Title: Savior

Pairing: Quinn/Rachel

A/N: And here we are, the final chapter! No, I am not planning a sequel for this fic. I feel like at the completion of this chapter, the story will have reached an appropriate end, all loose ties tied. I so appreciate all the feedback I've gotten over the arc of writing this story, even though it seems so short. I hope you're all happy with it and I really hope you continue reading the fics that I come up with. I have a LOT of ideas and this most certainly isn't my last. You guys are amazing and I seriously just appreciate the fact you've all been so kind and giving with the compliments. Any comments/reviews I get following the publication of this chapter, I'll be responding to via PM (sorry if I missed yours after verse 7 - I started writing this directly after publishing 7) so you all know I'm reading and loving that you guys liiiike me! 3 Thank you so much.

Badgirl762: Thank you! I know, I really liked playing with their friendship and letting it develop. It gave me some ideas for some future fics, too. ^_^
NandinhaMa: I'm so glad you enjoyed it!
Sharene19: I'm flattered! Haha I hope you've enjoyed the rest of the chapters, too!
14thChronicle: You called it! I could have elaborated more on the media frenzy in this chapter but I felt it was in the end sort of irrelevant to the overall story. Thank you seriously for your kind comments along the way. ^_^
SamDittrich: I'm glad you love my Quinn, I love her too, haha! I'm glad you think it's beautiful, it truly was a beautiful story to write.
faberrydragon: Of course everything works out! ;)
sdmwd1115: I think at the heart of Santana is a truly caring, protective soul. I love bringing out her softer side when I can.
xtreme: Ah, you're too kind to me! 3 I'm glad you enjoyed everything and I'm sure you'll get a kick out of the revenge coming Jesse's way. ;)

###

Verse 8

Breathe, I believe,
I can't live without you, I can't live with you;
And I'm in love with you.

###

The day the media frenzy hits, you're both laying in bed and she's relaxed in your arms. You're breathing her in like it's the first time, the dayglow falling in through the window as you kiss her perfect shoulder. She looks up at you with those perfect brown eyes, and she smiles. There's something about the moment that makes you forget that you should be breathing; instead your lungs stop functioning and you feel yourself sink into the way her fingers are tracing along your collarbone, the way she looks at you as if you're some kind of divine being. You can't understand what she sees in you. For years you were nothing but her tormentor, and now you're a recovering drug addict.

Heroin still calls to you in the middle of the night. A phantom voice fading in through the windows, tugging at your wrist and begging you to partake. You miss the way it felt like floating, the way you sort of felt like jelly. It wasn't like doing hallucinogens; you didn't see anything or hear anything. It just felt like your whole body was humming and sometimes you could feel it like a warm blanket covering you. It's still tempting to go out and find a dealer when she's out getting groceries or out to a late dinner with Kurt. You know you could reasonably walk down the street and find someone willing to give you the goods. Rachel trusts you with her money, though, and sometimes you think she shouldn't because there have been a few times where you've slipped your shoes on and started for the door. You suppose the important part is that you stopped yourself the second your hand connected with the door handle. Everything in you wanted that high, everything, even the parts that belonged to Rachel. It was like something clawing inside you, begging to be fed. It was unbearable and sometimes it physically tortured you.

Always, always she was there when you were in pain. Always she returned just at the right moment, her fingers tracing your face and pulling you back from that impossible abyss of addiction. You imagined your eyes were glazed and that's how she knew you were fighting the addiction. It was an every day battle, like she'd told Santana and Britt. Always Rachel was there to sooth your muscles as they quivered underneath your skin and ached. She somehow always had a warm rag to dab away the cold sweat at your brow.

Sometimes she'd sing to you when you asked, and other times you'd sing with her. You wanted to cry, wanted to beg her to let you go and find the high, but the parts of you that belonged to Rachel wouldn't let you anymore. Maybe that one time, when you'd first made love and then ran away from her. It wasn't something you could've helped at the time. You were both addicted and terrified at the time. Now you weren't really terrified, just addicted.

Rachel's lips at your throat brought you out of your thoughts, and you couldn't help the slow smile that fell on your own, "Come back to me," she whispered delicately and pulled at you. Who could resist her? The love she had for you was impossible, and the love you had for her was equally impossible. If you could go back in time, you'd tell yourself that all the hard roads you'd travel would bring you to her arms and she'd be there waiting for you.

"I'm here," you all but crooned and pressed your lips to hers, conveying all your love in that single moment. All your gratitude. It was so hard to fight the addiction sometimes, but having Rachel seemed to make up for a lot of it.

Sometimes, when the addiction was especially difficult, you'd end up seducing Rachel all over again to fill the endlessly craving void inside of you. You knew that she understood why you seemed so eager sometimes, but she didn't seem to mind. That was the perfect thing about Rachel, she always understood everything about you and you almost never had to say a thing. You wanted that for her, though, you wanted to say more. You'd never been very good at expressing yourself - after all in the Fabray household it had been all about hiding away your true feelings. Now that you didn't have a mask, you still had difficulties putting things to words. It wasn't that you were lacking in vocabulary - though you didn't have Rachel's extensive thesaurus of words - just that you'd never been able to put names to feelings and letters to reactions. Sometimes it was all together impossible, but Rachel always understood.

She was stroking your neck softly in that way that made you sigh aloud, and your eyes slid open to find her looking at you again. You had to smile, just had to, when you saw the look of love in her eyes. It was your second-favorite sight. (The first was the passionate abandon in her face in the middle of the night when you were in bed together, the way those eyes would turn impossibly dark and suck you in.)

"I wonder what the media will say about the other night," Rachel pondered, her gaze turning thoughtful as she lingered on you. You felt her rest her head in the crook of your neck and began stroking her hair as she spoke. "Santana was pretty protective, wasn't she?"

"She always has been. At least, with me she was, and now I guess she kind of sees you as an extension or an addiction to that bond," you explain the best you can. Santana had indeed surprised you that night and it had meant everything to you that she'd been able to protect Rachel when you didn't know how to. You didn't know what the media was like, really, so you didn't know how they'd react or what they'd say.

"I mean, it's Broadway, so certainly they'll be a little less harsh about the idea of homosexuality. It's not like it's any surprise. If it weren't for us, there would be no Broadway," Rachel smiled and you had to laugh a little warmly at that. She was right, but you loved the way she said everything so frankly and with just the right words. Who used the word "homosexuality" these days anyway? That was one of the things you loved about Rachel, one of the things you'd always loved about Rachel.

You sit up a little, pull her with you, and stifle a yawn, "Even if they are, it'll blow over, I'm sure. I don't know much about tabloids but don't they find some kind of cross-bred human-alien every couple of weeks?"

Rachel laughs in the way that makes your stomach flutter, and you respond with a smile as she nods. She looks a little relieved.

You hear a knock at the door and you know it's Santana by the way there's a tapping foot coupled with the knocking, "Are you two lovebirds awake yet? Britt wants breakfast and you guys have shitty vegan food because you're such lesbians."

"I've always been a vegan," Rachel calls out, grinning before she climbs out of bed. You admire her bare skin as she moves to the closet and finds something comfortable. She picks out your favorite pair of boyshorts and one of your old Cheerio hoodies. There's something incredibly sexy about it, and she knows it because she smirks at you before tossing some clothes at you.

You get dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a zip-up sweater, watching her in the armoire mirror as she ties up her hair. Your eyes lock and you smile quietly at her. "I love you," sometimes it just spills out of your mouth when you aren't even thinking.

"Never stop," Rachel replies in such a loving manner you can't help but wrap your arms around her from behind and kiss her neck. She sighs, her head dipping back to rest on your shoulder before you're interrupted by another knock.

"Don't make me sacrifice a chicken out here," Santana's voice grumps from the other side of the door and the handle jiggles. You have to laugh as you hear Santana growl in displeasure and vaguely Brittany's comforting tone despite her words being muffled by distance.

Rachel gasps, which makes you laugh a little more, and she breaks away, flinging the door open, "There will be no killing of live animals in my house, Santana Lopez!"

"As opposed to dead ones?" You hear Santana bite back and you can only shake your head as you make your way into the livingroom. You sit next to Britt on the couch and rest your head on her shoulder as Rachel and Santana bicker over what Rachel should cook them all for breakfast.

"That's beside the point," Rachel responds in a startled way as if just realizing that what she said made no sense whatsoever.

"Okay, Jeeves, but I'm serious you need some - ah hah! Finally, fucking food."

"I have plenty of food."

"Yeah but it's all shit. Besides this." Santana appraises the box of mac and cheese as if to make sure it's not full of organic things and fake cheese, with Rachel glaring pointedly at her from the other end of the kitchen.

Rachel's impatient sigh and the way she flares her nostrils makes you laugh again, and Brittany grins knowingly at the pair.

"We should come out more often," Brittany says to you, and you feel a surge of gladness as you look at her. You know that the process of getting clean is going to require a lot of friends and you'd honestly not been expecting support from the people you'd abandoned, but the way Brittany loops an arm around you and squeezes tells you that you're not going to have to suffer a moment of this alone.

"I agree," you hear yourself respond and close your eyes, yawning again.

Sometimes when it's good like this, you think of Beth, when you can spare the emotion. She passes through your mind now and you search your mind for all the things you'd tell her if you ever met her. Would you explain to her everything you'd done? Why you'd done it? That you loved and missed her every day? Would she love you the way you'd always love the little child you'd birthed? You imagined the way she'd maybe giggle if you tried to say something funny - that is, if you'd kept her. Your heart twinges a little. All of that is irrelevant. You know Beth belongs with her adopted mother now, Rachel's mother, and that you have to take care of yourself before you can even consider re-establishing contact. You remember how distraught Rachel was when she finally met her mother - you don't want to put Beth through that. Your eyes slide open again and Santana and Rachel are cooking side-by-side. They could almost be friends, you think, and you hope eventually they can be.

You feel Brittany's hand sliding up and down your arm and you offer a thankful smile. Sometimes Brittany knows too much, for all her strange-wording and childlike observations.

It feels nice, to be surrounded by two friends who love you and a girlfriend who loves you even more. Your eyes settle back on Rachel and she catches your eyes. You say everything in your silence, Rachel's eyes glittering affectionately. You realize that she's asking you something as your brain catches up to your ears.

"Vegan eggs or mac and cheese?"

"Vegan eggs," you respond and you know a while ago you would've never considered eating vegan eggs, but since that first morning in Rachel's condo when she'd taken you in from the streets you'd had a constant craving for those damn vegan eggs. It was like a virus or something, veganism.

Santana's eyebrow arched, "Lesbian."

"Likewise," you grin and shrug a shoulder.

###

Later that morning as you're all getting dressed in regular clothes that day, Rachel finds a tabloid taped to her front door with all kinds of ridiculous claims.

BROADWAY STAR IN TORRID LESBIAN THREESOME

-Why Rachel Berry fired her manager!
-Who are her lovers?
-Will she choose between the drug addict or the foreigner?
-Who's the fourth girl she's been spotted with?
-Broadway Star falls into 'lesbian player' stereotype, breaking hearts along the way!

At first you're not sure if she's going to be upset or if she'll laugh it off, but as you see her shoulders tense you find your way to her. You don't know what to say as you read the article advertisements, but a part of you is pissed that they found out you were a drug addict and another part is just pissed that they're talking about your girlfriend that way, the woman you've always loved. You don't say anything. Sometimes Rachel needs silence to formulate what she wants to say, and what she says is the perfect example of why you love her.

"They have no right to call you a drug addict and Santana is certainly no foreigner."

You smile lovingly at her and shake your head, "It doesn't matter what they say about me. And I'm sure Santana could care less."

"It matters to me," Rachel turns around in your arms and looks at you as if she's puzzled, "your past is your past and it's not fair to lay it all out in the papers like that. I don't care if they talk about me but ... god, they don't even have any sympathy for people who're struggling to -"

Rachel is silenced as you lean forward and kiss her, and she whimpers into your mouth. As you pull away, she looks a little surprised.

"What was that for?"

"For being too damn perfect," you all but sigh. "What are you going to do about the tabloid?" You take it from her hands and appraise it with an expression of disgust, but inwardly you admire how beautiful Rachel looks and the fact that she's clinging to you in the picture and nothing ever looked so perfect.

"Lemme see that," Santana grabs it from your hands and plops down on the couch next to Brittany. You hear her snort with laughter as she opens up the tabloid, "Bullshit, do people really believe this?"

Rachel looks like she's thinking far too hard and she looks up at you as if you hold the answers, "I'm going to take revenge."

Revenge really isn't her thing, but the way she says it makes you believe she's really plotting something evil. She pulls from your arms and goes over to Santana, taking the tabloid out of her hands despite the Latina's protest, and heading to the counter. She dials a number on her phone and clears her throat.

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to give you guys a lead on a good story. I even have pictures that I can send at a later date," Rachel states, and you notice she's added a fake accent to her voice. Your eyebrow is arched in curiosity and you grin a little bit. "Rachel Berry's manager has actually committed IRS fraud and spends a large amount of time in a strip club." Whoever was on the line was apparently interested, "And he's sleeping with a prostitute, I'm pretty sure he has herpes."

Santana laughs in disbelief, silently, and Brittany just looks absolutely confused. You on the other hand are sure your face is painted with nothing but absolute admiration. Who knew Rachel Berry could be so absolutely devious?

"The address?" Rachel continues. "Yes, I'll send them right away."

She hangs up, and the four of you simultaneously grin at one another as if you've all just egged Jesse St. James in front of the entire Broadway stadium.

###

You all decide to go out for lunch that afternoon, and the papparazzi still swarm you. It makes it a little difficult to feel comfortable holding Rachel's hand when you know they're snapping pictures of every movement. They move around the group of you like an ameobus shell, and shout questions about who Santana is and who Brittany is and ask if you've shot up recently. You expect Santana to let off or maybe even Brittany but not Rachel.

Yet it's Rachel who stops directly in her place and wheels around to the frightened-looking pap that squeals before regaining his composure. You remember the way Rachel looks when she's really pissed and you see her ball her fists up at her sides like she used to when you were in high school and she'd just gotten slushied on a particularly bad day.

"Although I respect the public's right for inquiry, the fact that you continuously bring up a past you know nothing about is absolutely terrible. I'd think you'd all have some integrity or at least a healthy amount of shame. My," and you think you hear her hesitate but maybe not because she reaches back and takes your hand, "girlfriend is struggling with a very serious issue in her life. The last thing she needs is someone asking her if she's 'shot up' because the thought of her hitting that low point makes me incredibly upset and she doesn't like it when I'm upset either," and you know this is classic Rachel Berry anger because everyone's silenced by the fact she's yelling at them in perfectly articulated paragraphs. "Now, my friends and I are going out to lunch, so I'd kindly ask all of you to please take your last shot for the day and leave us alone."

They all look stunned, and the group of photographers each hesitate before taking one last photo. Some of them scramble off right away, others stay to apologize for a moment before they follow suit. You feel incredibly proud and blessed as Rachel stands there, your little protector. She looks all self-righteous and angry and you sooth her with a kiss on her lips as the papparazzi all leave.

"Thank you," you murmur against her lips and you feel Santana's hand on your shoulder.

Rachel smiles at you lovingly and you know that she doesn't want you to thank her.

"Come on guys, I'm starving," Santana states simply although her tone lacks the usual bursting of irritation.

Brittany takes Santana's pinky and swings Santana's arm, "Me too. Bacon sounds good."

Rachel watches you as if to make sure that you're alright, and you take her hand in your own and squeeze her hand reassuringly, "We'll have to find some place that serves bacon at one in the afternoon."

"It's New York. They have places that serve cow tongue, exclusively. Duh, Berry." Santana glances back at Rachel before she lags in her step and wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulder. The four of you make your way down the sidewalk and you think you've never felt so much a part of a group as you do right now. "Of course they have places that serve breakfast all day. Britt wants bacon, we find her bacon."

"Understood," Rachel nods simply and rests her head on Santana's shoulder. You chuckle to yourself as you think what people must wonder at, the four of you all attached somehow, Rachel Berry holding her lover's hand and resting her head on another girl's shoulder. You know it doesn't matter, though, because you think it's kind of nice that you're all somehow really close because of something you're going through. And you also think it's kind of nice that Santana seems to treat Rachel with a sort of kindness she only shows the people she really cares about.

###

That night the withdrawal pains start and Santana is the one to notice. She looks concerned and jumps to your side; you know she's asking you something but you can't hear her over the throbbing headache and you do the best you can to say Rachel's name, as if to indicate that's who you need. You see Santana nod and your eyes slip closed as you curl into a ball in the corner of the couch. The sweating starts and your heart races painfully.

It all passes in front of your eyes - the first time you shot up, your first real shot of heroin, Scooter and End making out lazily beside you, the lulling of everything around you. It's like someone's pressing the buttons on some remote in your head because it sounds like static before you see anything else. You see Beth, crying as the nurse carries her out of the hospital room. You only got to hold her once and you remember crying by yourself that night after you forced Puck to go home. Static again, further back, and you see Rachel crying in the choir room as Finn shouted something at her. Static again, Rachel's thirteen and reading that report on the first American theatrical production and you see doodles on your notebook paper that say 'Berry' with little hearts nearby. Static, fuzz, and you hear Rachel's voice calling at you from somewhere very far away and you feel cold, you feel incredibly cold and achy. You hear Brittany and Santana, too, farther away, as if they're a continent away shouting at you through a megaphone and you can't quite see but you think maybe you fell into a lake because the face above you looks fuzzy around the edges.

It clears slowly and you see Rachel; you wonder why she has tears in her eyes and you touch her face, it feels warm. Her voice is coming closer as you feel her arms loop around you and pull you closer. You smell summer rain, midnight air, vanilla, coconut, and you hear her singing delicately in your ear, although you can't make out the words.

"Is it always like this?" Santana asks, miles away in some abyss of consciousness.

You feel Rachel nod against you as she continues to sing, and you remember the way she used to say 'just a little longer, remember' when you thought the withdrawals would last forever.

Brittany is dabbing a cloth at your face and you start crying because you can't believe there are this many people that care about you. You see them looking at you with concern and you want to tell them you're crying because you're happy but to tell the truth you're crying because you're in pain and you're happy, too, somehow. You clutch to Rachel and feel your own ragged breath as you try to ride out the pain. You know heroin would fix this; it would all wash off you in a second - all the pain, all the memory, everything that hurt you inside and out. You can hear it calling to you so you hold on to Rachel just a little bit tighter.

You hear her singing and you know you can make it through this. Like clinging to a liferaft, she keeps you afloat when it's the hardest and you wonder how you ended up here, how you ended up in Rachel Berry's arms. Some horrible road you've travelled down to end up in the place you'd always wanted to be.

You want to tell her that you know you were meant for her but you hear yourself distantly, like through fog, crying. Rachel's still singing though, so you're okay for now and you feel Santana sitting next to the pair of you, her hand resting hesitantly on your back.

For the first time since all this started, Rachel lets you go. At first that frightens you but then you feel Santana's arms replace Rachel's and you realize Rachel's only getting up to get you some water because if you keep sweating like that you're going to dehydrate and be in even more pain. You find yourself clinging to your best friend and hear Santana humming worriedly against you, and you know that you couldn't ask for better people to have in your life. You feel Santana's lips on your clammy forehead and you feel her let go. You're floating in free space and frightened but again you smell summer rain and midnight air and you know Rachel's holding you again. She's coaxing some water down your throat, and you manage not to choke. Half the glass is gone before you start regaining a bit of your control and everything becomes a little clearer. You can speak, finally, and you find Rachel's eyes locked on yours with quiet desperation.

"There were no professional dramatists until William Dunlap, whose work as a playwright and theater historian earned him the title of the 'Father of American Drama,'" the words come from your mouth like you'd spoken them always, but it's not your voice in your head, it's Rachel's. You remember her saying that exact same thing, and you know she remembers too because she laughs tearfully.

"My god, you actually do remember," she says in disbelief and you feel glad that you've distracted her from the fact you're in pain right now.

"Always," you state simply, proudly, and you sigh a little bit as you feel your pain start to cease. It's still there, but dull, and you relax in Rachel's arms, feeling suddenly very tired. You feel perfect in Rachel's arms even if you are a recovering heroin addict.

Santana's hand brushes your damp hair from your face and she offers a lame smile, "You two are cheesy as shit," and you know that's her way of saying she cares about you, her way of saying she hates seeing you in pain. You grasp her hand for a moment before closing your eyes.

"At least we're not foreigners," you smile through your pain and you hear a soft, collective laugh, and feel Rachel's lips on your forehead.

###

A week later you're sharing dinner with Rachel on the couch. She's staring at the television eating some kind of pasta, and mouthing the lines to 'My Fair Lady' in that dreamy way she does sometimes. She barely notices you're looking at her, a fact which you're grateful for because she looks perfect as the television illuminates her. Your fork is hanging midair in your hands like those three little dots at the end of some 'to be continued' and you're smiling a bit stupidly at her, hoping she doesn't notice.

You're having less withdrawal pains; the cravings are still there but they aren't as intense. Rachel makes it easier, knows exactly when to distract you right before the withdrawal hits. You'd both said your goodbyes to Santana and Brittany a few days back; you and Rachel had made love right when you got home like you were both straight out of high school and unable to control yourself. Yesterday the tabloid was taped to your door again and it read in big, bright, bold letters:

JESSE ST. JAMES CAUGHT IN SCANDALOUS PUBLIC ACT OF INTIMACY, CLAIMS INNOCENCE

You two had gloated about that one, because it felt a little bit like karma was winking at you.

Rachel's face lit up with a smile under the glow of the television. Eliza Doolittle was dancing around with Professor Higgins because she'd finally said something right. You can't help the feeling that surges through you because you think it's the most adorable thing in the world that she has tears in her eyes.

"It's kind of like you and me," she says suddenly in the darkness, and you must look confused because when she looks over at you, she smiles, "I helped you get better, you know? Higgins got Eliza off the streets and even though they ended the play without them falling in love, they loved one another through it all. That's what helped Eliza overcome everything."

You smile and you think it's possibly the sweetest thing she's said to you. You forget about your noodles and her noodles and set them both down on the coffee table before you take her face in your hands and brush your lips over hers.

"Does this mean you're going to ask me where your slippers are?"

She laughs, and you kiss her again, just because she's too perfect not to kiss. You want to tell her how much you love her, but you realize you both have the rest of your lives to do that.