A/N: This is super angsty. Sorry. D:

I love faberry, and my headcanon for them is definitely a happy one, but this is how I see Quinn's headcanon.

[Lyric about 1/3 way through is from Sometime Around Midnight by The Airborne Toxic Event. And the title is from Ripcord by Rilo Kiley.]

(Without reviews I honestly have no idea whether I'm absolutely terrible or not. pls help.)

Also, I'm thinking of maybe writing a companion piece from Rachel's point of view, if anyone wants me to..

At first you swore she'd never find out. But little by little, it wasn't a choice anymore.

In the beginning, you're careless. The lewd drawings you'd meant to be anonymous, but then Santana walks in and you're seconds from hurling the contents of your stomach into the nearest toilet at the prospect of her, of anyone, knowing. But then she laughs and you are quick join in and to mar your marker-made fantasy into a gross caricature shrouded with protection and loathing.

How Rachel knows it was you, you're still not sure.

But protection and loathing become part and parcel of high school life. Cheerios uniform donned, you hurl insults at everyone. You wonder if she knows your entire persona was, in a way, because of her. She could never know. For every cruel name you threw at her, you would punish yourself later with scars now faded.

Ugly caricatures of her become a sick kind of obsession. A way to proudly show how very emotionally invested you are in hating her. You wonder if maybe she even knew back then, if she could see through the (you now realise: really rather terrible) disguise. Hearts sketched under a pretence of irony itching panic into your mind.

You try so hard. And you want to blame your emotional weakness on the baby that's growing inside you, but the truth is, with Rachel standing in front of you, broken and crying and blaming herself, you almost don't care about hiding if only you could maybe help.

"I don't hate you" is the truest thing you've said to her and it makes your entire body shake with the fear that she might not believe you.

Her kindness and overwhelming need to forgive people makes your heart ache in every way. You wish she would stop trying, yet she is nothing but polite and intent on getting you to like her. A 16 year old you stands in front of a 16 year old her and you feel lighter than you have in a long time as you desperately agree to whatever she is asking. Your lack of hesitation is anything but subtle, you know, and you hate the way you cannot act around her. She's the only person you feel vulnerable with, and you're not sure how you feel about it.

You remember the first time it hurt so much you couldn't breathe properly. You could convince yourself that the adoring looks directed at Finn were only temporary, because you know she will not end up with him and you have faith that she will demand better for herself, and you're so glad she'll be happy, through her sheer will power if not anything else. It's a Thursday afternoon just after a Glee club performance that you have to run and hide because it hurts too much. She grabbed your hand. Her fingers were kissing yours for 4 seconds and your brain was drenched in everything you never let yourself imagine. As soon as the last note ends you're out the door and your breathing is coming too fast and Rachel didn't even look back after you.

Its months later when you're inside her house (and that alone feels like too much) but then the word "girlfriend" falls from her lips and it throws you for a minute, as though the boundary between fantasy and reality has fractured. Your fingers press delicately to the cross around your neck for no reason at all except habit.

"You don't belong here" is as close as you can get to 'please, this hurts too much'. You hate making her cry, but you guess it's like self preservation.

"Who would have guessed the hobbit was gay for Fabray?" Your books fall to the floor as Santana just laughs and you try not to visibly hyperventilate. You're still not over the fact that Rachel wants your nose either. You know you'd willingly give her any bit of yourself, even the very foundations so the rest was left in ruins. But she's perfect and you're barely existing and the idea of any part of her changing feels like more a sin than any you've been taught.

You can only really listen to your harmonising voices in that time between wakefulness and sleep when there's a dull anaesthesia on reality, but you still have to reset the play count every so often in case anyone looks at your laptop.

You used to dream of prom as soft lights, a pretty dress, a crown and a quarterback. You don't get the crown, but the biggest difference is that even though you're dancing with the last item on your pre-teen wish list, your eyes are glued to her. She's always made you lose control, but you'll never forgive yourself for what happened in that bathroom. (You were heaving in the bathroom at home later that night when your mom innocently mentions Russell and you involuntarily draw comparisons which cut you in two and leave you ragged and bleeding).

You're surprised to find that there is anything which can make you not want to watch Rachel perform, but when you're in New York and she kisses him back, your eyes find the floor and your wrists ache.

You lose yourself that summer. Thoughts of Rachel are easier in a brain made blurry with illegal substances. You should have known that she would be the one to try and save you. When she stands in front of you, eyes shining and admitting that she misses you, it's easy to pretend for a moment. To pretend that "love" doesn't have more than one meaning. Because she does love you, and it's so unfair.

In your head, sometimes you see everything through the eyes of a camera. Black and white and wistful. 'The piano's this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.' It's beautiful and romantic in a way which sadness only is in films, and it's nothing like the rough, angry hurt inside.

Seeing her everyday puts you back together. It's not a permanent fix, more like a band-aid holding together a gaping wound, but your floral dresses come back and you're singing again. You're not sure how much of it is pretending, because Rachel smiles at you sometimes, and it certainly feels real. You wonder if maybe actions are always as genuine as their consequences.

Whether she knows is still something that plagues your thoughts. You get a temporary reprieve when she asks you advice about whether to sleep with Finn, because you know her, and she would never subject you to those images if she knew. You tell her to wait, and that night is the first time you've prayed in 5 months.

Santana is finally being honest with everyone, and you honestly adore the happiness on her face. Logically you can see that this should be a lesson of some kind. But she has Brittany and Rachel's hand is never going to be in yours again, and it makes all the difference. And you've never been particularly brave anyway.

Of course Rachel takes charge when you're arranging the choreography, and she falls into your body and wraps your arm around her so effortlessly. You stiffen instantly and she swats at your arm and tells you to "relax, it's only a dance routine" with laughter in her voice. You want to tell her it's so much more. The rebuttal on the tip of your tongue is choked down as always. Over the course of rehearsal you practice the move 4 times and just once you allow yourself to dip your head and touch your nose to her hair. Coconut and almond. You tell yourself it's enough because it has to be.

You didn't know you were going to tell Rachel about your plan to get Beth back until the words are out your mouth. You know it was a ridiculous plan, and you knew someone would stop you (if you didn't stop yourself); you just wanted it to be her. The noise of her shoes alerts you to her presence behind you in the hallway. You hate yourself for the way you keep testing her, as though proof she cares about you will change anything. (You can't help the small smile that appears on your face anyway).

Waiting for her outside Figgin's office, your fingers are trembling and the nervous energy coursing through you pushes you to your feet for some reason as soon as you see her and you immediately feel awkward. But she has this wondrous look in her eyes as though she can't believe you're actually waiting for her. It hurts and numbs your pain simultaneously. Her shy smile and the way she dips her head is the most endearing sight; maybe being friends with her won't be so bad if she keeps looking so happy. You answer "Kind of" simply because you can.

"I need your help". You automatically think of the worst. Over the next 2 minutes your idea of 'the worst' changes and morphs into something you'd never even imagined because who the hell gets married at 17? You mean "You can't" in the most literal sense; Rachel Hudson is an image you cannot fathom into reality, it cannot exist.

You plead with her and almost don't care at your obvious desperation. Tears sting your eyes as you stand in front of everyone, addressing only her. You hope your subconscious is listening too, because "you can let go" is something you're desperately trying to believe as well.

You think she knows. When you start talking about starting your future, your eyes still locked with hers. Because she looks away uncomfortably, her fingers fumbling, as though she knows the future you dream of (literally dream of, most nights). As though she knows she's hurting you. The panic that you expect to flood in never comes; held back by a dam of maybe if she feels guilty enough she at least won't marry him right now.

It's you who suggests the idea of the God Squad serenading Rachel to Finn. Partly because you'll get to sing to her, mostly because you know she'll adore it. The fact that you were wrong about her never holding your hand again offers no comfort, but her smile makes you giddy as always.

She would have loved to see you in a bridesmaids dress. And you would have loved to see her in a bride's dress. But not like this. Not now it's tainted with Finn and insecurity.

"I'm not doing this again" comes out of Santana's mouth and it's something you've known but only just felt: the girl you're in love with is marrying someone else. This will only happen once. This is your only chance. (Not your chance to win her heart, your chance to stop this). Before you know it there are words tumbling out of your mouth in a last ditch attempt to reason with her, and you're about 97% certain that if you were alone you'd have told her you loved her.

"It's okay, I won't".

(Fate is a fan of irony apparently).

Outside the bridal shop, Santana opens your car door and tells you that you can't drive in that state, and it's only then you realise you're crying. You don't move, so she climbs in the passenger seat and pulls you into her across the gear stick. For the next 20 minutes she holds you while you cry, and you're so thankful she doesn't ask any questions. You know she knows, and that you're not ready to talk about it.

"People do crazy shit when they don't think they have any other options. Give her a chance to choose you. The midget's been obsessed you since sophomore year." she says. You keep crying so you don't have to reply, but really you just want her to shut up.

The thing about Rachel is that she knows what she wants. And she gets it. Obtaining your friendship was something she thought was almost impossible, which is why she tried so hard. You know that's all she'll ever want from you.

But you turn the corner and she's walking away from you and her name falls from your lips so easily. And you know she doesn't but your heart wants her so much it has to make sure. So it says "When you were singing that song, you were singing to Finn? And only Finn?…right?" Your eyes flicker between hers looking for any sign of hesitation, any doubt. You expect to see confusion, but instead you see sadness.

You know she knows. And the slight nod of her head is her choosing Finn. And inside you break.

Your mouth forms words and your facial muscles put this smile on your face, but you don't really know what's happening.

Her arms are tight against your sides and you can feel every one of her fingertips pressing sorry into your spine.

That strange mix of numb and hurting all over; like at the dentist when your nerves are all paralysed but you can still sense your flesh being pulled apart and damaged. It's surprising how quickly time passes in that state. Because suddenly you're at home, knowing you told Rachel you'd be at the wedding and wishing you hadn't. But then you get a text complete with smiley faces and exclamation marks and expectation and you've already got one hand on a pink, silk dress. (Santana brought it over 2 nights after the fitting, "just in case".)

You never could say no to her.

This is the last thing you remember when you wake up 3 days later in a hospital bed. Your chest hurts in a sharp way it never has before and everything is heavy in a swamp of painkillers. You feel the IV in your hand before you notice the fingers intertwined with yours and your eyes shift with difficulty to a brown head of hair asleep on the bed. You've always had vivid dreams, so you're not sure if this is real, but you feel safe, so you decide it doesn't matter.

You can't move your legs. You're frightened and panicking and angry and you can't move your legs.

You're discharged 16 days later and for 3 weeks, every time you sit in your wheelchair, you've never wished to be dead with so much sincerity.

It's Wednesday, and you both have Geography next period. Rachel's at her locker a few meters away, and once your own textbooks are safely away in your rucksack, she appears in front of you, hovering nervously , eyes bright and voice slightly too loud when she jokes about having friends in wheelchairs and personal taxi services to class. You look at her for a few seconds before replying, falling in love (again) with her fervent desire to make other people happy, and she starts to worry she's said something wrong.

You pull her towards you lightly, mumbling about taxi services not waiting around forever and hiding your blush in her shoulder. (The feeling has largely returned to your legs, and you can feel her fidgeting to get comfortable and the thought that you're glad to not be a boy has you laughing out loud for the first time in weeks.) You've never been much of an optimist, and you never thought this would have an upside. You're so glad to be proven wrong.

Apart from random acts of slightly forced cheerfulness, Rachel mostly avoids you at school, and more often than not, you see her with a pained look in her eyes.

Even though you were fully expecting it, "I'm so sorry Quinn" and her broken expression leave your mouth half open and a deep shuddering breath to fill your still healing lungs. You don't know how to fix her. But you try your best, because this is not her fault, not in this sense. You don't know how to explain that in a way, your whole self is her fault, because she has shaped you more than anyone, and that fault is not always a bad thing.

But really you want her to see that you're glad, that there's nothing to be sorry for. Because there isn't a ring on her finger anymore, and you'd have sacrificed yourself in every version of reality if you had to.

Instead you just pull her into your arms. Her fingertips are still hard on your back, pressing sorry into your skin, and you worry this is how you'll be from now on, her apologising and you with a tear stained smile. Holding her hand means nothing and everything and you just can't quite believe you're doing it in front of so many people.

Rachel has always been your prom queen. At 7 years old, she was just another girl in your class, but when you were asked to draw your favourite things, the princess you drew had long brown hair and dark brown eyes, and you were the only one who knew it was Rachel. You want to put the gold crown back on her head.

She texts you so of course, wheelchair or not, you're there in ten seconds. The dramatics of "Do you not understand what you mean to me?" is overstated even for Rachel, and you hate how your breath hitches. You almost want to laugh (humourlessly) at how much this is playing out like the climactic scene of a romantic comedy, but you're too busy remembering your lines of the best friend who never gets the girl. She really does look beautiful tonight.

"Stop making out with Berry," is exactly the kind of thing you knew Santana would say. You tilt your neck sharply, suddenly uncomfortable to your fingertips. But Rachel's voice is more amused than anything, her eyes even more so, and for the first time you have a little hope that one day you won't be Quinn-in-love-with-Rachel-and-Rachel-wishing-felt-the-same-way, that one day that will only be there in the same way scars are there; very much present but almost forgotten.

She's crowned prom queen. You guess people are surprised but you don't know because you don't want to miss a second of her face in this moment. They dance, and you choose not to see it as Rachel and Finn, you see it as Rachel being happy. And it works, because you're happy too.

It was always going to be a bathroom where this conversation takes place. This is not the 'I'm in love with you' conversation. That was a conversation had silently, a little at a time, over months, and only partially acknowledged, because it was better that way.

No, just like confession you went to weekly until the age of 16, this is you scouring your brain for what makes you squirm with embarrassment and vulnerability, because what you're trying to say is 'I need you in my life'.

You say it in the form of $300 worth of metro passes. She looks at you as though she can't comprehend the idea of anybody being so devoted to her and it almost makes you want to show her just how devoted you are, will be, for as long as she wants. But even disregarding Finn (who you still refuse to believe will be anything other than temporary), you know she will have many other people in her future to show her such things, people more deserving, people she wants. You still bask in her happiness and hold her tightly, and make promises you know you will keep.

You spend more time together that summer than you expected to. Relaxing by your pool, movies in her house, picnicking in the park; it's the best summer of your life. It's all she can give you for now, and you're so grateful.

Two nights before she leaves (four nights before you do), you're lying on the floor of her bedroom at 3.17am. Your hands have been linked together for the last few hours, and the room is dark but vaguely illuminated by the glow of the DVD menu on the TV screen. Her eyes are open and she rolls towards you, her face closer than it's ever been, her breath soft and quiet.

"I'll never not love you," it's almost a whisper, almost a plea, and you say, "me too," just as desperately. Then her lips are touching yours for the first and last time, and you try and breathe in enough of her to last a life time. It's like sign language with lips instead of hands and you hear sorry and I love you and sorry on her mouth. It's only a few seconds, but it's more than you ever expected. You lie awake for the rest of the night, just existing with her.

You're a realist. You know how this story plays out. When you were little you used to adore fairytales, but now you know better.

She'll visit you in New Haven, and you'll stay with her in New York, and you'll both graduate top of your class. You'll be there at each other's weddings, and you'll always be friends.

Most people don't get their happy endings. Most people get mediocrity, most people settle. You won't get your dream, but Rachel Berry will get hers, and you guess that really, that's okay.