In many ways, Rachel is a carbon copy of Quinn; power invigorates her, years corrode her. Even the wrinkle lines around her mouth and between her eyebrows have begun to take on a distinctly Quinn-like quality, deep and gnarled from days of too much caffeine and not enough sleep. There are differences, of course, tiny nuances in Rachel’s person that will never walk alongside Quinn’s.
Rachel is a wonderful crier. She’s learned from experience, really. As a child, she was a tantrum-thrower, but she’s learned to keep herself a bit more subdued since then— you could be sitting right next to her and if you didn’t look at her, you’d never know she was in the midst of emotional crisis. This, she is proud of. She’s mastered the skill of crying easy and often (she knows how to keep from tiring out, knows how to keep a straight face as her eyes spill over).
Quinn is not so talented, here. She’s talented, of course, in many other ways. She can create a cat fight with the snap of her fingers; she knows her way around a business meeting like no other. Yet emotions— they are not her forte. Mostly, she tries not to feel them.
Admittedly, however, she is not perfect. Her walls, though sturdy and tall, are not impermeable. On the rarest of occasions, that which she tries so hard to ignore slips through her cracks, crawls quietly under her radar and tears her down from her moral high ground. And she’s under-practiced— she’s no good at keeping these things at bay. Her psyche is a cold sore, prodded at by the tip of an insistent tongue until its enflamed and engorged, searing hot and bursting open. On these nights, she is uncontainable. Breathing is difficult, surviving near-impossible. But it is not often, and she manages.
Mostly, consistency keeps her calm. She’s used to the chaos of work— girls snarling, crises barely averted, vomit and screaming and conflict. But there is life outside work (something she often forgets), and here she relies on regularity. There are things she has learned to expect: Chet will attempt to force himself upon her (this, she will deflect), Madison will fuck up her coffee order, Rachel will stare at her at 3 am with wet eyes. She will cry fat, hot tears, and Quinn will grip her bicep and tell her to get her shit together (she never does).
It is when consistency disappoints that Quinn feels herself slip. A lot depends on her sanity. She cannot afford to slip, but she does. It is when Rachel fails to cry that Quinn is unable to remain callous. It shakes her to her core, knocks something inside her out of place.
Rachel isn’t normally this way— unfeeling, lifeless. When Rachel’s mother strolls in her wake, Quinn truly shouldn’t be surprised at the way Rachel’s eyes stare, cold. And yet, she’s thrown. Anger slips inside, and then pain, and grief. Her vision bleeds red for a single, searing second. She wants to tear Rachel away, envelope her, breathe life back into her sallow skin. It’s only been a week since her mother whisked her away, but Quinn swears Rachel has aged years.
It’s hours before she has Rachel alone. She feels momentarily calm. They’re safe now. No mother, no medication.
Rachel slumps on the couch across from Quinn’s desk. And Quinn can feel the calm slipping. She wants to wonder where the tears are, but she knows too well. She knows how this works; Rachel once whispered it against her ear, when she’d been sober and tucked between Quinn’s sheets. Medication, it’s to shut me up. She knows I can’t feel.
Can’t speak.
Can’t tell.
Quinn had been angry that night. She’d wanted to lie still in the lethargic post-coital bliss. But she’d spiraled, her walls breeched. Picturing a twelve year old Rachel, bloody, then silenced by pills— it had been all too much. Rachel had managed to calm her then; she had been sober.
But tonight, Rachel is not, and she will not. Quinn can feel the anger coming, and with it the panic. The fear of losing control is only a helping hand in the ultimate loss of self. She thinks her body is vibrating but she really can’t be sure. Her knees creak like old door hinges when she kneels in front of Rachel.
“Look at me, Rachel.” She swallows and reminds herself to stay present. “Rachel.” The name feels fat on her tongue.
And she is crying as she shakes the bony shoulders in front of her, trying to rattle the mind and the heart that is Rachel out from within this skeleton.
“Quinn, stop crying,” Rachel’s lips move, her eyes stare.
“No, you have to wake up!”
Quinn knows she’s barely breathing between sobs. Tomorrow, she will be humiliated, but tonight, she cannot help but burst forth.
There are no tears on Rachel’s cheeks when she touches them. It throws her only further into madness. When she asks Rachel what her mother has done to her, she is gasping. When Rachel touches her hair and tells her that its okay, that she will be okay, Quinn can’t see. It is tears or it is red, blurry anger, or it is the white blindness of hysteria. Most likely, it is all three.
She feels Rachel touch her, but she does not see. She has crumbled.
When she is unable to breathe, rationality and instinct take over. They tell her that it is time to stop— her tantrum will never mend this shit storm.
Rachel lets Quinn take off her dress (she can’t breathe when she’s sucked up inside it), lets her crawl up on to the couch. She lies between Rachel and the back cushion.
“You locked the door.” Rachel murmurs. It is a question, coughed up as a monotone statement.
Quinn nods. Her face feels sticky, and she presses it against Rachel’s shoulder. Oh, how weak she feels for Rachel.
When she exhales, it blows the baby hairs next to Rachel’s ear and they flutter, tiny and simple. When she inhales, she can smell Rachel’s shampoo. Her office is silent, but when she looks up at Rachel’s face, there are tears there.
“We’re so fucked, Quinn,” Rachel’s voice floats, air from a vent.