Notes: Based on a headcanon rachelgoIdberg tweeted and an interview where the showrunner said Rachel was going to be struggling with her thoughts while all alone in the cabin.
Rachel tells herself she misses working. Misses the way being on her feet all day made her body tired, the way the long hours and psychological puzzles made her mind too exhausted to think about things too hard.
Being in love with an ethically questionable job wasn't ideal, but it was something she could almost bear to live with. And it was something she could manage if she tried hard enough. Something she could channel, redirect into something else.
When she first moved to the cabin, she tried to recreate that feeling of labor, of purpose. She pushed herself to her physical limits. Attempted to wear herself out so much that her body would have no choice but to shut down when it got dark. When the thoughts were the worst.
She'd gotten up at dawn to hike twenty miles through the woods. Went to the lake and held her breath underwater for a minute at a time. Two minutes. Three. As much as it took to trick herself into feeling alive. Disciplining herself. Practicing endurance.
This was a better way, right? She could make herself healthy. Make herself fulfilled. Atone for all the things she'd done so she could shed her old skin. Become a new person. Mold herself into someone she could like, or at least tolerate. Like they always say: you have to love yourself before anyone else can love you, right?
But the thoughts were loud and consistent. Soon her heavy breaths were no match for the voices, echoing and taunting her. Not even the water could drown them out. They weighed her down, slow and persistent, until exercise turned to alcohol and the mere walk from her room to the liquor cabinet felt like running a marathon. She started keeping vodka on her nightstand.
It was easier in the trailer. The cabin is too big, reinforcing the fact that she's alone. A visual, constant reminder that she has…nothing. And more importantly, no mattress is bigger, fluffier, more objectively comfortable, but it feels like a prison. She still can't sleep, but she can't seem to leave her bed, either. She's just stuck there—in a solitary confinement of her own making. And maybe the voices are right. Maybe that's exactly what she deserves.
You're a stain.
A cancer.
A murderer.
A manipulative bitch.
A mess.
And she's been all those things from the very beginning. Maybe that's why this is not a new problem—why she's always had a hard time sleeping.
Even after her father took her to a carnival, just the two of them, and bought her all the cotton candy and popcorn she could eat.
Even the night of her graduation ceremony from Vassar—the only time her mother looked even the slightest bit proud of her.
Even after she and Alexi binge-ate mac and cheese from Craft services and fucked all night.
Even at the fancy Mexican resort she and Jeremy spent every cent of her 9-1-1 call and cat fight bonuses on.
Even under Adam's million-count, imported sheets.
The best sleep she's ever gotten was in Quinn's bed in a London hotel room.
On the couch in Quinn's office, her head in her lap.
On a lawn chair after she and Quinn shared a bottle of champagne, after Quinn told her she'd miss her.
She tries to tell herself it's all just a coincidence—there are bound to be good days mixed in with the bad, after all—but everyone knows that sometimes correlation does equal causation. More nights than not, she closes her eyes and pretends that she's back in those moments. She hates that she does it. She hates even more that sometimes it works.
She tells herself she misses working, but she knows that's not exactly true.
She reaches for her phone, and her ratty sweatshirt sleeve crawls up her arm, exposing her wrist. Money. Dick. Power. She wonders where that matching tattoo is right now.
Wrapped around Chet?
Grooming Madison?
Working with Fiona?
What the hell is she thinking? Quinn's not her teddy bear or a safety blanket or a nightlight—she's a person. A person with her own life. A person who made Rachel do terrible things.
She puts down the phone and reaches for the almost-empty bottle instead. Screw Quinn. She doesn't want her. She finishes off the last few drops and closes her eyes tight, trying to keep the tears inside. Trying to make herself feel safe.
You're my girl.
Brilliant.
A star.
Perfect.
I love you, too, weirdo.
She doesn't want to face that fact that she doesn't want Quinn—she needs her. Doesn't want to think about how twisted it is that her words are the only lullaby that can combat the mocking voices. Can slow her heart rate.
But tonight, the just memory of her voice isn't enough. Tonight, she needs the real thing.
She reaches for the phone again. She's downgraded since moving to the cabin, getting a new number and a crappy flip-phone for emergencies only. Trying to get back into the essential-honesty, bare-minimum mindset. To start fresh.
Starting fresh. What a delusional joke that had been.
It doesn't matter that she has none of her old contacts saved. Her number is one—is the only one—she knows by heart. Just like that, Rachel relapses. Just like that, she breaks her self-imposed Quinn sobriety.
"What do you want? It's three o'clock in the morning."
Rachel doesn't say anything. She can't say anything. It's too jarring to hear her voice after weeks. She didn't anticipate feeling so many emotions, so powerfully all at once. Longing. Sadness. Relief. Embarrassment. But she doesn't hang up. She can't.
She hears the bed creak on the other side of the line. "Rachel?" Quinn says, softly now. "Rachel, is everything okay?"
How unnerving it is to have spent so much time with someone that they can recognize your very breaths. And how euphoric it is, too.
She hears footsteps on the other side of the phone, now. "Rachel, talk to me. Are you all right?"
Rachel wants to tell her to stop worrying. To go back to bed. That she's just being ridiculous. But instead, she just lays there, staring up at the ceiling. She selfishly doesn't want her to go just yet. She hasn't gotten her fix.
She hears the frantic flipping of a light switch. The shoving open of a closet door. "Rachel, say something, damn it," Quinn's voice is stern now. Commanding. Rachel obeys on instinct.
"I just—I miss you."
The noise on the other end of the line halts for a long moment. Rachel wonders if Quinn has hung up. "I can be there in thirty minutes."
"No-" before the word is even out of her mouth, Quinn repeats her words.
"I said I'll be there in thirty minutes." Rachel hears the jangling of keys, the roar of a car engine before the line goes dead.
She knows the cabin is at least an hour's drive from Quinn's house if you're following the speed limit. She knows that Quinn will be outside her door in thirty minutes anyway.
She knows that no matter what she says or does now, Quinn won't change her mind. She knows that she should try to stop her anyway.
She knows she's not strong enough to make herself. Not even if she wanted to.