into your workout room, mostly because they'd take up about half of it and you have a Precor and an elliptical to fit in there too, but then you'd seen her box once—and only once, at the gym when you'd gone to meet her for lunch afterward and she'd not yet quite finished up—and it involved stretches of sweaty, heaving skin, those gloves, all of her muscles straining, and you'd quickly agreed.

You've officially lived together for four days, although you'd had about half of your stuff at her old apartment anyway and vice versa. But you're twenty-six and she's almost twenty-six—which she just loves to give you shit about, you being a cougar and everything—and you've been together for over three years, and it seemed well overdue. You love living with her, because she's neat and orderly and she smells good, and there's nothing you love more than coming home to Quinn in underwear and a t-shirt after a show, asleep or reading on the couch, waiting for you.

But today you get home from your new workshop and you hear MIA blasting in the hallway, and she doesn't hear you come in, you think, because the music doesn't pause or turn down.

You walk down the hall to the workout room, and you stand in the doorway and watch Quinn just pummel the heavy bag. She's in a royal blue sports bra and black running shorts, bright pink trainers, hair entirely slick with sweat, red gloves.

Under any other circumstances it would be incredibly erotic, Quinn's soaked skin, contracting ribs, defined abs. But you think she's crying, and she'd had nightmares last night so you wouldn't be shocked if today was bad—you'd gotten breakfast with her before class at her favorite little cafe, and she'd been unusually withdrawn but not in a terribly worrisome way; she'd eaten a bagel without complaint and happily listened to you ramble on about your workshop—and things usually get worse on bad days when she gets tired.

You watch her punch for a few minutes until she seems absolutely exhausted, and when she walks over to the stereo and shuts off the music, you back out of the doorway and make a little noise in the hall so you don't scare her, and then you walk back into her line of sight.

You hover at the edge of the room, because you don't really know what you should do, because Quinn and physical contact still aren't always simple equations, but she sees you and then you know from her eyes that she is crying, and she doubles over on herself, hands on her knees like she's been punched in the stomach—which almost makes you want to double over in hurt for her too—and you know that's a cue for you, that it's okay.

You take quick strides over to her, rub her shoulder and she nods. You feel her heaving for air, feel her crying quietly.

She protests with the most pathetic, "I'm all gross, Rach," while you take her into your arms—and you'd danced all morning, so you weren't exactly dressed up and smelling like roses, and it wouldn't matter anyway—and pull her close.

She sort of sags into you, dips her head to rest in the crook between your shoulder and neck. You stand like that for a long time, doing nothing but breathing. Her pulse starts to slow, pounding less harshly to match yours, and you write I love you silently with your fingers over the scars on her back over and again.

"Need to talk?" you ask quietly after a while.

She shakes her head, and you trust her—it'd taken years for you to trust her with stuff like this, but now you know that she's stable and honest and that if it's stuff from her past, sometimes she just needs to physically expel it, that she's all out of words on bad days.

You hold her for a while longer, and all of a sudden she shivers and her skin erupts in goosebumps. You both laugh lightly and she pulls back and says, "You always give me chills, Rachel Berry."

You roll your eyes. "Stop it with the puns, Quinn Fabray."

She laughs, freely, lightly, and your chest unbinds a little. You know you'll have to take care of her tonight gently—make sure she eats dinner, and you'll suggest sushi because she needs protein after boxing for god-knows-how-long, and you'll make sure you fall asleep early on the couch to a rerun of Parks & Recreation or something equally as safe and enjoyable.

But for now Quinn lifts a brow and leans toward you slightly. "Would it be terrible form to ask you to join me in the shower?"

You grin and tickle her in the side, and she squeals and scampers away quickly toward the bathroom.

You run your hands along all of her wet, pale skin, leave a hickey on her collarbone. When she kisses you today she tastes like salt and water—oceans, hell and calm, so much redemption.

.

5

You see a car accident happen on West 72nd Street and 9th Avenue on your way home from a show—it's April, just before Quinn's twenty-eighth birthday, and you'd decided to walk because you'd still been a little wired from your performance—which had gone splendidly—and it's been beautiful the past few days.

It happens right in front of you, while you're waiting at the crosswalk, and you're thinking mostly about the engagement ring on your finger and whether or not Santana had ordered the cake for Quinn's birthday party, and about whether or not Quinn was ready to grade what seemed to you like fifty million final papers at the end of term next week when there's a loud screech of tires.

It plays out in some sort of hyperreality—and yes, sometimes you did listen when Quinn talked about her dissertation—because it's slow motion and also quicker than you can process, the yellow cab smashing into a Volvo hatchback. Which is the car you and Quinn have, and she doesn't drive but—

It's not that bad, and all of the passengers get out, visibly shaken but also uninjured. You stand absolutely still and you don't even breathe until you legitimately get lightheaded, and then you walk toward the nearest building and vomit onto the sidewalk. You're shaking terribly, and you look once more at the broken glass glittering like stars before walking again, suppressing inexplicable sobs.

You have a hard time unlocking your door, and you almost debate just having Quinn buzz you in, but it's late and she's probably asleep, and you finally get your key in the hole and twist it properly.

Quinn left the entryway light on for you, and you hear the tail end of a Buffy episode from the open living room, and when you walk in after depositing your keys and jacket, you're not at all surprised to see that she's asleep on the couch, on her back, one hand thrown over her forehead, mouth slightly open, eyelashes so long they rest against her cheeks. The flickering light of the television makes you think of flaxen again, form all those years ago, because her hair is still messy and shiny and very blonde, and the sight of her calms you down marginally.

But you walk toward her purposefully, and you kiss her—not as gently as usual—and she wakes up groggily but manages to bite your bottom lip in a way that makes some sort of electricity shoot up your spine.

"Hey," she says, voice rough and heavy.

You don't say anything, just tug her up by the hand. She's still all soft-limbed and gentle with sleep, and you drag her into your bedroom quickly, take off your clothes quickly while she watches, straightening slightly with wide eyes. You tug at the bottom of her t-shirt and she complies, lifting her arms so you can lift it over her head, then you pat down her hair before you drag her panties down her soft thighs.

"Baby?" she says.

You shake your head, because you're still shaking and if you tried to talk right now you'd just burst into tears, so instead you climb in bed and she follows, eyeing you with very sleepy concern.

You push her hip just slightly, and she complies quickly, smoothly, rolling over and pressing her back into yours. In the morning you'll tell her about the accident you saw, about how scared it made you, about how terrified it always makes you when you're forced to think about never getting to have this, never getting to have her.

But for now you lace your left hands together against her chest, rings next to each other. She coughs slightly, just once, and by now you've learned all of the scars littering her skin like landmarks, so well you know you could recognize her in the dark.